by J. Conrad
Naomi swings at me, and I duck. I punch her in the stomach, and she doubles over but gets in a good lick to my jaw immediately after. Her fist collides with bone, and my teeth click together with a painful crack. The ground spins beneath me. I lunge at her and try to get my arms around her waist. I want to drag her down. If I can get her on the ground, I have a much better chance of winning. Instead, she grabs and lifts me off my feet before spinning me around. She slams my body on a rocky strip of land next to the asphalt. I grunt, the wind knocked out of me as a sharp pain explodes in my back.
I try to roll out of the way, but my legs won’t comply. I only make it to my side. I fling my arms out and dig my fingers into the grass to drag myself. Naomi gets on top of me, squeezing with her legs to hold me in place. Her ginger and tea rose scent invades my nostrils. She aims for my face with her bony fist, but I block with my arms. Again and again, she punches me, knocking my arms into my face, but she can’t get in any strong facial hits. I try lifting my feet to push her off. She’s too far up my torso.
Then she aims just right and smashes my arms against my nose. I guess this is payback for breaking hers. It hurts like hell, and for a second, my vision goes spotty. I groan, flailing my arms to deflect another blow. Finally, realizing she has no padding or gloves this time, I grab her hand with both of mine. I bend her finger back hard and hold it there. At first, she jumps and gives a small cry. Her body goes stiff on top of mine. Then she screams, jerking and convulsing like a fish on a hook. But I don’t let go, even as she pounds my face with her other hand.
Naomi shouts profanity. She calls me by all the bad names she thinks I am, but she rolls off. Now she desires only to get away. I sit up and shove her to the ground by her breastbone, then reversing our roles and punching the crap out of her face. I get in one particularly good lick to her taped nose, and an instant trickle of blood runs down to her lip. She wails, and the high pitch assaults my eardrums, but I know that’s nothing compared to the headache she’ll have tomorrow. She’ll probably need a splint for that finger, too.
“Stop, stop! Get off me!” she yells.
In a final, desperate attempt, she thrashes about like a feral dog and pushes me off. I don’t think she was prepared for how strong I am, even after what happened when she attacked me in the ski mask. I guess she was hoping the knife would do all the hard work this time. But as soon as she gets out of my grasp, I jump on her again. I grab her by the hair and hold her in place—this ought to feel pretty familiar.
Yanking her face close to mine, I tell her something slowly and deliberately. I want to make sure it’s the last thing she hears. “I am not a fucking victim.”
Gripping the base of her ponytail, I slam her head into the side of her Mercedes. It thuds like a bowling ball on a hardwood floor. It leaves a nice, melon-size indentation. Naomi’s eyes roll back, and she goes limp. I let go, and her body slackens in the weedy grass next to the well-oiled tires of the luxury car. Her ponytail has mostly come loose, and her long, blonde locks spill over the ground. One slender arm lies straight out at her side.
I get to my feet and try to catch my breath. Panting as I glance around, it dawns on me now that my head and body hurt in about a dozen places. At least I shielded my face for the most part. After wiping my top lip, I pull my hand away to find blood. She did get in a few good ones to my nose and jaw. My back aches. Even my legs hurt. I reek of sweat and bodily strain. I stumble a few paces to my car and pull my cell phone from the console. I call 911 and explain what happened.
After hanging up, I return to Naomi and make sure she has a pulse. She does. She’s knocked out cold, though, and I can’t say I’m sad about it. I hope she’ll stay that way until the authorities come. But before any blue and red flashing lights dance or sirens break the peaceful birdsong in the pecan trees along County Road 152, a silver Chevy Colorado pulls into the entrance of Berry Springs Park.
Trent flings open the door. He bursts out like he just got word of the apocalypse. “Aria! What the hell happened?”
My adrenaline races so fiercely there’s no room for anything else. My emotions have all but fled, and I don’t feel much for him—besides the irony of his timing. Maybe he wondered if something was wrong when Naomi left, but he sure took his time investigating. Instead of the numerous things I could say to him—all of which would be warranted—all I do is give a little snort. With blood dripping from my bottom lip and dirt streaks covering my torn shirt, I lean against my car and look across the two-lane road at the range and woodland. The trees sway gently in the evening breeze against the backdrop of a hazy, blue sky.
“You missed one hell of a catfight.”
29
After the Williamson County sheriff’s deputy guides an embarrassed and cuffed Naomi Sedgeworth into the back seat of his cruiser, I stay and talk with Trent for only a little while. An unfamiliar energy buzzes through me, and for once, I want nothing more than to immerse myself in the quiet of my room without a soul around. Yeah, I know. Weird.
As the navy sky fades to charcoal, I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I lie in bed with the windows open and listen to the crickets sing. The draft of outdoor air blows cooler than usual, and the wind smells like rain and freshly mown grass. Lying on top of the soft comforter, I put my hands behind my head with my knees bent and just take in the pleasant tranquility. I don’t need to do anything. I don’t need to think about anything. My body relaxes, and for once, I feel—dare I consider it?—safe. And at that moment, the memory of Ayden’s death, the incident I thought was lost forever, finally resurfaces.
* * *
One Year Ago
On Saturday, I drive back from Korey’s and mutter. As usual, his harsh words nip at me like biting flies that leave behind their nasty, little marks. I blast the radio to drown them out as I head back to Carol’s house—my home in Round Rock since my birth mother passed away.
“Don’t forget your drink,” was the last thing Korey said on my way out. He extended my bottle of lemonade with that greasy smile on his face, the unspoken insinuation that I was “too emotional” dripping from his voice like corn syrup.
“Thank you,” I said. My words were impassive. Without pausing, I took the lemonade by its black cap and whisked it from Korey’s grasp as I passed him in the hallway. His bulldog Xero padded after me. He just missed my calf with a snap of his jaws, but I pretended not to notice. I dragged my rolling suitcase by the handle and calmly strode to the door. My face was dry. I hadn’t screamed or even told him what I really thought. “Too emotional,” I learned, was doing or saying anything Korey disapproved of, and that mainly consisted of whatever he couldn’t directly control.
Today, Korey chewed and spat the usual fodder of our arguments. He didn’t want me seeing other people, a phrase he meant quite literally. Visiting my friend Rebecca was tantamount to cheating on him. So was spending too much time with my stepmom. So was going to the library.
We haven’t officially broken up. Regardless, as I pull into Carol’s driveway, I know we’re done. After sleeping over the last two nights, I can’t take another minute. I think he knows it. I shut off the engine, drop my bottled drink into my purse, and gather my suitcase and the smaller bag with the shoulder strap. My chest flutters with rebellious energy as I take my stuff to my room. I unzip my luggage with stiff fingers and yank out my clothes. I heap them onto the bed. I can still smell sandalwood or whatever’s in that sophisticated cologne Korey wears. Wrinkling my nose, I realize it’s coming from the shirt I’m wearing. I take it off with a grimace of disgust and shove it in the laundry basket. Then I tug on my favorite blue blouse.
An invisible force tugs my gaze up to the picture on the wall—the picture of us. Korey’s strong features and dark hair remind me of a real-life version of Aladdin from the Disney movie. I used to find him irresistible. Now his face makes me sick. I want to scour every last trace of him from my life—that’s what I’ll do today. And I’ll stay busy. I don’t want my mind runnin
g wild about what to say if he calls.
Abandoning my pile of shirts, slacks, and underthings on the comforter, I yank the photo from the wall. I dump it in the rolling trash can outside. Unfortunately, the heavy-duty hook left behind splays against the bedroom wall like a black, metal insect. It’s obtrusive and ugly. Since I don’t have another photo to hang, I decide the hook is coming down too, but it’s the kind I can’t pull out. I rummage through Carol’s tool drawer in the kitchen, but the Phillips screwdriver isn’t in there. It’s probably in the shed. I grab my keys and the lemonade from my purse and head out to the backyard.
It’s probably pushing one hundred and three degrees already. That’s not unusual for August. A baked-lawn scent pervades the air as I stomp across the dry grass. My edgy gait fueled by tightly reined anger brings me to the rough particle board of our tan, ten by twenty-foot storage structure. It’s seen better days and leans slightly to one side. Not enough to prompt Carol or me to do anything about it, just enough to make it unattractive.
By the time I’ve unlocked it, my forehead and upper lip already bead with sweat. I step inside, and the thick summer wind swings the door shut behind me. That’s okay—I won’t be in here long. I pull the string dangling from the ceiling. A single bare bulb illuminates the inside of the shed just enough for me to see. The place is so dim. We never bothered to put anything stronger than a 40-watt there. Much like the shed itself, I guess it’s an afterthought, just one more thing we haven’t got around to yet.
It’s probably twenty degrees hotter in here than outside, and my thirst kicks in with a vengeance. I twist off the cap from my bottle of lemonade and down the entire thing. The metal toolbox rests on the shelf nearest me, so I take it by the handle and set it on top of a dusty crate where I can rummage around for the screwdriver. Metal implements grate and clang together as I dig through them.
“Aria,” a muffled voice calls from somewhere outside.
I stop my vigorous rooting and listen.
“Aria,” the person repeats.
It’s a man. His voice holds an odd edge, like a tremor or a nervous pitch. And behind that, a little bit of cockiness. Not an aloof, city boy kind of cockiness, more like backwoods snark. But the suffocating heat of Texas summer and the shed walls blanket the voice, and the tone, slightly. My spoken name, muted by the heavy, wooden door reinforced with cross boards, reaches me like it’s straining through pea soup.
I wipe my forehead with my arm and toss away the hair that’s sticking to my face. Now the sweat runs down my back and chest. My blue blouse adheres to my skin, and my jeans cling like wet wool. The tools blur. I blink to try and clear my vision, and I steady myself with a hand on the shelving unit when my legs go weak. The heat must be affecting me a lot quicker than I thought.
“Aria,” the man says.
Sighing, I look up. Drowsiness comes over me, and I wish whoever it is would go away. It’s probably one of the neighbors. Maybe that redneck guy I’ve never met who lives on the other side of greenbelt.
“Who’s there?” I ask. If he has something to say, he can make himself known. Otherwise, he can get lost.
The shed door starts to swing open slowly. It groans outward on its rusty hinges, and I couldn’t have locked it from the inside even if I wanted to. The bright sun floods into the weakly lit, dingy space, and I squint. I put up a hand so I don’t get blinded. A man’s dark silhouette breaks the glare at the end of my vision, and that first glimpse sets my belly on edge. He stands almost six feet tall, and he’s pudgy in the middle with big, beefy arms. He sets down a heavy work boot beyond the door frame and begins to step inside. Once he does so, his girth blocks my exit.
“I’m Ayden,” he says. “I’m Korey’s brother.” His voice is unmuted now. It’s crisp and clear inside the dusty, one-room building.
Ayden, Korey’s brother, I mentally note through worsening brain fog. I peer at him through blinking eyes as more sleepiness takes hold. Is this heat exhaustion? I’ve only been out here for five minutes, so I don’t see how. Maybe I got dehydrated from being in the air conditioning all day, so it snuck up on me. I try to get my dilated pupils to adjust to the intense sunlight the man’s letting in. I force my posture straight and set my hands on my hips. I get a good look at him.
He has sandy blond hair and simple features with a broad nose, full lips, and dark eyebrows. He looks nothing like Korey at all. His red t-shirt bears only one symbol and no lettering—a white figure of a mudflap girl. Ayden holds a cigarette in his right hand. The smell of tobacco smoke makes me wrinkle my nose and take shallow breaths. Korey did tell me he had a brother, but I’ve never met him until now. The nerve of this jackass to show up like this, and the nerve of Korey for giving him my address.
“What do you want?” I ask. I glare at him, this looming oaf who came onto our property without asking like he has a right.
Ayden takes a drag from his cigarette, pulling his round face back slightly as he regards me. I guess he’s sizing me up. I’m five foot five with a slim build, and it would probably take two of me to equal one of him. His swinishly searching gaze sweeps me from head to toe. He blows smoke over his right shoulder, but the wind pushes most of it in my direction.
“Korey told me what you did,” he says, half-smiling. He takes another step forward. His footfalls are loud against the plywood floor, and the wood creaks beneath his weight.
I frown as I try to figure out what Korey could have told him. That I left his house this morning? Why would his brother care? But something about the way Ayden stands there with one knee bent and his head cocked makes me stiffen. And that look on his face—that stupid smile. It’s almost a smirk, but he manages to rein it in and wear it subtly.
The cigarette dangles between his fingers, stinking up the shed and giving me second-hand fumes. It intensifies my dizziness and brain fog. Ayden’s so relaxed—almost pleasantly so. And I guess he has no reason not to be. I’m alone. My face heats and the muggy breeze from outside makes a chill ripple across my sweaty skin. Glaring at him with my upper lip slightly raised in disgust, my pulse rate increases.
I open my mouth to ask him what Korey said when I realize that doing so would be taking the bait. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made that enigmatic statement. Did he know I was alone in here? Or did he knock at the house, and no one answered, prompting him to look out back and decide he might check the shed? The door was closed. But since it isn’t locked, and there’s no way to do so from the inside, he would have seen it resting open just a crack. Everything about this reeks like three-day-old fish. The hair prickles on the back of my neck. My adrenaline kicks in, but at least it curbs my confusion a little.
“You need to leeb,” I say. Damn. “Leave. You don’t have permission to be here.”
Ayden snorts, bringing his full lips into a wider smile before he drops the amused demeanor and scowls at me. He fiddles with a large ring on his right hand before flicking his cigarette ash on the floor. “Korey told me what you did, you little whore. He said you were cheatin’ on him, and then you left. Now,” he says, pausing before he delivers the next part. “If I was you, I’d be real careful.”
My stomach lurches and folds in on itself. The creep is threatening me. I swallow lemony saliva, another wave of lightheadedness making me grab the shelving. A ribbon of sweat runs down my forehead and into my eye, but I don’t wipe it. I need to think. Carol is at work. We have neighbors, but it’s doubtful they’re home either. Even if they are, the houses in our suburban neighborhood are more spread out than some, each with a large, long backyard going back to the greenbelt.
I wonder if Ayden’s lying or if Korey misinformed him. Not that it matters since both are wrong. There’s a faint quiver in my words as I reply, “I never cheated on him. Korey knows that. I need you to leave, please. I’ll call his and get this sorted out.”
Leeb? Call his? I can’t remember the last time I spoke so badly. My arms and legs tremble, and I wish I could sit down. I glare at Ayden hard, but I
know my eyes are wide and shifty—he can see my fear. That fear embarrasses me, but even worse is that this man considers me so powerless he thinks nothing of trespassing uninvited onto our property. And I cringe at saying “please,” as though that will make any difference if he has bad intentions.
“That ain’t what he said,” Ayden tells me. “He said you been screwin’ around on him for months, and that’s why you been so weird lately. Now I don’t know about you, but I’d say that’s pretty messed up.”
He takes another step forward, the thud of his heavy boots reaffirming our weight difference. Dust motes mockingly glitter around him in the harsh afternoon sun.
My heart rabbits faster with every footfall. Every step closer means I’ve already waited too long to do… something. My mobile is inside—I didn’t need it for a five-minute trip to the backyard. I grit my teeth. Seeming unable to wipe the sneer from my face completely, I take a deep breath and try again. “I hear what you’re saying, but Korey’s mistaken. I never cheated on him. There’s a misunderstanding here. Now get out.”
Ayden tilts his chubby head the other way now. His hair reminds me of dirty straw. But my gaze pulls to his hands as he twists off the large ring and sets it on the shelf. “Hmph. You’re scared, ain’t ya? I’d be scared too if I was you. Where’s your momma? Ain’t she home?”
Obviously not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t answer. Telling him I’d call Korey made no impression. I swallow again, tightening my grip on the shelf support. Does he have a point? Unable to keep the anger and fear out of my voice, I ask, “What do you want?”
Now Ayden smiles. When he draws his lips apart, he reveals a few yellow teeth among his more abundant off-whites. He laughs, a kind of stifled chuckle that makes his head bob and his belly jiggle, but he hardly utters any noise. “I’m just saying you better be real careful, girl. Nobody likes whores.”
