Page 92 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

Wait.Water that lapped against the side of the house?

She stared out, wondering if she was seeing things or if there’d been something in the whiskey.

The eerie calm continued.

Ryan joined her at the window, and she said, “How long do you think it will it last?”

He shook his head. “Depends on where we are in the eye. Could be half an hour. Could only be a few minutes.”

They both stood there for a long time, not speaking. Soaking in the silence. Then she heard it: a distant roar like an enormous wave approaching from the west.

She turned her head and squinted, certain that she could actually see the wind as it came towards them. But that was impossible, right? And yet there it was, a physical ripple that seemed to shimmer in the darkness. It smacked down trees as it went, their branches and leaves vanishing before the blast like a special effect. She could only stare in horror as the ripple approached the house?—

Ryan threw himself on top of her as the window exploded. The building shifted beneath them. The sound was like nothing she’d ever heard: a great, deep vibration that she felt in bones as much as perceived with her ears.

The wind was inside the house now, like an invisible wild animal, ripping and tearing at her hair and clothes. Inglis bundled her up and half-dragged, half-carried her out of the room, broken glass and debris crunching underfoot.

The candle had snuffed out, but he grabbed it and the lighter, and by the illumination from his phone, they made their way to the rear of the house.

He slammed the bedroom door shut behind them and twisted the lock while she slid down the wall and hugged her knees. “So, I guess that was the back end,” she managed.

Ryan relit the candle in the mug and set it down on the floor at her feet. “Are you hurt?”

She raised her hands and looked at them, then at her bare arms. “A few scratches, nothing major.” She realized her arms were shaking, so she lowered them. “What about you?”

He came to sit beside her against the wall. “I’m fine.”

Silence set up camp between them. Outside the room, the sounds of the storm had returned with gusto. The unholy howl of the wind, the sudden volleys of rain against what was left of the roof.

She rested her head back against the wall and sighed. “Shit. The whiskey.”

Inglis made a sound of resignation. “Probably better watered down, anyway.”

She snorted, which prompted him to chuckle, and then they were both laughing like idiots while the house groaned and the roller door in the garage sounded like it was being ripped from its hinges.

When they finally calmed down enough to speak, he said, “So. What’s your story, then? Since we’re sharing.”

She turned to him, smile fading. “Oh, you don’t wanna hear mine.”

“Why not?” He rolled his head on the wall to face her. “We got nothing but time to kill.”

* * *

Jessica looked away from his penetrating blue stare. She realized she’d been doing the thing she always did to people, especially men: pressing them into talking about their lives, so she didn’t have to talk about her own.

Because she couldn’t talk about her own. Not to anyone. Not ever.

She’d learned a long time ago that men liked it when she made the conversation all about them. They liked to believe that she really was fascinated by every banal detail about their job or their sports team or their truck. By every opinion that came out of their mouths, no matter how stupid or offensive. And they never once realized that her interest in them was as fake as her smile.

Because, to them, she didn’t actually exist. She wasn’t a real person; she was just a figment of their fantasies. She was Fuck Me Barbie. Which was fine, because deep down, she didn’t believe she existed either. Deep down, she knew that Jessica Meeks was a lie, and that her whole life was, too.

She wondered what he knew about her past. At least some of it. Maybe all of it.

He wasn’t asking for her life story because he wanted to know about it. He was asking because he wanted her to tell him.

And no one had ever wanted that from her before. At least, not for a very long time.

She swallowed, not knowing where to start. She wished she did have the whiskey bottle in hand. It felt like a necessary aid if she was going to go digging up things in her past.