by Alan Spencer
"Well, it's better now. We're sober. Brandy needs to realize that and start getting to know you. You're going to be family."
Brock was suddenly so grateful for her just as he was grateful for his blue hairs at the community center. He was on the verge of crying, feeling like his life was finally coming full circle in a good way, but he kept his emotions in check, especially when he noticed how Hannah's eyes were teary from a long cry.
"You had an argument with her, and you came right over to pick me up, didn't you?"
"Brandy wants to clear the air right now, so I said I'd bring you to the apartment."
"You stick up for me a lot."
"I do."
He kissed her cheek. "Okay, I'll jump into the lion's den if it means making things easier," he leaned in and whispered in her ear, "when I marry you."
Her smile was infectious. "I want you to kiss me, Brock."
He leaned in, kissing while she drove, their lips biting at each others with playful zest. The nice feelings would end when he had a talk with Brandy. When they arrived at the parking lot outside of Hannah's apartment building, he stepped out of the car. Hannah remained seated.
"Aren't you coming in?"
Oh no, she's not coming in.
"I reached an agreement with Brandy. She decided it was best you two had a one-on-one talk."
He mouthed "one-on-one" and looked on at Hannah as if he'd been captured in the harshest, brightest spotlight in mankind's history.
Brandy's going to let me have it good.
She doesn't want any witnesses to the crime.
'Oh Sis, he up and ran away. He disappeared. Who knows where they'll find your future hubby's body? I guess if they don't find the corpse, you can't marry him. Oh well, you'll find a better man. And I'll pick him out for you. This is a small bump in the road, Brock being murdered.'
Hannah offered him a sullen face. "I know this is hard. I have a feeling this will win you into her good graces. Show your good faith by talking to her."
I have to be a man about this.
I don't even know what the hell that means in this situation.
Brock gave in. "Well, honey, family can either be the warmest, nicest, most comforting thing in one's life, or it can be another four hours with the in-laws at Thanksgiving. If I want the better option, I have to take this walk."
"Brandy will call me on my cell phone when you guys are done." She blew him a kiss. "Good luck, Brock. I owe you one."
"You did me a favor by asking me to marry you because my stupid ass was too chicken shit and stupid to realize a good thing when I had it. I owe you a favor. I'm going to do this. I'm going to make good with your sister."
Hannah's apartment was on the fourth floor. There was also something honorable in what he was doing, he kept telling himself. He traced back to his past romances. There was no pageantry in those relationships. He produced films, busted his ass raising money, dealing with the normal pre-production woes, and between projects, he'd hook up with an actress or a fellow producer. A few easy going dates. Sex. And then something better would come along for both parties, and that'd be it.
I'm going to show her who I am. Brandy will have no choice but to like you. She'll treat you like a brother. She might grow to kind of like me, maybe.
His nerves of steel melted once he stood outside the apartment door. His hand was arched over the door to knock, but he paused. His wrist had locked. Stage fright was setting in. He had seen beyond the gates within the coliseum, and he realized his sword and shield was nothing compared to the lioness who waited inside the apartment ready to devour him for his past sins.
Brock finally knocked on the door and waited for a reply. The air around him suddenly picked up speed. It whistled through the nearby trees, warning him to run for his life, duck and cover, don't turn back, that it wasn't too late to save himself. Hannah would understand if he decided to renege on his decision to have this talk with Brandy.
If you can't do this, what makes you think you can save Angel?
That convinced him to knock again, this time speaking up, "Are you in there, Brandy? Hannah said you wanted us to have a talk."
He waited a full ten seconds. It was enough time for the wind to calm and dissipate. He barely heard through the door, "It's open."
Brock edged open the door. Once he had one foot inside, he was seized by the wrist and yanked forward into the apartment. The door slammed closed behind him. He landed on his hands and knees, thrown so hard. He was confused, afraid somebody else was in the apartment besides Brandy. Before he knew what had happened, he was seeing stars. A lamp had been smashed over the back of his head. The porcelain pieces rained down his face and back. Before he could blink the stars out of his eyes, Brock was lifted back up by the collar of his shirt, hoisted by a strong force. A left hook later, his jaw clocked, the motion of flesh, an arm, a fist, a pivoting fighter, it all blurred into senseless motion.
Brock was a helpless idiot in the face of the pummeling of a lifetime. He wasn't prepared for the swift upper cut to the stomach that hurled him up against the wall, his back absorbing the pain, the contents of his stomach threatening to lurch up his esophagus and out of his mouth. He did his best to beg for mercy when a red Puma shoe attached to a foot struck home between his legs, forcing back down the words. The spike of nausea creeping up his belly, he melted onto the ground, wincing, wheezing, and moaning softly to bemoan the pain in his balls. He was closer to vomiting now with the sensation of his balls being crushed repeating in dizzying pangs. He squeezed his eyes shut and tears crept free.
After five minutes of being spread out on the carpet, the agony of his balls reduced itself to a low broil. Gaining his sense of sight back, Brock studied the room anticipating a new attack. He spotted Brandy standing above him. She wore an ass-kicking outfit, one with much flexibility, namely a pair of sweatpants, sports bra, and her black hair styled into a ponytail. Her expression was one exempt of apology, of a woman who had taken martial arts classes after being raped and facing off with her previous aggressor. Her menacing face challenged him to get up, to take her on, to fight back and give her a new reason to kick his ass some more.
Her voice was gravel. "Get up, you asshole. Are you going to take it? You going to take it from me, you fucking washed up asshole?"
Brock leaned his back up against the wall. He could've charged at her, barreled into her chest, but that wasn't who he was. He wished no harm upon her despite the fact a warm bullet of blood was crawling down his face. There was an open gash at his scalp.
Brock was still afraid to say the wrong thing.
"You can't have my sister, you dickhead." She spat in his direction. "They say once a junkie, always a junkie. That won't be my sister because she won't be with you. You'll stay a junkie, and Hannah will find some rich, kind, big dicked man to live happily ever after with. She'll forget about you in good time. Maybe no time at all."
Still furious, nostrils flaring, lips sneering so hard he could see a centimeter line of her teeth, Brandy bent over him, slapping him hard on the face, then yanking back his hair. "Don't you want a shot at me? You're not going to fight me? You a pussy? You a chicken shit? Tell me what you are, because you're certainly not a man."
Brock did his best to absorb the pain of her blows. "I don't want to fight."
He was socked in the gut twice.
"You've apologized a lot in your life, Brock, but do you ever mean it? Am I supposed to be impressed that you've cleaned up? Because I'm not. You have a bad day, and instantly, you're back in rehab or stealing from my sister for drug cash."
Brandy wrenched back his hair again, twisting it back so hard he heard a crunch. Brandy's face gave a little, hearing the sound, as if she too were pained by the noise. "You can't have my sister."
"I love Hannah," Brock managed through thin gasps of breath. He was reeling from the attack, knowing he'd be suffering long after this was over with a nice collection of bruises and aches. "And you have every right to be m
ad at me and concerned for your sister. My only argument," he stopped, fearing another punch when she clenched her fists at her sides, "is that I've been sober two years. I've got a steady job. I have a sister I want to save from drug addiction. I can't be forgiven, but I can correct my mistakes and hope for the best from the people I've affected."
Brandy stepped back from him and turned her head down at him, frowning hard. He had thrown her for a loop. She was turning the events over in her head, shocked at herself that she'd shattered a lamp. There was spots of blood on the carpet and half his face was wet with blood. The cuts on the vascular parts of the body always bled like crazy, he thought, touching around the wound across his forehead.
She paced back and forth in front of him as he stood in place, observing his assault. "I'll be honest, Brock, I thought I had you pinned down as an abusive son-of-a-bitch. I assumed the worst of you in every department."
"I've earned it."
"Every man I've known to take a beating like that, from a man or a woman, especially S.O.B.'s like you, always fight back. They hit women, no problem. And you took it. You just took it."
Brock wiped the blood off his lips when the warm trail crossed over them. "I love Hannah. We're going to be family."
It was a dumb response, but considering the circumstances, it was the best he could muster.
Brandy confessed, "I had a plan all worked out. I'd beat the shit out of you. You'd take a shot at me, and then I'd tell Hannah you hit me, and she'd never forgive you. You wouldn't marry her, end of story. But you," as if blaming him, "you didn't do anything. You just let me hit you like a stupid idiot."
She was horrified at the damage she'd inflicted upon Brock. Her plan had not only failed, she had channeled too much anger into him, leaving him a bloody mess. Suffering from that realization, Brandy frantically called out to her sister outside.
Brock rested in the back seat of Hannah's car as the sister's went at each other's throats.
"You said you were going to act like a Dad and ask him questions. Like his life expectations, why he loved me, why he was a better person now, not going Chuck Norris on his ass! What has gotten into you?"
"Hannah, I don't know what came over me. I-I-I thought I'd give him a punch, and then he'd fight back, and then—"
"Then he'd hit you, and I'd have to turn him away, right? You realize how manipulative that is?"
"He's no good."
"You think he's no good, but you don't know him like I do."
"I don't have to know him. I see his ass on TV, I saw what you were like after his parties. You weren't a sister anymore, and you weren't a person either. Brock was the one who allowed it. He fed you those fucking drugs."
"I made the choice. I kept coming to his parties, but we both went to rehab. And if you're thinking like that, you're saying the way Brock was, I was too, and I changed, right? Why can't he change?"
"But it's different."
"It's not different. I was as bad off as he was in rehab. I was clawing the walls, shitting and puking from my withdrawals. You beat the piss out of Brock. Jesus, Sis, look at him. He's bloody."
Brock tried to add levity to the conversation. "She tore me a new one."
They didn't hear him.
"He's all bloody, Brandy, God-damn it, and you're still defending yourself. Berate him, say he's a big asshole, but think about what you did. You kicked the shit out of him. Don't you feel stupid he didn't fight back? The fact you wanted him to hit you disturbs me. Brock's trying harder than you are. He knows you don't like him, but he still wants you to like him."
Brock spoke up. "Wait, you two, just hold on. Brandy, can we start over? From scratch. I'll make you a deal. You write up a contract. Have a notary sign it. If I ever relapse, I lose Hannah. I'll sign it. I swear to you."
The deal caused them both to go quiet.
"Hannah means that much to me. No drugs. Ever. Two years, I've made it with your sister. We're the perfect team. We love each other. You only know the bad parts of me, Brandy. Give me a chance. I'll keep trying no matter how many times you kick my ass."
Brandy mulled it over. She wasn't impressed with Brock, but his offer stuck true in her mind. "Okay, Brock, you've got a deal. You stay sober, or I kick your ass to the curb."
"Can I add one stipulation to the contract?"
Brandy's eyes were coal black. She waited for his request.
"Please don't kick me in the balls like that again. They're still lodged in my throat as we speak."
* * *
In the ER room, Hannah winced every time the nurse's aide wiped around Brock's gash, the pink slot of open skin that was half an inch wide. Hannah had to bite her fist when the doctor administered twelve stitches to close it up. Brock's shirt was covered in dried blood, what had dried into a dull brown-orange color. His ribs and stomach swelled with ache. He'd have a collection of ripe bruises.
Dr. Mihn asked him, "How did this happen again?"
"I, uh," Brock trailed off, scrounging for an excuse. "I fell down the stairs. Wild party. The old man needs to calm down."
"Yes, he does," the Asian doctor said, disapproving of his reply. "Well, you'll be fine. Let the stitches heal. In four weeks, come back to get them taken out. You'll have a mean battle scar."
You said it, Doc. A battle scar.
Hannah stepped up to Dr. Mihn. "So he's fine then?"
"Shipshape beyond a few bruises. The old man is no worse for the wear."
After receiving the treatment, they walked out of the emergency room, and Brandy waited outside with her head in her hands. He wasn't sure what to expect. She glanced up at them when they approached her. She rose to her feet, and Brock sized her up. He didn't feel anger. He only wished for an honest chance to win her over.
After a moment of drawn out silence, Brandy walked up to Brock. He went stiff, but when she pulled him in for a hug, he hugged her back. She whispered to him, "I'm sorry, Brock. Hannah's right. You didn't deserve that."
"But you feel better, though. Be honest. Come on. You liked punching out my lights. Mopping up the floor with me. Exchanging fisticuffs."
Brandy laughed without meaning to, and said, "Rearranging your face."
"Throwing me under the bus."
"Cleaning your clock."
"Knuckle sandwich delivery."
Hannah stepped in between them, "Enough."
Brock extended his hand to Brandy. "Clean slate?"
Brandy conceded. "As long as you don't press charges, yes, clean slate."
Brock led them out into the parking lot and back to the car. "All right, let's get home so I can ice down my balls."
After receiving more genuine apologies from Brandy on the way back to their apartment, and Brock accepting each of them, they called it a night. Hannah explained she had packed a bag for the trip tomorrow, and it was in her trunk, so the sisters had a short talk while Brock sat in the car. When Hannah returned, they drove to his apartment. There, Brock showered and then they went straight to bed. He couldn't sleep, though, tossing and turning, once again concerned about Angel. He snuck into the living room, turned on the standing lamp, and started jotting in his notebook.
Maybe it'll be as easy as letting Angel punch in my face and all will be forgiven. No, Angel's different. It won't be so easy to win her back. Our whole family situation is messed up. I wonder what Mom's doing these days? Does she care about her two children? She has to know we were cokeheads. The news broadcast it to the whole world. I guess she's out of my life either way. I could look her up, but I guess one battle at a time is enough. Win back Angel if I can, then I'll see about the black widow.
Seeing blood again brings the memories back. It's the very reason I went to rehab and dragged Angel kicking and screaming with me. It was after one of our notorious parties. One hundred people were there. Too many strangers at that party, many of them sub-Hollywood people, those on the outskirts of work or completely shut out of work. All I remember is when they left, and I was blitzed out of my m
ind. I'd snorted coke and somebody had given me a strange pill. I still to this day don't know what it was.
I was walking around our outdoor pool when the party was over. Vomit, popcorn, empty wine, champagne, and beer bottles floated in the water like party flotsam and jetsam. I don't know what convinced me there was somebody drowning in the middle of the pool. I saw a floating skirt or a dress, a piece of clothing, and I swore I caught a face and heard screams choked by swallowed water. So I throw myself in, and I'm fired up out-of-my mind. When I land, it's like falling into quicksand. I fight it, thrashing hard, extending my neck to keep my face above the surface, and I could care less what bile I'm floating through, this woman's screams, she's seeing her dying moment, and I was determined to save her.
The quick sand was thickening, and something was pulling down on my ankles like an undertow, but I was inches from the woman, and when I reach out to lift her from harm, my arm cuts right through her. Her flesh is liquid, and the force of my grip, it tears her asunder, and it's as if I've fallen into her body, trapped in her ribs, tangled in her arms and legs, and I'm covered in so much blood, as if I was the one who killed her, as if my body was so strong, she was like a wave that crashed and broke against my body.
I'm screaming and crying out, horrified that I'd killed this woman, and now I'm drowning, so terrified, and I'm sinking fast, caught up in what really is a dress somebody tore off and discarded into the water. And then a hear a splash of water. Angel has come in after me, but she too is blitzed as hell, and when she grabs hold of me, we both sink faster, both heavy as anchors, and we hit the bottom. Running low on air, Angel claws at my body imagining me to be God knows what, and she's really scratching up my arms, and real blood spreads across the water, and when I catch the pool light above us, I somehow snap out of it, throwing aside the dress, and I lift up Angel whose practically pulling me back down. She thinks something above us isn't safe, and I force her up, and when we reach the surface, Angel stares at me like asking me what the fuck just happened. We both don't know, but we're so scared, we realize we can't keep doing this.
