by Amy Waeschle
She entered the bathroom, a darkened space lit by a soft lamp set between two sinks. In the mirror, she was not surprised to see her face looking pale and tight, with faint circles beneath her eyes, the tan lines along her temples from the sunglasses she wore for weeks during field camp still evident. She ran cold water over her hands, the action grounding her so quickly that she began swiping it up her forearms, then splashed it over her face. She slipped her wet hands to her neck where her skin felt sticky. Suddenly thirsty, she bent over the sink and sucked water from the flow coming out of the tap, slurping greedily like a kid drinking from a garden hose. The door opened and Cassidy jerked upright, water dribbling down her chin. Two women entered, chatting loudly, and noticed Cassidy just as she was about to wipe her face with her t-shirt. The three of them stared at each other for a long moment, and then the two women split apart and entered a stall each, still talking as if Cassidy wasn’t there.
“They’re not even that hot,” the first woman was saying to the other from her stall. Cassidy heard the sound of her pee splashing into the toilet.
“I mean, on the street, I wouldn’t even give half of them a second glance,” the second woman said.
“We should have gone to Moonbeam’s,” the first one groaned.
“But it’s so expensive,” the second one said, and flushed.
“You get what you pay for,” the first one said.
Cassidy hurried for the exit, convinced that she had landed on a foreign planet. Pushing the door open to the hallway, she nearly collided with two men both dressed in black t-shirts, their muscular chests stretching the fabric. One of them stepped forward and took hold of her upper arm, in one motion swinging her in the opposite direction of the bar. The other man stepped to her other side.
“Whoa,” Cassidy managed, her heart jumping into her throat. She looked all around but the hallway was empty. From the stage she heard the muffled cries from a now-rowdy crowd.
“Let’s go,” the man holding her arm said. Before Cassidy could protest, the three of them began moving.
Twenty-One
“Wait, where are we going?” she asked, twisting around, trying to get a view of the bar, and hopefully Dutch. The two men escorted her swiftly to the back of the hallway where Cassidy noticed a set of stairs.
“Saxon is ready for you,” the man holding her right arm said as they reached the stairs. He fell in behind them as the one on her left urged her up the steps.
“What about Dutch?” she asked, feeling like she should resist, but the grip on her arm told her that would be futile.
“He’s enjoying himself,” the one behind her grunted, sounding amused.
“That’s not what I meant,” Cassidy said as they ascended. “Isn’t he coming?”
“No,” the one behind her said. She glanced quickly behind her to see his cold eyes set in a round face. His giant neck was tattooed with a pattern she couldn’t discern in the darkness, and a diamond earring glittered from one ear.
“Does he know where I’ve gone?” she asked, fighting a sense of panic. “He’ll wonder why I’m not back.” She suddenly realized that no one else but Dutch knew she was at the club. A sensation of dread prickled at the base of her skull.
At the top of the landing, she was escorted to a closed door with no sign. “Spread your legs, please,” the one behind her said.
“What?” Cassidy gasped, wheeling around. As she did so, the man quickly slid his hands under her arms and groped down her sides to her legs, where he tapped them apart with his heavy boots. Cassidy gasped in surprise, but he skimmed down each of her legs one at a time, undeterred. She hadn’t shaved in several days and the feel of his hands on her stubble made her face go hot with embarrassment. The man rose to his feet, his face unchanged from when he had first approached her in the hallway below. Her embarrassment quickly turned to anger.
“Precaution,” he said to her as the other man opened the door.
She sent laser beams of fury towards the man who had violated her so effortlessly, but his face remained a mask. Cassidy turned to see a faux-wood desk and several metal chairs inside a dingy office. The bare floor’s ragged texture made it seem unfinished or at least a space with minimal occupancy; a simple globe from the ceiling made the room feel too bright.
“Come in,” a voice said from the side of the room. Cassidy noticed a tall man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves scrunched up to his elbows peering through a window, his back to her. From the reddish glow reflecting of the side of his face, Cassidy realized that he must be looking down on the club.
He turned to her, his quick, dark eyes glinting. He raised an ice-filled glass to his full lips and strode to his desk, his black boots making heavy thuds against the floor. His tanned face and chiseled jawline offered a kind of striking, aggressive quality that made it nearly impossible not to stare. His dirty blonde hair—long for a man—hung thick and straight, the front hanging down so that when tucked behind his ear, it just held.
“I hear you’re looking for someone?” he asked, his voice rich and gravely.
“Yes, her name is Izzy,” Cassidy said.
Saxon nodded at one of the bouncers, who slipped from the room.
“She’s a student at the University of Oregon,” Cassidy added, and stepped forward, slipping out her phone. “Lars told me someone saw you leave with her from the rally last night.”
“You were at the rally?” he asked, giving her a curious look.
Once again, Cassidy realized her dress code didn’t match her environment, though what she would have worn in place of her t-shirt and shorts to visit a biker rally or a strip club she didn’t know. “This morning. I’ve been trying to catch up with her for a few days.”
Saxon took another sip of his drink as he released her phone from her hands, his thick fingers brushing against hers.
He studied the photo of Izzy, then handed the phone back. “I gave a girl a ride last night, sure. It could have been her.” He eyed Cassidy, his eyebrows hunched in scrutiny.
A slug of adrenaline flooded her veins like a bite too big to swallow. “Did you bring her to San Francisco?” Cassidy asked.
“Yes,” he said, settling into his chair. He seemed to take her in for a moment, making her squirm. Handsome wasn’t quite the word for him, she decided. His looks were edgier than that, as if his attraction stemmed from raw virility, and though it felt dangerous, she felt herself drawn to it, like a bear to honey. It pissed her off.
“Dropped her at a friend’s in NOPA,” he replied. “Some kind of party I guess.”
“Did she give the friend’s name?” Cassidy asked, her voice raspy with eagerness. She thought about Izzy’s voicemail and imagined it now in the context of a party. Maybe Izzy got drunk or high—‘sorry’ could mean anything in that situation: sorry I don’t have any more dope; sorry I don’t remember your name; sorry I don’t want to go home with you.
Saxon shook his head, his lips pinched in regret. A noise from the window caught her attention—a muffled cheer followed by hoots.
“Do you remember the address?” she asked. NOPA or “North of the Panhandle” was a region of the city near the University of San Francisco that she and Quinn had visited a few times for a restaurant he liked.
“No, but I have an errand to run near there,” he replied. “I could show you.”
Cassidy felt her entire body still. “Oh,” she replied. “Wow, yes,” she added quickly.
Saxon stood, and she couldn’t help following the movement with her eyes. He grinned but his gaze held a gleam that made her draw back—though due to fear or overexcitement, she couldn’t identify.
Saxon downed the last of his drink and tapped the empty glass with finality on the desk. “Let’s go,” he said, sliding into his black leather jacket that had been hanging on the back of his chair.
“But what about Dutch?” she asked. “I don’t want him to worry.”
“I don’t think Dutch is the worrying kind,
” Saxon said, tilting his head, as if she had said something amusing. “See for yourself,” he added, nodding toward the window.
A chill tingled down her back as she approached the window and glanced down. The bar was standing room only now, the music pounding, mixing with the hoots and cries. A quick glance at the stage revealed two women dancing—though “dancing” was a generous term. The purple-tinted lights from the stage made it easy to pick out Dutch who was being led through the crowd by a woman in a tight red dress and heels, her delicate lips curved into a coy smile. Cassidy watched, transfixed as they turned into the hallway toward the V.I.P. rooms she’d seen on her way to the restroom.
“Plus, he wouldn’t pass our screening,” Saxon said, raising his eyebrows.
Cassidy felt like a cornered mouse looking up at a giant cat. Dutch carried a weapon? In that instant, everything came crashing down. She thought of the ride and how brave she thought she’d been. Of how she had let herself trust Dutch, thinking she was making some kind of advancement to being normal again.
She realized that Saxon was still watching her with his laser-beam eyes.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Cassidy realized she was trapped yet again, about to trust someone she shouldn’t. She exhaled a shaky breath, hoping to find some shred of courage. Her scattered mind snatched at an image of Izzy, curled up on a bare floor somewhere with dirty needle scattered around her. “Yes,” she said, but her pitch was high and thin, a voice she didn’t recognize.
Saxon exited the room and turned away from the stairs. Cassidy followed, stepping past the two bouncers who stood stoic, arms crossed.
Once again, the thumping music of the club and smell of the dingy walls and stale booze crowded her senses. Behind her, the office door closed with a soft click.
Everything seemed to swirl in her mind, like the drink in Saxon’s hand—round and round, the ice tinkling in the glass.
Saxon led her to a door at the back of the hall, which led to a brightly lit stairway. The bouncer behind her slipped away, melting back into the darkness. They descended to a doorway that opened to a dingy lot surrounded by construction fencing behind the club—the same lot she had seen during her approach with Dutch.
Thinking about him was too much. Instead, she returned to the image of Izzy. I just have to find her, then I can sort all of this out later.
Outside, night had fallen, and streetlights glowed white overhead. Cassidy hurried to keep up with Saxon as they walked toward the waterfront along Market. Traffic raced past them; a crowd of people dressed for a night out stood in a loose cluster near the edge of the esplanade. Saxon looked completely comfortable in his leather jacket and jeans while her skin prickled against the night’s chill. She had a sweatshirt in her backpack but didn’t want to stop to put it on.
“Do you remember what time you dropped off Izzy?” she asked as they turned down a side street.
Saxon seemed to think about this. “No, but we left the rally at around midnight.”
“Where did you go afterwards?” Cassidy asked.
His eyes flashed her way. “I came here to close up. These clubs don’t run themselves.”
Cassidy felt sweat dampen her armpits. She wanted to shrink away, just to get out from under his scornful, sharp gaze, but she pressed on, sensing that he would be glad to get rid of her as soon as possible. “Did she tell you why she wanted to come to San Francisco? Or why she ended up at the rally in the first place?”
“No,” Saxon said, shaking his head slowly. They reached the entrance to a garage. Saxon turned into it, pulling his wallet from the pocket of his pants, the chain connecting it to his belt flashing in the glare of the bright overhead lighting.
Cassidy thought about this. “So, she just comes up to you at the concert and asks you for a ride?”
He smiled, but it held little warmth. “She was bored and looking for a way out.”
“And you offered to be that for her,” Cassidy answered, trying to put the scene together. It was easy to imagine Izzy drawn to the vibe Saxon was dishing out.
“I was bored myself,” he said, slipping a card from his wallet as they reached a row of motorcycles. “She asked where I was going, and I invited her.”
“So what did she give you?” Cassidy asked.
He replaced his wallet to his pocket and frowned.
“For the ride,” Cassidy added. She realized that the trip to NOPA would be on the back of Saxon’s motorcycle—the same that had delivered Izzy. Her mind tried to sift through her emotions, but they were too raw and fleeting.
He unlocked the boxes attached to the back and pulled out two helmets. “Nothing,” he said, his face blank.
“What, biker code doesn’t apply to pretty college girls?” she said boldly, desperate for something to knock the self-assured grin off his face.
But Saxon appeared unflustered. “That tradition has a long history but it’s hardly in tune with today’s rules, professor.” He flashed his cunning smile again. “She needed a ride, I was heading that way, end of story.”
Sliding onto Saxon’s motorcycle brought on a heightened sense of panic. As she tucked into Saxon’s extra helmet, she expected the inside would give her some clue that Izzy had worn it—a scent, perhaps, but it only blocked out the cold and the noise. She gripped Saxon’s sides and he glided out of the parking garage, tapping his keycard at the gate.
This is all perfectly legit, she told herself. Sure, Saxon ran a club where women removed their clothes for money, but that didn’t necessarily make him a bad person. Even though his vibe unsettled her, he had given no reason to fear him. Unlike Dutch who apparently paid women for favors. The thought made her furious—at him, at herself. I should have known not to trust him, she thought.
They glided up darkened streets, Saxon driving with purpose. She tried to move with him the way she had with Dutch, but Saxon changed lanes quickly, accelerated unexpectedly. Her confusion and fear seemed to rise inside her like a flooding tide, sending tears over her lids. She realized how out of control she felt, and how little power she had to stop it.
They passed landmarks she recognized, tall buildings and neighborhoods, then ascended the divide that separated the east and west sides of the city. At what looked like a tall apartment building, Saxon pulled over.
“Wait here,” he said, dismounting. As his body shifted, Cassidy noticed the butt of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans. Once he entered the building, Cassidy felt her body begin to shake.
Should she run? Her rattled mind tried to find some central point to connect to, but it was futile. Flashes of memory played behind her eyes: Dutch’s promise to keep her safe, then Mel’s terrifying face hovering over hers, then Saxon swirling his drink while watching her with that predatory look. The doorway of the apartment opened wide and Saxon strode through it, holding a brown paper bag. He stepped quickly to the motorcycle where Cassidy could feel her limbs trembling.
Saxon tucked the bag into his jacket and then they were underway, with Cassidy wrapping her reluctant arms around his waist. What was in the bag? Had Saxon used his gun to get it? If I need to jump off this bike, I will, she thought.
They approached the University of San Francisco and Saxon turned left, then right, passing a housing complex, a library, a neighborhood grocery, and several coffee shops. Just a little farther, she told herself, discreetly swiping away her tears beneath the helmet.
Saxon decelerated near an intersection and Cassidy tried not to fall forward into his back, using her thighs to grip the saddle. The bike’s engine vibrations rattled through her as Saxon coasted to the curb. He idled while Cassidy dismounted, then parked the bike. Down the street, a sandwich board advertising a restaurant called NOPA Noodle House stood on the sidewalk. Cassidy also noticed a coffee shop, an art supply store, and an office building.
“Which building did she go into?” Cassidy asked, removing the helmet and averting her eyes in case they revealed her emotions. She wanted to move away from hi
m as quickly as possible.
“No idea,” Saxon said, widening his stance.
Cassidy glanced at the nearby buildings. Across the street stood a three-story faded beige building with ugly, metal-railed balconies, making it stand out compared to the attractive San Francisco Victorian style of its neighbors.
Saxon stored her helmet then straddled his bike.
“Thank you,” she said, the words sounding foreign.
As if he hadn’t heard her, Saxon tucked into his helmet and started the bike. Then, after checking for traffic, he lifted his feet from the pavement and accelerated up the street.
Cassidy hurried to the crosswalk and stood waiting for her turn. Her scattered mind latched onto the task of locating the apartment where the party had taken place, and hopefully, picking up Izzy’s trail. A tingle of anticipation zipped straight to her core—she imagined Izzy coming to the door, her face looking haggard after a late night but otherwise unharmed.
To get inside the apartment building, she needed someone to buzz her in, so pressed a random number. No answer. She tried again and this time, a male voice answered.
“Um, I’m looking for my friend that may have hung out here last night?” she tried.
“Who’s your friend?” the voice asked, suspicious.
“Her name’s Izzy.”
“Nobody here by that name that I know of,” he said, and hung up.
Cassidy tried again, feeling her emotions float to the surface again. I have to find her, she thought, almost as if she could see herself from above. That’s the only way this will ever make sense.
A female voice answered this time.
“Delivery for Jones,” Cassidy lied, knowing this was a terrible idea but it was all she had left.
The door buzzed open and Cassidy felt a burst of optimism. I can do this, she thought.
