Beyond the Pale Motel Read Free

with some residual pain, and that he couldn’t do high-impact exercise.
    Sometimes I wondered if Scott ever left Body Farm. We used to tease him about sleeping on the machines and showering in the bathroom before we got there.
    He didn’t fit any of the monster categories. Which is why we loved him. And had never dated him. Sometimes it takes a monster to scare away the stress of daily life.
    Smelling of expensive, subtle cologne, Scott gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, Catt.”
    â€œHi, sweet one.”
    He asked how I was.
    â€œUgh. Freaked-out. Did you hear about that other girl who was killed?”
    Scott shook his head. “It’s horrifying. Makes you want to go far away and never come back.”
    Rick and Todd, with their matching buzz cuts, Aztec tattoos, and Air Force 1s came over, oblivious of what we had been discussing. “Good timing, Catt. We were just telling Scotty here his hair is getting a little long, don’t you think?” Rick said.
    Toddrick, as we called them, liked to tease Scott about being vain, even more meticulous than they were. His hair was always perfectly cut, by me, of course. He never let anything about him get messy.
    I touched his neat, well-shaped head. “Looks good to me,” I said. “Now you, on the other hand…”
    Rick backed away. “No way, Edwina Scissorhands, I won’t go anywhere named for cannibals.”
    â€œYeah, Blow is much better for a hair salon.” That was the place in Boys Town where Toddrick went for their matching cuts.
    â€œI’d rather do blow than have my head hunted.”
    â€œI’d rather be blown,” Todd offered.
    â€œOkay, cats and dogs, let’s not get crazy here,” Scott said. “Besides the horrors on the news, how’s it going?” he asked me, pointing at Todd to get on the lat machine.
    â€œDash is back tonight.”
    Scott raised his eyebrows. “You sure you want to get sweaty now? Won’t there be enough of that later this evening?”
    â€œNot the way things have been going unless I play it right. But I gotta work off the jitters.”
    I’d been nervous about trying to get my husband’s attention; now I was thinking about dead girls. As I picked up the first set of weights and smelled the tang of metal, I thought of the girl whose arms had been sawed off, the other without legs. In that moment I was grateful for my own body, which beat with life, especially in Dash’s embrace.
    â€œWell, just don’t forget how lucky that man is to have you,” Scott said, trying to make me feel better, the way he always did.
    *   *   *
    Dash, that “lucky man,” and I moved into the bungalow when we got married. He actually carried me over the threshold on our wedding night, into the empty rooms—just the bed and the vanilla gardenia candles and bouquets of pink and white peonies Bree had installed secretly that morning. Dash knew how to fuck; he was big, and hard, and the best I’d ever had, and knowing that he was my husband had made me wetter and more responsive than ever.
    â€œI think you just set a record, babe,” he said, when I came again.
    Our place was built onto the side of a hill, overlooking the lake, the palm trees and cypress, bougainvillea and oleanders. You have to climb up a steep, white staircase, pass through the thick arches into the courtyard with its ferns, bamboo, and koi pond. Inside, one bed, one bath. No space for a kid, Dash said, but I knew the tiny office where my desk and futon were could be converted if necessary. Wood floors, white built-ins, including a mirror over the fireplace. The fireplace is not safe to use, but Dash lit a fire in it anyway sometimes. Pink-and-black tile in the kitchen and bathroom. Probably lead-based because of how it shines but I didn’t mind. I had once done a whole Love Monster post on the toxic beauty of 1950s bathroom tile.
    Our