Free Burying the Honeysuckle Girls by Emily Carpenter Page A

I thought I saw a flash of recognition. He hesitated. Stepped back. “No, thanks.”
    I grabbed his wrist. It was hairy and slick with sweat. “Well, I do.”
    “I don’t do that anymore.” He jerked his arm away from me, but he didn’t move, and I saw him look me over again. I pulled off the sunglasses and smiled at him.
    “Hey, Rowe.”
    He was shaking his head now. Smiling at his own stupidity. He had recognized me. “Althea. Long time no see.”
    “Ten years,” I said.
    “Yeah. Wow. Where you been?”
    “Oh, here and there. Around. You know.” He allowed himself another quick check at the opening of my blouse. Asshole.
    “C’mon, Rowe.” I moved closer to him. “I know you’ve got some oxy or Percocet or something lying around. I know it.”
    “Rowe!” His father called out. Rowe waved at him.
    “Meet me when you’re done,” I said in a low voice. “Just give me whatever you have. I can pay, any way you want.” I winked. He swallowed. “Second row from the back. Silver BMW.” I held my breath and moved my finger to the front of the horrendous green pants, hooked it into his white belt. Gave one gentle tug. His mouth parted. I could smell his breath, cigars and onions.
    “See you soon,” I said.
    I climbed into the cart and drove back down the path to the parking lot. I was being unquestioningly, horrendously stupid. But the last twenty-four hours had made something all too clear to me: I’d spent a lifetime letting other people push me around, letting them use me and hurt me. Today, finally, the time had come to push back.

    Rowe had plenty of pills—they were in one of those vinyl money bags banks use—and we settled ourselves in the hot backseat of Jay’s car. Right off, I told him to remove his pants. He didn’t even question me, just pulled them right off and threw them onto the floor. He was wearing black boxer briefs. And from the looks of it, really looking forward to what was about to happen next.
    I studied him. He was practically trembling with anticipation. “Now your shirt. Don’t worry, the windows are tinted.” He peeled it off too, then went for my neck again, his hands spidering up and down my arms.
    “So you’re married?” I pulled away. “Kids? What do you do?”
    “God, Althea. Now? Really?”
    “Sue me. I want to catch up a little first.”
    He sighed. “I run my dad’s business.”
    “The timber company?”
    “And I’m on the city commission.” He cracked one eye open, assessing my reaction.
    I smiled. “The underwear.” He hesitated. “I have money, Rowe, if you’d prefer.” He whipped off the briefs then, and I averted my gaze to the zippered money bag on the console.
    “So what do you have?” I said.
    “Xanax, Vicodin . . . Whatever you want.”
    “Impressive,” I said. “I mean, for a guy who doesn’t sell anymore.”
    In answer to that he reached up, wrapped one hand around the back of my head, and pushed me down as hard as he could in the direction of his crotch. I tucked my head and, just missing him, hit the seat, my nose bent uncomfortably sideways. I opened my mouth and drew in a breath. I could smell the sharp new-leather scent and his odor.
    “Get busy,” he said above me.
    “Give me a minute, okay? Jeez.”
    “What, you want to say the blessing before you get started? Quit stalling.”
    I carefully reached under the driver’s seat and slid out my phone. I opened the camera app just as I felt a sharp tug on my scalp. He was pulling my hair, trying to get me back up to him. I switched the phone to my left hand. Then sat up, pointed it at him.
    “Say cheese.”
    I snapped a couple of pictures.
    “What the hell—?” he yelped.
    I jabbed at the button until he slapped the phone of out my hands, and it tumbled between the console and the driver’s seat. I bent back, reaching for it, but he pushed me aside and jammed his hand into the crevice. His face contorted with the effort.
    “It’s too late,” I said