by Joy Blood
Eighteen
My lips refuse to stay still. They bounce up and down as shivers wrack my body. I should have grabbed more clothes to wear. I guess sleeping inside made me forget how cold the night can be. And now that I know I’m nowhere near home, it makes more sense that the weather would be cooler.
The sun that blinded me before has since dropped from the sky, replaced by a bright, full yellow moon. I sink farther into the torn tarp I found next to a dumpster and make a space for my face to peer through. “Goodnight, moon,” I whisper to the sky. Only a small teardrop falls down my cheek.
“I got her this today. My mother used to read it to me before bed.” I hold up the children’s classic. “I think I’ll start reading it to her now.”
“Great idea. Maybe I’ll read too, so she knows my voice.”
“I would love that.” He bends down to kiss me softly on my lips—something he does more times a day than I can count.
“I need to get back to work, sweetheart. How about you start supper? That chicken thing I like.” He’s being extra sweet today.
“It would be my pleasure. Don’t work too hard.” I smile and leave him to be inside the office he seems to be rooted to recently.
Taking my time, I sear the chicken just right, then thicken the sauce. The kitchen smells amazing, and I find myself drifting off into the fantasy of the future. Teaching my daughter how to cook this very dish. Maybe for his birthday or father’s day. “The fuck is that smell?” his voice cuts in, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Oh no!” I spring to, taking the pot off the fire, and quickly shut the burner off. “I’m so sorry.” I chuckle. “Pregnancy brain,” I joke, rubbing my small, rounded stomach.
“Pregnancy brain? How about just being fucking stupid,” he snaps, and my eyes widen. It’s been so long since he lost his temper. Or maybe it hasn’t. It was before we got pregnant. He had a stressful day at work, and we got our plans for the evening mixed up. I had gone to dinner with my friends while he had come home expecting me to cook. When I walked through the door, he was livid and accused me of having an affair. He broke several things in the house, including the tea set my grandmother had given me before she died. It was that night our daughter was conceived—after a rigorous night of make-up sex where he continuously apologized for losing his temper. Since then, I haven’t gone out much with my friends.
“I’m so sorry. I can—”
“Don’t even fucking bother. You would fuck that up too, I’m sure,” he sneers, and I flinch.
“Why are you being so—?”
“So what? A man can’t expect his wife to make him a meal without fucking it up? Do you even know how a burner works? Huh?” He stomps closer, his voice getting louder.
“Please. I can do better. I just wasn’t paying attention.” I back away from him, but he gets close enough to rip my hands from my side. With a jerk, he yanks me over to the stove and lights the flame again.
“No shit you’ll do better,” he growls, bringing my hand over the flame. It flares out in blue and orange. My skin gets hot, then starts to sting the longer he holds it over. “Maybe next fucking time you won’t be a stupid cow.” He laughs when I start screaming and trying to pull away from him.
“Please! The baby,” I yell, uncaring that my hand might catch on fire. My biggest concern is my stomach pressed into the countertop while he shoves himself behind me and holds my hand in place.
“It’s fine!” he yells in my ear, but stops and lets me fall away from the stove and countertop. “Clean this shit up. I’m going out to eat,” he snaps. Just when I think he’s about to leave, he bends down and gets right in my face. “I better not smell this shit when I come back.” I nod, unable to force any words out of my trembling mouth.
He is gone in an instant, leaving me on the floor with my hand still feeling as if it’s on fire. It doesn’t even matter, though. My sobs continue, and I am frozen to the kitchen floor until my daughter gives a big roll and kick to let me know she’s still okay. Only then do I get off the floor, tend to my burn, and clean the kitchen of all traces of the failed supper.
Nineteen
My footsteps thud along the concrete sidewalk as I make my way down the street. She couldn’t have gotten far. I’m three blocks from the apartment and still holding out hope she hasn’t found someone to score a hit from. This is the better part of town, and with the complex being owned by the club, dealers know this territory is off limits. One part of town at a time, we will get the streets as clean as possible. This is our town, where our kids go to school. Keeping it clean and safe is something the club takes pride in. We might not do it in the most conventional or legal way, but it gets done and less kids are exposed to drugs and gangs in the area. We are criminals, but criminals who love their town. And apparently take in strays, or half dead girls, and grow strange attachments to them.
How the hell did she get under my skin? Why can’t I just let her be? I should have dropped her off at the ER and left—for a second time. But as soon as that bag opened and I saw her inside, shit was sealed. She was my responsibility—someone I needed to bring back to life. Maybe it’s because I know an addict, or because I know what rock bottom looks like. Either way, she needs me. And I might just need her.
I shake that last thought away and push myself farther down the street. The moon is high in the inky night sky, bright and lighting my way better than the street lamps. Laughter catches my ear, pulling my attention down the nearest ally. High pitched cackles pierce through the night as I round the corner and find three assholes pushing around something under a threadbare green tarp. “Little bitch won’t move,” one says, reaching down to pull the tarp away.
“I saw her first. I get dibs, asshole,” one grumbles, pushing the other out of the way. Prick Number One is a walking, talking stick figure who wouldn’t take more than a flick to snap in half, but Prick Number Two might get the drop on me if he has any fighting skills. He maybe has a hundred pounds on me, but appears to be sluggish as he watches his buddies fight over whoever is under the tarp. Prick Number Three, with long, greasy hair, bends down and runs his hands along the figure in the tarp. A strangled moan elicits, and my gut seizes. I know that sound. My veins grow cold as I pull my pistol from my back.
“The fuck you did,” Number One barks, then bends down to Vera, who lets out another whimper. “Bitch is waking up. Let’s get her in the truck. She has enough holes, we can have at her at the same time.” The fuck they will. Stepping forward, I raise my gun and squeeze off the first bullet. It lands directly in the side of Number One’s temple. He drops with a thud right over Vera. Number Two, as if just realizing what’s going on, turns my way and starts running, pulling out his own piece. He gets a shot off, but it doesn’t make contact before I drop him mid-stride.
“Asshole!” the last motherfucker calls out, then starts after me. This time, I’m not right on with my target. The bastard bobs and weaves right to me, slamming into my side with a huff. I bring the butt of my gun down onto his head, but it doesn’t faze him one bit. Only gives him a chance to hit me in the side. Sharp pain slices through me, burning across my stomach.
“Fuck!” I land another hit to his head with my gun. This time, he winces away enough for me to see he has a long, thick blade in his hand. “Bringing a knife to a gun fight.” I pull the trigger, clipping him in the hand. The blade bounces along the cracked concrete of the ally. “That was a bad fuckin’ idea. The first one?” I get into his face as the bitch howls in pain, grabbing at his bloodied hand. “The first bad idea you had was to fuck with what’s mine,” I growl, bringing the barrel of my gun right under his chin. The trigger squeezes easily, and the bullet tears apart his face as it shoots through his skull. He drops the rest of the way to the ground, and I stand to go check on Vera, who is still under the first prick I put a bullet in.
Only a little bit of her is visible; enough to notice she’s shaking under him. Reaching down, I grip the back of the dead prick’s shirt and
heft him off her. “Vera. Baby, you hear me?” I drop to my knees, close enough to break into her tortured thoughts. She doesn’t snap out of it, though. Instead, she tries to curl up into a ball and continues to whimper. “Damn it, V. Why did you leave?” I grumble, reaching into my back pocket. With my thumb, I scroll through and find the number I need.
“Pres?”
“Wick. Need a clean-up crew in the alley four blocks down from my place. Three guys. And see if anyone called in the shots. Redirect if needed.” I end the call. “Let’s get you back home.” I pull Vera into my arms. Home? The hell. I shake it off and start back down the street, thinking I just might chain the girl to my bed so she doesn’t try to leave again.
The fucking hell is wrong with me?
Twenty
I wake to the feel of soft sheets and a pillow under my head. With a mind of their own, my arms stretch out and I let out a long, satisfied groan. That’s before I remember I left this bed. When I fell asleep, I was under a tarp, leaning next to a dumpster. Memories from the night before assault my brain, and I curl up into a ball. Me waking from a nightmare to find two men pawing at me, trying to get my clothes off. I quickly take in that my clothes are still on and I don’t notice any pain between my legs. Thank God.
“You want to tell me why you decided to take off yesterday?” His voice has an edge to it. He’s angry with me, and it only causes me to curl farther into myself. My body shakes on its own, and I can’t stop it. “Vera?” This time when he talks, he sounds softer and starts walking closer. “Shit. You’re shaking, baby.” I’m too far away and caught in the anger I heard in his voice to even notice he’s pulling me into his lap. “V. Hey. You’re okay now. I got you.” My body rocks back and forth, and before long, I realize it’s him doing the rocking. His rough, calloused hand brushes along my cheek. “Open your eyes, V. Come on,” he coaxes me from my pitiful state. When my eyes finally crack open, I find him looking down at me, concern written all over his strong features. The dark circles under his eyes wouldn’t be visible from a distance with his sun-kissed tone, but up close and personal, I can tell he hasn’t slept in some time. The small crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen as his brows knit together. “You back here?”
“Yes,” I squeak out. My throat is dry, and swallowing doesn’t help at all.
“You left me.” I don’t get a chance to respond before he corrects himself. “Left the apartment. Why would you do that?” he asks, shifting me off his lap and back onto the bed. I try to pretend him taking his arms away from me doesn’t leave me colder than I was last night, but still the need to have him back rolls over me.
“I can’t stay,” I say honestly, then scoot up the bed, noticing the bottle of water next on the table. Reaching out, I snatch the water and drink it down as fast as I can, leaving only half the bottle.
“Think you can explain a little more?” He stands to his feet and crosses his thick arms over his chest. The fabric over his forearms pulls taut with the action, and I find myself wondering what I would find under the soft cotton. That is enough. What the hell is wrong with me? “Maybe start with where you are from?”
“No.” I shake my head and place the cap back on the bottle. “It’s not—I don’t have a home anymore.”
“Fine. But can I say something.” It isn’t a question. “On your ring finger, you have that dent that tells me you wore a ring for quite some time. Probably got stolen from your hand at some point. Now, you either don’t give a shit what happens to you, or you are just plain running from something and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can’t decide between the two. You don’t seem like a woman who goes out to score smack and just decides not to go home.” As his words sink in, I start to shake again. “And that burn on your hand looks much too old to have happened when all the other shit happened to you. I’m guessing it’s close to a year old?” I don’t confirm he is almost right with the time, but I doubt he would care. “You are someone who needs help whether you want it or not, and for some damn reason, you were put in my path. Twice. I’m not going to let you go off and die. So, you are just going to have to stay put until you either get back to resembling a human being or you tell me where to find your family so they can come get you.”
“I don’t have any,” I mumble.
“What?”
“I don’t have a family. I’m alone.” Saying the words out loud hurts more than I thought it would. I am alone. Every friend I had I cut out of my life because I no longer was able to see them or even talk to them. And my parents—
“You aren’t alone,” Premo states, pulling me back to the here and now. “As long as you decide to stay here, you aren’t alone. Got that?” His tone is harsh, but also has promise to it. Like he just might be telling the truth and just might be a good guy.
If there is such a thing.
Twenty-One
I told her she wasn’t alone and went and pulled a disappearing act on her. Right after I left the apartment, I went straight to a meeting, knowing damn well if I didn’t I would end up drowning myself in sorrow. Otherwise known as Vodka. Instead, I got my head on as straight as I could and went back to the clubhouse and took one of the girls to a quick hook-up room to try to forget the woman lying in my bed at home. Only…it didn’t work.
Brandy’s hair is all wrong. Her lips don’t have that pouty, bee-stung look to them. And her eyes…they aren’t the deepest blue that hold everything inside. Every emotion known to man shines through her eyes. Vera. Pain being the one that shines the strongest. It’s the one I have the urge to wipe away, and never let it come back to her.
“Gonna need you to go, Brandy,” I tell her, stopping her from unfastening my jeans, forcing back the wince as the denim rubs against the bandaged knife wound.
“What’s wrong, Premo? Let me help you. You’re so tense,” she purrs, rubbing up my thighs, making me inwardly cringe.
“Nah. Not tonight.” I reach out to help her up off the floor. The woman probably spends half her time at the club on her knees.
“But—” She tries to pout, but I don’t listen to her. Instead, I walk out of the room, leaving the door open behind me. The walk out of the clubhouse is quick and filled with members in all sorts of positions. Some drinking, some fucking, some about to—none of it has me wanting to stay like it used to.
Outside are the tiny houses, also known as “bunks,” and mine is at the end. I don’t bring women here. It’s my home away from the apartment.
A noise catches my attention and has me spinning around to see who the fuck is following me. When I do, I come face to face with a glassy, blue eye and shiny black and white coat. “Son of a bitch, mutt. You nearly got a bullet to the head,” I hiss at the dog standing in front of me. Not that I could have followed through with my threat; I don’t have my gun on me. The dog lets out a small whine and steps forward when I bend to its level. “Come here, mutt. You got a name yet?” And now I’m talking to a dog. He comes closer, accepting my hand to sniff, then gets closer still for me to pet his head. As a boy, I remember always wanting a dog, but both my parents refused to get one on saying they didn’t want to care for one whenever I got bored with it.
When my phone starts vibrating in my pocket, I take my hand away, and the mutt takes off. Unknown flashes across the screen. Normally I wouldn’t answer, but I need something to pull me from myself. I swipe across the screen and accept the call.
“Pres?”
“Son of a bitch. Nixon, where the fuck are you?” I all but growl into the phone at my lifelong friend and brother.
“So fucking sorry, Pres. I fucked up bad,” he tells me, almost sounding like he’s crying, but I know better. He’s most likely three sheets to the wind.
“Stop it. Don’t say anything else. You know where to go?” I wait for him to answer yes. “Good. Go, wait there, and I’ll come get you. Hear me? Go there and I will come get you. Not asking, Nix. You are in some serious shit.” I don’t let him say anything else before ending th
e call.
Instead of taking my bike, I take the club’s utility van. Big enough to fit ten guys in, it’s also big enough to haul Nixon’s bike if need be.
It doesn’t take long before I reach the meet spot the club has deemed a safe zone. Nixon is sitting there right in the open on his bike, shielding his eyes from the brightness of my headlights. I slam my door shut behind me. “The fuck, Nix? You got the whole town lookin’ for you! And here you are just sitting out in the open.” I stomp closer. The man is a hollow shell of the person I saw weeks ago. “Shit.”
“I fuckin' saw her,” he rasps, turning to me. His face looks like he took ten rounds with a set of brass knuckles. “I walked in right as he was leaving. There was so much fucking blood.”
“Shit, brother. You see his face?”
He shakes his head. “No. The fucker was tall, though. And he wasn’t alone. There were three of them. One was small, almost the size of a woman. God, I couldn’t even recognize her face.” He rubs at his forehead, then winces.
“The fuck happened to your face, brother?” I lean in, trying to get a better look, but he pulls away.
“Left her there and ran after them. Got close, but one of them got the jump on me. Beat the shit out of me. Been pissing blood for days and trying to recover so I can go after them.”
“You got a warrant out for your arrest. You know that?”
“Figured. Boyfriend is always the suspect. Jesus.” He lets out a sigh. “Who the fuck would do this to her? She was a good person. Helped kids for Christ’s sake.”
“Let’s get back to the clubhouse, brother. We’ll figure this shit out and take ’em down.”
