Murder Boy. Bryon Quertermous
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“Oh, you like me as a writer.”
“I mean it’s not real dialogue, like how people speak in real life, but in real life people are boring and say ‘um’ a lot.”
“Were you in the hot tub with Professor Farmington?”
“Ah…”
“Everybody knows you two are together. You should embrace it.”
“It’s complicated.”
“So he’s not here, then, right?”
“No. He screwed me then left me like he always does. Just once I want to stay over at his house. It’s a nice house.”
“I just came from there,” I said, holding up the plastic and the rope. “He won’t sign my thesis.”
“Are you still drunk from the party?”
“Sort of. I think there was something wacky in the punch.”
“You don’t look good. Come sit in here with me and relax.”
“You’re going to tattle on me, on what I was planning.”
“Come here. You really look like you could use—”
“I’m just frustrated. I wasn’t really going to do anything, and even if I wanted to I can’t pull something like that off. But he’s just such a…I mean since I’ve known him he’s always—”
“Are you crying?”
“This is my future he’s screwing with.”
“I’d come out and hug you or something for comfort,” Posey said, “but I don’t have any clothes on.”
“Ew,” I said. “Why are you naked in the porn tub?”
“I, uh, I tend to throw my clothes when I’m really getting into it.”
She pointed toward various pieces of clothing spread across the yard and in the tree next to the hot tub.
“Should I take off my clothes?” I asked.
“See, that’s why I like you. That sounds like something one of your characters would say.”
I laughed and stripped down to my boxer briefs, but paused before removing them. I’ve never been a prude and have what some may determine is a socially backward lack of shame in my body, but the last thing I needed was Farmington coming back and catching me naked in the hot tub with his girlfriend. I’d be forced to defend myself naked and whether I won or lost, it wouldn’t matter; this was my life with Parker Farmington. Even if I screwed his mistress, he’d still win and I’d be screwed
“Are you sure this okay? I mean will—”
“Come on already,” she said. “The heater’s on the fritz in here and the water is starting to cool off. I could use another body.”
If I really was going to be stuck in Detroit with a dead-end job for the rest of my life, this could be the last chance a naked woman would ever invite me into her hot tub without charging me. So I stripped off the underwear, shoved any thoughts of how many amateur porn stars had preceded me in the hot tub, and climbed in next to Posey. She reached over the side of the hot tub and came up with two cans of beer.
“Now let’s keep that buzz going while you tell me about this kidnapping plan of yours.”
I WOKE up the next morning still wet, but not in the hot tub. It took several minutes for my brain to reactivate from whatever shut it down and acclimate to its current surroundings. I soon realized I wasn’t back at my place and that the wet feeling probably had something to do with the guy standing over me with a spray bottle.
“I use it on the cats,” the man said. “They’re pretty dumb but this still gets them off the couch. But you…”
There was something about the voice I recognized, but I couldn’t quite place it. I tried to latch onto what I last remembered. The party, the home improvement store, oh yeah, the hot tub. There was a girl. Shit. This was probably her boyfriend. Wait. The girl was from my class. Oh shit. Her boyfriend was—
“Professor,” I said. “What are you doing here? I mean, wait, this isn’t your house is it?”
“There’s coffee in the kitchen. Your clothes are on the floor here next to you. They smell like vomit but I don’t think the washer here works.”
I sat up and felt around for my clothes, trying to figure out how to play this. But my head was barely ready to process standard movement and anti-vomit commands, let alone create complex scene reconstructions from the night before and place them in a context in which I’d be comfortable making my next move.
In fact, my brain only seemed to be able to focus on one task at a time and when pulling on my shirt and pants became the prime focus, the anti-vomit walls went down. I threw up all over the inside of my shirt, and while trying to remove the vomit shirt, the rest of my body gave up its fight against gravity and collapsed in a pile between Posey and Farmington. Posey squatted next to me and helped me squirm out of my vomit shirt.
“I was telling Parker about our conversation last night,” she said.
Oh?
“Oh?”
That didn’t have to mean anything. Posey and Farmington probably talked about a lot of things. They shared many of the same interests and some common acquaintances.
“I was telling him about your plan,” she continued.
Oh. Shit.
“Really?” I asked. “Why would you do that?”
“It certainly impacts him, don’t you think?”
“Uh…”
There was no way to know what Posey already told Farmington. In the sober light of day it was easier to believe Posey could be setting me up than it was that she was my new muse or possible wealthy patron. So maybe I should just say as little as possible and wait and see what happened. Yeah, that seemed like a good plan. And it worked until I got to the kitchen, looking for something starchy to help me regain my inner balance, and heard Posey talking.
“Go ahead and explain it to him. Maybe he has some ideas for better execution.”
That definitely sounded like she was setting him up, but all he could do was stumble along the conversational mine field until he figured out an escape route or blew himself up.
“I was drunk,” I said. “You say things when you’re drunk that—”
“You peed off most of your buzz by the time we ended up in bed. It was a good plan. Tell him.”
My head was starting to spin now. Confusion and panic were adding to my hangover and paranoia.
“What? Bed? Did we—”
“No. We watched TV and I kicked you to the couch when you kept snoring. Now tell him the plan.”
“That’s really not a good idea.”
“See, I told you,” Farmington said. “He’s all talk and bravado in workshop but when given a legitimate chance to do something with his work, he crumbles into a—”
“You really want to hear this?” I asked. “I don’t get it. What are you trying to do to me?”
“To you? I want to do this for you,” Posey said.
I took the insulated Disney princess mug of coffee Posey offered me and sat down at the kitchen table. The kitchen was the oldest part of an old house occupied mostly by students without the skill or desire to provide proper upkeep. The