"Because, Rosie, darling, you don't have any choice. You can rabbit-run the hell out of here and pray I'm not toying with you--I might be--since if I am, I'll just grab you and take every soul still standing as my due. Or you can surrender, admit that I've won, and wager that I'm a man of his word."
I don't want to. But he's right. I have nothing left to lose; not with Bobby Cross standing right there. "I accept your terms," I say, and hold out my hands. "I'm yours."
I have no coat, no borrowed life to wear, but it's no surprise when Bobby's hand clamps down on mine. Chris says something I can't make out, finally realizing, I suppose, that something more important than his death is happening in front of him. Maybe that's a selfish way of thinking, but if there's proof of existence after dying, I'm it, and here I am, approaching my own ending.
I thought I knew what cold was. I was wrong. Bobby's fingers redefine cold, tell me that every frost and snowfall I've ever known was just the prelude to the main event. Winter radiates from his skin as he tightens his grip and yanks me into an embrace. My skirt tangles around my ankles; I all but fall into his arms.
"So eager," he says. "I always knew you would be." And Bobby folds me in his arms, and lowers his mouth onto mine.
***
I've been on the ghostroads for sixty years. The girl I was, the girl Bobby killed, is barely a memory now--I barely remember her. Life was only the beginning. I've seen all the joys America has to offer, walked away from them, and come back to find them transformed to something glorious and new. I've met monsters and danced with gods. It's been a good time, and a bad time, and one hell of an adventure. And I still wish I hadn't died.
He's young, this Florida fry cook, so young that I must seem like some sort of fantasy, the beautiful girl who walks in and says she'll do anything he wants if he'll do her one little favor. Two, really--if he wants to do any of the things his eyes say he's thinking, he'll need to give me a coat. Right now, I think he'd give me a kidney if I asked for it.
"It's...it's like this red round ball, like an apple, and flowers all around it. I think lilies, and some sort of funky white flower. I mean, it's pretty, but it's sort of weird, too, y'know?" His tone turns apologetic. "Most folks get little things when they get tattooed drunk. Like, hearts and birds and the names of their moms. It's probably going to cost a lot to get that lasered off."
"Maybe I won't." I look over my shoulder at him, smiling as coyly as I can with the itching in my back threatening to drive me crazy. "Is that all you have to say about it?"
"It's pretty," he repeats, like that's the secret password to my pants. "It's all flowers and fruit and shit, but it's pretty."
That'll have to be good enough, for now. We have sex on the floor of the store room after he gives me his coat, and he's gentleman enough to let me be on top, and it almost distracts me from the burning, for at least a little while.
Time to head to the Last Dance. Maybe Emma knows what the gift the Old Atlantic Highway gave me means.
Maybe after a burger.
***
There's a pause. Bobby's hand clamps down hard on my neck, his arm all but spasming...and then he's shoving me away, hand going to his mouth and anger in his eyes. "You bitch!" he shouts. "What the fuck did you do? What the fuck are you trying to pull?"
The tattoo is burning hotter than ever, but it's a good heat, clearing the chill of Bobby's fingers from my skin. I straighten up, glancing back to be sure that Chris is still there. He is, seemingly rooted to the spot. I'll have to get him to the Last Dance soon, or Emma won't be able to help him get anywhere at all. "I'm not trying to pull anything, Bobby," I say, turning back to my oldest enemy. "I said you could have me. It's not my fault if I'm too much woman for you."
"You did something," he spits. "What did you do?"
"To be honest, I have no idea." I take a step forward, gambling everything one more time. It's a gambling sort of day. "Want to try again? I'm still willing."
Bobby snarls. For a moment, he looks like a beast, some monster out of a fairy story, come to bar my way. "I don't know what good you think this is going to do you. You can't bring these people back to life."
"No. But you can't have them, either." I tilt my chin up. A cornered snake is still a snake. "What's it going to be, Bobby? Walk away, or try to figure out just how far I can push this?" I don't know what "this" is. Hopefully, neither does he.
He snarls again, and spits, "This isn't over." Turning on his heel, he stalks away--away from the accident, away from the shade of Chris, away from me.