Warrior Undone

by Ruben, Jessica

  I turn my face, unwilling to listen. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and my body stiffens.

  “Don’t fucking lecture me.” I throw his hand off, standing up to my full height.

  He rises, too. It’s a standoff.

  “I’m fine. I did twelve years in hard combat. I don’t need a goddamn shrink prodding at my psyche. Or you.”

  Vincent shakes his head, as though he’s disappointed. “Let’s just start with some time off. Figure out what you’re going to do to regain some discipline.”

  “Time off isn’t good. I work.”

  “Not up for discussion.”

  The guy on the floor lets out a painful moan, and we both turn toward him. Vincent looks back at me, a dark eyebrow raised. He won’t let it go.

  The breath I was holding slowly comes out through my nose. “Yeah. All right.”

  “Help me drag him upstairs.”

  “Before we go up, I think you should hit me.” The words leave my mouth, and I can only pray this works.

  “What the fuck?”

  “When the doctor comes up, we’ll say he got aggressive with me.”

  “I’m not hitting you.”

  “Why not? We spar all the time. But you’ve gotta punch me hard. Real hard. Just not my nose ’cause, you know, it’s nice.”

  He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s one of Vincent’s tells that he isn’t completely opposed to an idea. “You’re a sick fuck. Come up with another story. How about we say we found him—”

  “Nah. This is the easiest story. Come on, Vince. Time is ticking. And the good doctor you hired needs a decent and believable story.”

  I tried telling him that we needed a shady doctor on our team, but he refused, insisting we keep the entire operation kosher from the ground up. This means that, if any shit goes down that isn’t legal, he and I are the only ones privy to it.

  He shakes his head as he rolls up his sleeves. Vincent’s tough as fuck. I know he tries to stay clean, but the man has done so much bad shit in his life that it’s not that difficult for him to handle darkness when he has to. He’s been there and done it all. The perfect man to hurt me without any emotional strings attached. After what I just did, I know I deserve this beating.

  He rears back and smashes his huge fist against my face once, twice. I see stars, and in my gut, I know that justice has been served. I keep my hands balled into fists at my sides because I need to bring my head back to focus. With the pulse of pain comes a twisted kind of relief, as though I’ve paid my price for fucking up. I know it’s crazy to feel good after getting punched, but … I do.

  Laughter hits me.

  “You’re wacked.” He chuckles, shaking his dark head from side to side. “Now, let’s get this idiot upstairs.”

  My face pulses with bruises to come as we drag the limp body onto the emergency staircase. Neither of us blinks at the absurdity of this moment. We’re each gripping a chunky white arm as we trek up to a small room on the sixth floor, permanently reserved for situations such as this. The top of his brown loafers drags against the concrete steps; man’s a dead weight. On the list of horrible shit Vincent and I have done, this doesn’t even rank. Finally dropping him in the small living area of the room like a beaten doll, we pound fists. If this isn’t brotherhood, I’m not sure what is.

  Seconds later, the man groans again, his voice a low rasp. “H-help.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Vincent steps to where he lies, looming over him like a shadow from hell. “You see, when you cheat at my casino and get aggressive on the gambling floor”—he looks to me, smiling, before getting back into the man’s space—“we have no choice but to contain you. And if you think to add any other details to this story?” Vincent bends over lower, pulling his gun and pressing it to the side of the man’s head. “I’ll kill you.”

  Piss leaks from the guy’s pants, making a small puddle on the carpet.

  “The doctor is on his way,” I add for good measure, pulling out a beer from the glass bar. “Make sure to get housekeeping up here, too. Can’t stand the smell of piss.”

  “Oh, the places you’ll go,” Vincent says as he drops the gun back into the holster around his waist.

  We laugh, talking shit to each other.

  The phone rings. I answer.

  “Doctor’s here, sir.”

  “Send him up.” I hang up as it dawns on me that I’m low on meds.

  After saying bye to Vincent, I pull out my phone and text Lion, the president of the Death Crusade MC. He’s been asking me to gather some information for his club. Most of his boys are veterans, so we’ve known each other for a few months now. I’ve never agreed to helping him out, but now, he’s got access to something I need.

  I quickly type out the text, not reading it over before pressing Send. Moving my phone into my back pocket, I realize just how fucked up I’ve become. The good ole boy of my youth has been replaced—for now. Just until I straighten out. Soon, I’ll be back to myself. Soon.

  5

  Lauren

  I came back to my apartment this morning and immediately showered under a scalding hot spray. My shoulder feels tender, but physically, I’m fine. The rest of my day was spent watching reality TV. Just needed to forget about my own life, if only for a little while.

  My parents are over now, having brought dinner. My round glass dining table is packed with food—my mom’s way of making life better. Unfortunately, my favorite Iranian dishes taste like cardboard in my mouth.

  “Do you want more?” My mom points to a plate of saffron lemon kabobs.

  I want to say no, but Slade was right about one thing. A full stomach does in fact help level out stress. My freezer, once full of ice cream and now empty, is proof.

  “Yeah, okay. Just a few though.”

  She stands, adjusting her cream-colored pencil skirt before adding a few more pieces of chicken to my plate. Her thick black hair is styled straight to her shoulders, skin flawless and perfectly unlined, and outfit beautifully matched.

  “Did you speak to your boss?” My father rolls up the sleeves of his blue-and-white-checkered button-down shirt before my mother pours a ladle of hot tomato stew, overflowing with mushrooms and eggplant, over a bed of rice on his plate.

  I wonder if Slade has ever eaten Persian food. I sigh, dropping my head with the thought of him. He’d probably run screaming if he knew my heritage. Not that I have any evidence he’d react negatively, but there’s a general bend against people of Middle Eastern heritage in this country since 9/11, and that’s a fact.

  I still haven’t called or messaged him to thank him for saving my life. As it turned out, nine people died, two of whom were trampled to death while exiting the club. But I was safe, and it was because of him. My mind continues to replay how he knocked over anyone who came into my path. And then how he took care of me all night, his face in concentration and control as he cleaned me. Slade is a better man than any I’ve ever known.

  “Did you hear me?” My father’s face is stern but worried.

  I’m not usually one to zone out, especially when he speaks.

  “No, I won’t tell him.” I shrug. “I went away for Vincent and Eve’s wedding a few months ago, and even that was a huge ordeal …” My voice trails off.

  “Oh, right. Your friend Eve who married the man who built the Milestone?” My mom smiles wide. She knows the answer but is trying to keep the conversation light. She places a hand on my father’s forearm. “We should go there, Farzad. I heard it’s amazing.”

  “Yes, that’s them.” I stick my fork in a piece of chicken and place it in my mouth.

  “How is she? Your friend Eve?” Standing again, she pours stew in a bowl for herself—no rice. I don’t think my mom has had a carbohydrate in the last twenty years.

  “She’s good. Really good.” I swallow. “Started this safe house for abused women and helps them legally separate from their husbands and get jobs.”

  Talking about Eve makes me miss her. She i
s the one person in my life who is both strong and honest. She used to work at Crier as one of the associate attorneys but left for Nevada after rekindling her romance with Vincent. I brought the jokes, but Eve brought the real. I miss having that in my life.

  “I agree with you,” my father chimes into the conversation, voice decisive. “Don’t take any time off. You’ve got to just let this go and put it all behind you. Worrying about what could be won’t fix anything.”

  “But, Dad”—I shake my head—“it’s not about worrying about something that might happen. It’s the memory of what did actually happen, and—”

  “Why don’t we just take it all day by day?” my mom chirps.

  I shut up, privately caving in on myself.

  “Have you sent out your law school applications? I’ve been waiting to review your essay.” He cuts into a piece of lamb kabob, the dark hair on his head perfectly gelled.

  My girlfriends all used to tease me that my parents are the Persian version of George and Amal Clooney. It’s annoying but true.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’re delaying. If you miss the application deadline again this year …” He continues his lecture, but I tune him out.

  I want to push back at them, scream, but what’s the point? My parents are good people who love me. They’ve paid for all of my fancy education since I was three years old. Came to all of my dance recitals as a child. Watched me cheer at my high school home games. Hell, they even held my hand when my first boyfriend broke my heart. In fact, they did all the right things, all the time. But they also micromanage my life. It used to just annoy me, but lately, it’s suffocating. Love isn’t the issue, but boundaries are.

  I began working as a legal secretary because my parents wanted me to have experience in the legal field before applying to law school. But, as time went on, I’ve realized I don’t want to be an attorney like my father. Still, I can’t upset him. I hate disappointing people. I keep saying that, yes, I’ll apply because I want to make him proud. But it’s not what I want.

  The result is an awkward in-between where I keep saying, “Yes, sure, of course, Dad,” but then tear up all the applications the moment I’m alone.

  It makes me look like a liar or procrastinator when, really, I’m just unable to tell him no.

  I press my fingers against my eyebrows, massaging them. I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman with a life and a job and a steady paycheck, but I’m still tied to expectations that I feel obligated to fulfill. Meanwhile, my father still tells me what to do, ordering me around like I’m fourteen years old. He loves me, and I love him, but I need space.

  The rest of our dinner is eaten with comfortable, shallow conversation led by my sweet mother. “Did you see the new bags Gucci put out this season?”

  The girl who always says yes feels fed up with all of it—the shopping, the buying, the never-ending quest of physical beauty. Quite honestly, I’m sick of her. And something tells me that this change in me, sparked by the shooting, is irrevocable. I’m tired of running to meet expectations that I don’t care to meet. I want to set my own.

  After a cup of freshly brewed black tea, my father stands to leave. After kissing me once on each cheek, he hands me a prescription for Xanax. His name is handwritten on the orange tube.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s just a little Xanax,” he urges, pushing them in my palm. “If you wake up tomorrow too stressed out, it’ll help smooth out the edges, so you can work.”

  “But I—”

  “Just take it with you, Lauren. Just as a precaution.” He hugs me into his chest.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  My mom hugs me next, tears filling her eyes. “I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re okay.” She swallows, blinking hard, as though trying to keep her face from crumbling. “Alhamdulillah,” she whispers in my ear before wrapping a cashmere scarf around her shoulders.

  With two long presses of her lips to my cheeks, they leave.

  My makeup is flawless. Outfit, perfection. I remind myself of these details over and over but still cannot manage to walk out of my bathroom. I don’t care about how I look. I mean, what does it even matter? But still, before the shooting, looking great was important to me.

  After a long discussion with myself after my parents left, I decided that I should at least try to get myself back on track. After all, I don’t want to make any rash decisions because of a traumatizing event. If I really want to change my life, I need to figure it out while levelheaded and calm.

  I open my medicine cabinet, pulling out the Xanax prescription. Pushing down the cap and twisting it off, I pour the pills down the toilet and flush, like they do with drugs in the movies. Wait, is that just for powder? Whatever. I’m definitely having a hard time, but I’m not going to take drugs to fix it.

  In my small black BMW, I drive to my favorite coffee shop, a few blocks from my office. After pulling into the parking lot, I drop the visor above my seat and stare at myself in the small mirror for a long while. Large brown eyes look back at me, blinking and filled with anxiety, pupils dilated.

  “Everything is fine,” I repeat out loud for the hundredth time. “Whatever happened is over now. It’s done. I’m fine.”

  With a firm nod, I step out of the car like I’ve done millions of times before. I press the lock button on my key, and the car beeps.

  Standing in line, I do what everyone else is doing and pull out my phone. I haven’t checked any news or my social media accounts since Vegas. I’m about to scroll through my news feed when Leigh, my usual barista, asks how I’ve been.

  “I’m okay. Just super busy. You know how it is.” I chuckle awkwardly. “I’ll have the usual—green tea with no sweetener. Large.” I’m putting on a performance as the old Lauren, even smiling at the end. If I pretend long enough, it’s bound to level me.

  Leigh calls out my order to the guy behind her, who is hustling to make drinks.

  “I still can’t believe you work for Jonathan. What a shithead,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper, making me laugh.

  My boss is known to be a complete asshole. Unfortunately for me, his reputation is completely warranted.

  “I know. I ask myself why every freakin’ day.” My eyes roll playfully as I hand her my card to swipe.

  After taking it, she points to the TV in the corner above a small stand selling artisanal coffees. “Can you believe that shooting in Vegas over the weekend? Is this the new normal? I mean, who knows what’s next?” She lets out a visible shudder before adjusting the black visor on her head.

  I turn to stare at the monitor, and the blood drains from my face. A video taken with someone’s phone was uploaded onto Facebook and is now front and center on the news. Shots spraying out into the crowd. Costumed partygoers running and screaming. A woman wearing large, sparkling wings falls to the floor. People run. It’s a mass exodus toward the door. They’re being trampled. I was there. My hands shake.

  “Oh no. Lauren, a-are you okay? Shit. Don’t tell me you were at that club. Or someone you know?” Her eyes widen.

  I’m completely stunned.

  Somehow, my legs bring me to the other end of the counter. Flashes of Vegas hit me like a freight train. Feeling down about no longer fitting in with my friends. Dancing with Slade and drinking tequila. His hot lips on my neck. And then the shooting. He pulled me out. Practically dragged me.

  My life has been sliced in two. With one event, I’m on a different trajectory. I can’t even imagine going back into work. What’s the point? Why am I even still alive right now? I could have died.

  The office must be exactly how I left it—cold, organized, and perfectly functional. Jonathan will run to my desk in his tailored suit with one hundred and one questions. I wouldn’t have even sat, and he’ll be on top of me, barking orders.

  My mind jumbles. I’m sweating. I roll up the sleeves of my favorite DVF printed blouse, trying to get more air onto my skin. The strap of my Chanel bag digs into my shoulder
, reminding me that I’m out in public. But I’m shutting down, my breaths labored. The walls feel as though they were caving in on me. Since I got home, I’ve been functioning on autopilot. But it’s all coming out now.

  “Lauren!” the guy across the counter shouts out my name, alerting me that my tea is ready.

  I step forward like I’ve done so many times before, taking my drink off the counter. “Ahhhhh!” I drop the paper cup to the ground as boiling water splatters all over the floor.

  The people around me quickly step back.

  “I’m sorry. Oh my God.” I cup my hands over my mouth as the scorching water burns my bare ankles.

  “It’s my fault,” he says in a rush. “I forgot to use the sleeve.”

  He chews his lip when a short guy with cropped hair comes running toward me with a mop.

  “No worries, ma’am. Just step aside. I’ve got it.”

  I want to move, but I can’t. My jaw is locked open. I look down at my white Louboutin pumps, which are now tinged with green. Should I be crying?

  Leigh shows up next to me, taking my arm. “Is there someone I can call?” she whispers, ushering me to the side.

  I feel unhinged.

  “R-restroom?” My voice comes out in a stutter.

  She helps me to the back. I focus on a shelf full of old books lining the wall.

  “This is the one we use. It’s cleaner. Look, I’m not sure what you went through. But take your time, okay? I’ll tell everyone it’s out of order.”

  I nod my head before closing the door behind me.

  I’m about to bawl. I slide down the wall and sit on the restroom floor, tears covering my entire face.

  Eve pops into my head. She’s the most solid and real woman I know. Can she help me? With a shaking hand, I find her number in my Contacts and press Call.

  “Hey, girl.”

  I can feel her smile across the line.