by Wendy Cole
As I’d suspected, all three fiery cans were surrounded by lost and shivering souls. The older bums called them salamanders, but I usually just called them taken.
I dropped onto my usual spot against the wall and pulled the folded cardboard from my pack. It wasn’t much, just big enough to cushion me from head to knees, but it was significantly better than newspapers.
“Long day, girl?” Mr. Frankfire, the old man who’d become my unwanted companion, asked.
No. Flew by like a dream.
“What gave it away?”
“Did you find a job?”
I bit back a growl. “Sure did. It’s called being homeless. It’s real easy, actually. I just walk around all day and ask people if they want to hire me. They tell me no or some bullshit like we’re all staffed or we’ll give you a call. Doesn’t pay much, though.”
I shot him a false smile.
“Are you getting snippy with me?” His eyes crinkled despite his stern tone.
“Absolutely not. Now, if you don’t mind, part of this new job requires me to sleep under a bridge. You wouldn’t want me to get fired now, would you?”
“Something’s gonna turn up for you. I can feel it in these old bones of mine.”
I busied myself by pulling the blanket from my pack, then stretched out onto the board in my best version of a cocoon. “Good night, old man.”
“Everything will be alright, you’ll see. It’s the government implanting chips in people’s brains we need to worry about. If we could fix that nonsense, everything would be back to how it used to be.”
I groaned. Not again. He always did this; totally sane for long streams at a time, then boom, bat shit crazy―alien abductions, fields full of coffins, concentration camps, illuminati, illuminati, illuminati, blah, blah, blah.
Now, apparently, chips in people’s brains. I cracked an eye open and peered over at him. With scraggly blonde hair, matching unkempt beard, and a smell that could wilt a flower, Mr. Frankfire had undoubtedly caused more than a few people to move to the other side of the street.
“What kind of chips? Doritos? Doritos sound amazing right now.” I couldn’t help myself. He was pestering me. It was too damn cold, and I was too damn wet and tired to give a shit.
“No, girl! Microchips! They implant them right into your brain and control you with them. Kennedy! That’s what happened to Kennedy! Microchips!” His arms flailed as he ranted, calling out event after event, apparently all caused by said microchips.
I looked around to the many sets of eyes fixed in our direction. Mr. Frankfire wasn’t the only crazy one that occupied this space. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t much compared to some of the others. If he didn’t stop, he might garner the unwanted attention of those who leaned towards more violent outbursts.
I did this. I shouldn’t have goaded him.
“Hey, Mr. Frankfire,” I sat up and placed a hand on his shoulder, “it’s alright, man.”
He settled down and stared at me.
I waited with hope that the next words out of his mouth would be normal.
“Like I said...”
I held my breath. Come on. You can do it. Normal, old man. Normal.
“Something will turn up for you. Good looking girl like you? Someone is bound to give you a job.”
I released a sigh and shot him a wry grin. “If you say so, old man.” I lowered myself and turned my back to him.
Thankfully, he took the hint, and his own makeshift bed rustled as he got comfortable. “Good night, girl.”
“Good night, Mr. Frankfire.” The old man was harmless; a kindred spirit. We were both the same―thrown away, shunned by society.
Well, not anymore. Not for me. I was going to have a life or die trying. Karma owed me, and she was going to pay up one way or another.
Tomorrow.
I’d look again, tomorrow. Then, I’d look the next day, and the next. I’d keep looking until I either found something or the club found me.
I eased down the neck of my hoodie and eyed the solid black eagle across my shoulder. It felt more like a brand, a blemish alongside the rest of my ink, a scar. The Onyx Eagle.
They would find me.
Drake would never stop. I was his; a thing, property.
Drake didn’t like it when his things came up missing. It was hopeless.
I pushed the thoughts away and forced my eyes to close. That was bullshit, and I wouldn’t accept it. Karma owed me. This wasn’t it. This couldn’t be it. I hadn’t done anything to deserve this kind of life.
Tomorrow.
CHAPTER THREE
“You shouldn’t have run, Jessie,” Drake’s voice echoed in the space between my ears.
I gasped. My eyes flew open wild and wide. My wrists and ankles twisted against rope, and a solitary lightbulb swung overhead, illuminating the familiar setting. The garage. The chair. That chair. I jerked against the restraints knowing it would do no good. Bolts secured the chair to the concrete floor, and I’d seen grown men try and fail to break free of it.
“You want out,” Drake said.
My gaze fixed on the object in his hand, and every single one of my muscles tightened in unison. I shook my head and whimpered a nonverbal plea.
Drake’s grip on the iron tightened, and a sadistic smile slashed his face. “You already know, don’t you?”
He tilted it back and forth, and steam billowed into the air with a hiss. His attention turned to the tattoo on my shoulder and mine did the same.
The onyx eagle stood bold against my pale skin, my other artwork mere additions to its importance. The eagle meant the club. The eagle meant the family, and once a person stopped being a part of that, they lost the right to have it.
As if my thoughts had been a starting signal, Drake yanked my elbow up and pushed the burning plate into the mark.
A scream so strong, my throat could bleed, ripped the air as fire melted my flesh, sizzling, hissing. “Please! I won’t… I won’t…”
“You did.” Drake seemed entranced, transfixed. His lips parted on a breath as he pulled away and watched my skin come with him. “Don’t worry, Jessie,” he said, voice detached. “I don’t want to kill you.”
I shot upright, covered in a cool sweat, gulping lungful after lungful of hollow, empty air. It was another nightmare.
Each night when I closed my eyes, Drake found me. This time had been different. It was a premonition; a distortion of a memory I’d never been able to rid myself of. Every detail of the dream still lingered on my skin like blisters, and I couldn’t help but recall the time I watched him do it before when he forced me to watch poor Greg sit in that chair and scream and writhe in agony.
I needed to learn. Greg wasn’t my friend, and our playful banter hadn’t been the innocent passage of time like I’d told him it was. I was a whore to have affection for the boy so young and new to our world, and Greg…Greg was a dead man.
It was then that my young girl’s mind learned the truth about Prince Charmings. Prince Charmings were only charming until you got inside the carriage. Once they closed the door…
I shook my head. Thinking about him wouldn’t help me. The memory of the dream echoed through my mind too vividly, and I focused on my surroundings in an effort to bring myself back to the present. Early dawn painted the world in hues of pink, yellow, and light blue. The rain had ceased in the night hours, but the puddles left behind still peppered the cement, and the view beyond our safehold seemed to shine with the residual moisture.
All around, sleeping forms propped into corners, huddled in crannies, and stretched out onto flattened boxes. A few early risers stood around one dwindled fire, wrapped tight in torn blankets. They rubbed their hands together and murmured wistful conversations about the long-forgotten comforts of another life.
How did I get here? My whole life had been a rollercoaster ride of disparity, leading me to this one specific point; this single moment. My mother chose drugs over me. My father was a mystery. Whatever family I had didn
’t want the burden. I didn’t even know their names.
Why? Why were some people born into good homes with love, prospects, and opportunities while the rest of us got stuck with…this?
With a set jaw, I forced my thoughts away and unwrapped the blanket from my shoulders. Nobody was going to come save me or any of these people here. If I wanted a different life, I had to take it. I stuffed my pack full, zipped it shut, and smoothed my hair as best I could with an old broken comb I’d found on the street.
Today, I’d try the other side of town. Everything over here had been done.
I took a look at Mr. Frankfire’s sleeping form, his frail and wrinkled skin too loose for his bones. How did the old man plan to survive the winter? I already knew from earlier conversations that his outbursts had gotten him banned from every shelter in the county. He had no family to speak of, and the rest of the world surely didn’t give a shit.
I couldn’t stay at a shelter either, not with the risk of someone finding me. If I found a way to save myself from the impending freeze, I’d make it a point to bring the old man with me.
I tiptoed past the sleeping bodies and into the faint daylight. The walk would be a far one, but I kept my steps steady and determined.
It took an hour to make it past the places I’d already applied to, but when I did, more of the same results continued. Six gas stations told me no. Four fast food restaurants said they were staffed, even though two of them obviously needed help. When aggravation got the better of me, I tried a doctor’s office just for shits and giggles.
They told me not to come back.
I was about to give it up for the day and head back when a grocery store loomed in the distance. I paused and chewed my lip. One more couldn’t hurt. It would be my luck, if I skipped it, it would have been the one to break the pattern and actually hire me.
It was a newer building with dark grey trim and freshly painted white blocks. Birchwood Wholesale Grocery looked the epitome of suburban bliss.
I cut across the parking lot, amidst the chatter of shoppers, squeaky cartwheels, and revving engines, and shot overly sweet smiles to the many nervous stares I received. I wasn’t surprised. What I’d done to my appearance to stay hidden had unfortunately made me a pariah. There was no getting around it. Drake would expect me to stay the same for this exact reason. I’d just have to take my chances and find someone who didn’t judge.
Inside, the scent of Pine-Sol hung heavy in the air, and the glaring reflection of fluorescent lights shimmered upon the wet tile. A tiny blonde behind a customer service counter smiled at me.
“Hello,” she said, her voice overly chipper. “Watch your step.”
I approached cautiously with the best smile I could manage. “Is the manager available?”
Her eyes scanned me from my worn clothes to my tattooed skin, and an expression far worse than judgment crossed her features. Pity.
I forced the smile to remain in place, but it felt more like a sneer as the seconds ticked by. “I just want to see if you’re hiring.”
She shook her head as if she realized her behavior, then the sweet smile lifted her lips once more.
“Sure thing. Let me go grab him.” She held up a finger, smiled wider, then turned and skipped in the opposite direction.
Skipped, ponytail waving back and forth, propelled by bubbles and sunshine and little yellow ducky toys to match her golden hair. Hers wasn’t an act. She was my former persona. I fought not to roll my eyes at her back. Overly happy people clashed with my misery. Like two similar ends of a magnet, I repelled it; couldn’t let it near. Something about it made the bitterness inside me eat away a little faster. Too much at once, and I might simply disappear.
She appeared a minute later with the manager trailing behind her. Heavy and balding, his walk held none of the girl’s happy gate, but instead told a story of a man who’d been bothered. He shot me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How can I help you today, ma’am?”
I stuck my hand out, but he didn’t take it. His attention landed on the newest tattoo across my temple before he met my gaze with forced patience.
I lowered my hand back to my side and swallowed a sigh. Might as well get it over with. “I was wondering if you needed any help. I’m a real hard worker and could really use a job.”
I fought the urge to follow along as he said, “We’re all staffed at the moment.”
Now, my line. “I understand.”
I smiled. Yeah, I understood perfectly fine. Asshole.
I pulled the paper from my pocket and handed it to him. “Do you mind signing a paper that says I applied here?”
His eyes scanned over the probation office’s jargon, and I could practically see his decision solidify.
“Of course.” He sounded put out, but he kept a closed-mouthed smile as he grabbed the pen from his shirt pocket and turned to lean on the counter.
As he stepped away, my attention shifted back to the blonde. She’d left her spot behind the counter and was joined by an older man that made me take a step back.
Shoulder length black hair, full beard peppered with grey, and heavily tattooed.
His gaze drifted over in my direction as they spoke.
A shiver raced down my spine, and a million red flags sent my heart thundering. Was he affiliated with the club? He could be. He looked like it. He was staring. The way he looked at me made me feel like he knew something or perhaps everything.
The manager cleared his throat, and it was only then that I noticed his outstretched hand and attempt to hand me back the paper. I snatched it without a word and hurried for the exit.
I didn’t give a shit about the nervous stares as I all but ran across the lot, but I only made it halfway when a deep voice shouted, “Wait up!”
I turned and, sure enough, the man had followed. My fears solidified. He must have stood six feet and two inches, and his frame was large and, though aged, still full of muscle. There was no way I’d outrun him. His legs were too long. I’d grown too weak.
With a determined jaw and angry eyes, I spun around to face my fate. “What do you want?!”
He stopped, now a mere three feet away, and smiled despite his obvious surprise at my hostility.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He held up a hand. “I’m Zeke. I just couldn’t help but notice your artwork.”
I studied him, adrenaline still snaking its way through my veins. My hands shook at my sides, but I balled them into fists to hide the reaction. Despite the warning bells ringing in my ears, the mention of my ink piqued my interest. The tattoos along his arms and neck were high quality, expertly done. A fellow artist? No relief came at the assumption. I didn’t know him. The setting he found me in couldn’t be more public. Drake knew how much I loved my art. This could all be a trap to get me somewhere with less witnesses.
“What about them?” I asked.
He took a step back, his hand still up in a sign of surrender. “Did you do any of them?”
I bit the inside of my cheek and cast a glance around the filling lot.
“I did all of them.” I met his gaze. “What’s it to you?”
He whistled long and low. “That’s impressive.” His head tilted. “I couldn’t help but overhear you’re looking for work. I own a tattoo shop down the street.” He continued to watch me how a person might watch a wounded animal. “Lexy, the blonde inside…her mother works for me. I’ve got an empty table I’ve been looking to fill, and I know a lot of my customers would love to have some of your artwork.”
I held my breath and mentally flipped off the burst of excitement his words brought. He couldn’t be real. It was too good to be true. I looked around for a camera, or more likely, a gun pointed at me. It was just us.
Zeke’s smile widened. “I take it you’re interested?”
In a perfect world, I would have jumped at the chance. But the world wasn’t perfect, not the one I lived in. Biker Santa’s didn’t magically appear to offer gifts, and
I was smart enough to know when to run.
“I’m going to walk away now,” I said, my voice as firm as I could manage it. “There’s a lot of people out here, so I suggest you don’t follow.”
His eyebrows furrowed as he looked around before his gaze settled back to me. “I’m not going to follow you, girl. I don’t know who you’re running from, but I’m telling the truth.”
I didn’t offer him a response. It wouldn’t do me any good to give him one. The longer I stood there, the slimmer my chances of escaping grew. I broke into a sprint and prayed the audience would keep him from running after me.
CHAPTER FOUR
When I’d made it halfway back to the bridge, I felt confident that he hadn’t followed. I slowed my pace and allowed my lungs a blissful reprieve. I’d been so close to being caught. What was the point to any of this? I’d never win. Drake had so many, and I was only one. I had nothing; no job, no chance of getting one, and no money apart from the mounds of change and single bills given by people who wanted to feel good about themselves. It was certainly not enough to make it far enough to have a chance.
The night darkened, and the chill returned. The warmth left over from my pumping blood slowly crept away as my heavy legs fought to keep moving. By the time the bridge broke into sight, I was shivering.
Once more, I was too late for a spot beside the fire; too late to warm my bones and give myself a moment of relief. My eyes darted to Main Street―to the open bars calling my name―and I didn’t care anymore.
My fate was inevitable. Karma had it out for me, and no amount of effort on my part had ever been enough to defeat her.
I shifted course, allowed my hood to fall back, and set a line towards the busy street. If they found me, I’d die with a belly full of liquor and a warm body. I’d die stuffed with those little shit peanuts they offered. If I was doomed to die, I wouldn’t do it cold and hungry and lacking even one drink to send me away.
