Page 72 of Haven't Killed in Years
“You have a coat though, and look, I’m only wearing a button-down.”
Natalie gravitated across the driveway toward him, knowing she shouldn’t but doing it all the same. The closer she got, the stronger the scent of alcohol became.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, with long, extended blinks as he waited for her answer.
“No, thank you,” she said, taking a seat next to him on the front steps.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you like this,” he said, chuckling.
“Why?”
“I’ve had too much to drink.” He grinned at her with an unspokenobviously. “I don’t want to say anything I shouldn’t.”
Natalie’s fingertips grazed together as she rested her hands in her lap. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say.
“Where do you go all the time, Ms. Natalie?” He turned his face toward her.
“Work mostly.”
“You must work a lot.” His stare was absent. It wasn’t a question, but it was like he was waiting for an answer.
“Do you have a job?” she asked.
Wesley nodded. “I’m a journalist.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Yeah, I’m working on a story in the city, so I grabbed this place for a few months. The drive back and forth to Jersey was killing me.”
“What’s the story?”
He grinned. “Nice try.”
Natalie looked down at her hands. She didn’t really care. She was just trying to be polite.
“It’s not that exciting,” he offered. “Well, I’m hoping it will be, but corporate fraud…nobody cares if you can’t humanize the victims. Ahh…” He grinned. “I’ve said too much!”
It was playful and they both laughed before falling into silence. Wesley took another sip of his drink before rotating his head toward her. His neck muscles seemed weakened and his head flopped over enough to make his stare verge on puppy-dog.
“I have to go,” said Natalie, standing and walking away without giving him the opportunity to protest.
“Good night!” he yelled after her.
Once she was inside her apartment, she looked back at him through the window. He rose to his feet slowly and wobbled up the steps, so unsteady, barely making it inside. She liked him this way.
As she changed into her pajamas, Natalie couldn’t stop thinking about Wesley. He was drunk and a little too friendly. It had unnerved her, but now she wondered if she could have stayed a little longer. She headed back to the window.
Wesley was still downstairs. She watched him stumble around in the kitchen, then into the bathroom out of sight, then back again. He hadn’t rebuttoned his pants and he lumbered forward, trying to kick them off.
Then he tripped, caught on his own pants. He fell to the ground, but not before his head bounced off the kitchen island. His body didn’t move. All Natalie could see now were his lower legs, one on top of the other, pants around his ankles.
Every bone in her body was telling her to go to bed. Wesley was messy—a distraction she couldn’t afford. She’d worked so hard to be with Gwen and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. But what if Wesley was lying there, bleeding out, and would die without intervention?
- - - - -
Natalie was standing onhis porch before she could talk herself out of it. She pushed the door open like in a horror film where the door swings open but the person just stands there in the doorway. She waited and listened for any sound that would change her mind. A soothing hum came from the ceiling fan in the living room.
She entered the foyer and pulled the door closed behind her. Her footsteps were silent and it was only in that moment she realized she hadn’t even put shoes on. Her thin white socks were filthy from the driveway.
