The clock on the digital cable box showed the time as 2:59. Jake felt a rush of anxiety. He needed to be at his mother’s house by three thirty. Rockville was a small town. A drive from one end of town to the other would take perhaps fifteen minutes. The Zone was a mere ten-minute drive from Washington Heights. Under normal circumstances, he would be able to hop in his car and get there with plenty of time to spare.

These were not normal circumstances.

He was in bed with Stu’s sister. In the guest bedroom in Stu’s house. They hadn’t made love. Not yet. Still fully clothed, they held each other in the middle of the bed, limbs entwined in the intimate manner of lovers. Jake moaned with every slight shift of her body, enjoying the way her thigh pushed against his erection. Every so often, she cupped the crotch of his jeans and gave him a gentle squeeze.

No. Definitely not normal circumstances.

Kristen breathed softly in his ear. “I don’t know why we’re fighting this.”

Jake, who hadn’t been laid once in the four months since breaking up with his latest ex, could think of at least one reason to fight it. This was not the normal course of adult relationships, with the exception of the one-night stand variety, but this didn’t feel like something so meaningless. He expected females to maintain a safe emotional distance, a gentle aloofness, at the outset. There should be dates. Dinners and movies. A natural progression toward that initial sexual encounter. He should not be on the brink of that within hours of meeting someone he liked so much. Not at this point in his life.

Fuck.

So this is how it happens, he thought.

How you know you’re getting old.

You turn into a fucking prude.

The cable-box clock now read 3:04.

“I don’t want to fight it. I truly don’t,” he said. He cupped her cheek with a palm, and she smiled broadly, making a noise of pleasure and turning her head into the caress. His heart fluttered. “But fuck, I don’t have a choice.”

Kristen frowned. “I want this.” She put a hand to the back of his neck and drew him to within kissing distance. Her soft lips met his, and the slow kiss that ensued was nearly enough to melt what remained of his resistance. “This is fate, Jake. One of those meant-to-be things.”

Yeah. Okay. She had a tendency to make sweeping pronouncements, a willingness to be swept along by sheer emotion. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, if tempered by a healthy dose of realism. They had known each other five hours and already she had them cast as the leading roles in some great, epic romance. Jake liked her. An understatement. But he was a more a look-before-you-leap type. He hadn’t always been that way, but age and bitter experience had a way of changing things. Sometimes he mourned his loss of youthful optimism more than anything else.

The digital cable box taunted him: 3:07.

Kristen pinched the tab of his zipper between thumb and forefinger, tugged gently at it. “You want this as much as I do.”

“Yeah. You’re right. But I still have to go.”

With much regret, Jake began the process of disengaging himself from Kristen, who sighed heavily. He sat up and looked down at her. “I’m sorry. But I can’t think straight right now. I have to get over to my mother’s house in about twenty minutes. If I lay here any longer with you, I’d never get over there.”

Kristen glanced at the cable box and gasped. “Oh, shit!” Something in her wide-eyed expression made him want to climb atop her. “I’m so sorry! I had no idea it was so late.”

Be strong.

He forced a smile. “Time flies when you’re…” He fumbled for the right words. He’d been about to say “in love,” but that was ridiculous at this stage. Wasn’t it? Saying those words to someone as intense as Kristen would be a mistake. He coughed and finished lamely: “…having fun.”

There was a knowing quality in her expression. Of course. She knew precisely what he’d been about to say-and wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon. Damn.

“Fun. That’s one word for it.” Her eyes widened again. Jake felt drawn into them. They burned with a kind of rare and magnificent spark, an ineffable quality he’d only glimpsed once or twice in his life.

I am fucking done for, he thought.

He knew then he was completely at her mercy.

He wondered if she knew it yet.

She said, “Hey, I could go with you.”

Jake thought about it. He wouldn’t mind the company.

Going to his mother’s house wouldn’t be any more pleasant than his last visit. Shit. “No. I’d love to have you along, but I’m afraid your being there would make my mother behave so badly I’d puke.”

Kristen’s brow furrowed. “Is she really so bad, Jake? You make her sound like Cruella De Vil’s illegitimate white-trash sister. Oh. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have said ‘white trash.’ I’m sorry.”

Jake snorted. “Don’t be. The term ‘white trash’ was invented for families like the McAllisters. Let’s put it this way. After my dad died and my mom remarried, she didn’t have to change her last name.”

“You’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

“Damn.”

“Yep. Hubby number two was my dad’s second cousin. Or third. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with the McAllisters. It sounds sick, but that’s only because it is. Listen, I’ve really got to be going. I’ll swing by with Trey later. Maybe we could all do something together.”

She smiled. “Sure. I’d like to meet him.”

They kissed good-bye and Jake hurried out of the house. Then he hopped in his car and headed toward the Zone. The old neighborhood was livelier at this time of day, with groups of school-aged kids loitering on corners and playing in pickup baseball and basketball games. It was a bright, sunny day, and the Zone looked as wholesome as any other slice of suburbia. He was glad things had changed for the better here, and he again felt embarrassment that his family’s home remained such a blight on the landscape.

He parked at the curb and walked to the front door, taking note of the red Camaro parked in the driveway. Trey’s car, he guessed. It looked to be an early ’80s model, the kind he’d coveted when he was Trey’s age. He again felt the passage of time like a weight pressing against him. To Trey, the Camaro was likely just an affordable junker, maybe even a little embarrassing.

Jolene stood framed in the open front door, watching him as if she’d been expecting him. She’d changed clothes since that morning, losing the tank top and denim cutoffs in favor of low-rider jeans and a cropped purple T-shirt that showed off her flat midriff and accentuated her bust. Jake’s stomach curdled as he noted a navel piercing framed by a tattoo of the sun.

He looked her in the eye, nodded, but didn’t smile. “Mom.”

His mother smirked. “Ain’t you the friendly one.”

Jake counted slowly to ten, then managed a tight smile and said, “I can play nice if you can. Look, I’m here to see Trey. To help. So let’s be civil.”

Jolene’s smirk gave way to a cold glare. “For Trey’s sake, I’ll be sweeter than sugar, but just between you and me, you can shove your superior attitude right up your tight ass. Treat me with respect in my house, boy.”

She turned and stalked away from him, the screen door flapping shut behind her. Jake felt some of his old anger coming back. His mind treated him to an array of images from his past, beatings and other cruel punishments. Blood roared in his ears. He wanted to scream.

He counted to ten again and entered the house.

Jolene was pouring herself a glass of Wild Turkey, diluting it with a minimal splash of Coke from an almost empty two-liter bottle. She nodded at an empty glass on the table. “Want some firewater, son?”

Jake clenched his fists. His fingernails pierced his flesh. Jolene had introduced Jake to the wonderful world of alcohol on the occasion of his tenth birthday. Things were different on Planet McAllister. Here ten-year-olds were considered old enough to indulge in adult vices. Jake was given a carton of Kools and a six-pack of Bud when he reached that age. Five years later it was Mikey’s turn. Poor Mikey never had a chance at a real life. He was a good kid. Kindhearted. Maybe too sensitive. The poor bastard dived headfirst into the world’s biggest bottle of whiskey and never resurfaced.