Silver Bastard

by Joanna Wylde

  His words hit me like physical blows. No, knives. Knives slicing through my stomach, sending my intestines falling to the kitchen floor in a quivering, bleeding heap.

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, honey, I’m not lying. She’s been getting wilder, more irrational. Telling crazy stories, can you imagine? I tried to stop her but she just wouldn’t listen. You know how she is when she’s drunk. When the cops showed up at the house I didn’t believe them at first, either. I had to go identify her body yesterday morning. It’s definitely her.”

  “Fuck you,” I growled. “She said you were beating her up. What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing, Becca. She did it to herself.”

  I hung up the phone, looking around my apartment. Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t want to believe him—could he be lying? Oh, God. Please. The phone rang again. Teeny.

  “Don’t hang up,” he said quickly.

  “You’re lying,” I said, my voice flat. “You’re lying like you always lie. What’s your game, Teeny?”

  “You’re in denial, Becca. But don’t worry, I took a picture of her at the morgue, so that you could see for yourself. Perhaps you shouldn’t look—such a disturbing image . . . But you do what you think is right.”

  Then he laughed and I knew it was true. She was really dead. Teeny was way too proud of himself and I knew in that instant he’d killed her.

  Murdered her, just like she’d said he would.

  And I let it happen.

  A sudden vision of her came to me. I’d been five years old, maybe six. It was Halloween, and she dressed me up like a little princess. She was dressed like a queen, and we’d gone trick-or-treating for hours, followed by a sleepover in the living room.

  I couldn’t remember the town or where we’d been living or anything like that . . . but I remembered the crowns we’d made together. She’d used wire to build the frames, then we’d covered them with tinfoil and glued on bright glitter.

  She’d been the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  “She’s really dead, isn’t she?” I whispered, my voice small.

  “Yes,” he replied. “She’s really dead. Here’s the reality, sweetheart—she was a bad wife and she got what she deserved.”

  I threw the phone across the room.

  That. Evil. Bastard.

  It started ringing again. Not the headset I’d thrown, but the one in my bedroom. He was there, waiting for me like some sort of hideous troll determined to destroy everything I loved. I shouldn’t answer. I knew I shouldn’t answer.

  “Hello,” I said, my voice dull.

  “It’s really sad about your mom,” Teeny said. “I’m devastated, naturally. Losing your wife is a terrible thing. Fortunately I’ve met someone else already and now that she’s gone, it simplifies my life. That’s why I thought it would be best to put this final decision in your hands.”

  “Decision?”

  “She’s already been cremated, of course,” he said. “Can’t have a body lying around forever. It’s up to you what happens next, Becca. There are final expenses—these things aren’t cheap.”

  Numbness had taken over my body. I stared across my room, trying to wrap my head around the reality that my mother was actually dead. Then his words sank in.

  “These things aren’t cheap.”

  Suddenly I understood. I understood all of it.

  “What do you want?” I asked, the emotion draining from my voice because I already knew the answer. Teeny wanted money. Teeny always wanted money.

  I felt his triumph through the phone, hateful toad.

  “Three thousand dollars,” he said. “You send me that and I’ll send your mother’s ashes. I’ll text the photo of her body and a picture of the death certificate as soon as we hang up. You have three days to send the money. Otherwise I’m dumping her out.”

  The phone call ended.

  God, not even Teeny could be this evil. But he could. He was capable of anything, and we both knew it. I walked out to my kitchen and slumped down into a chair, bumping the table. The vase of wildflowers I’d picked last weekend tipped over, spilling water across everything. Goddammit. I reached over and grabbed it, throwing it at the wall with all my strength.

  The shattering sound it made was sweet in my ears. Crisp. Clean.

  Liberating.

  I looked around the apartment for something else to throw. What I saw sickened me, it was so pathetic. A thousand little touches over the years had turned my place into a home. Some of them were my own creations—pillows and curtains. Throws. I’d taken cheap art posters and hung them on the walls, as if that could ever give me a hint of class.

  Who the hell did I think I was fooling?

  It didn’t matter what I did or where I lived, because one thing would never change. Becca Jones was trash. My mom had been trash. Now she was dead and the same evil bastard was still calling the shots, like a poisonous spider I’d never be able to escape from.

  Everything I’d done was a lie.

  Time to destroy it. All of it.

  I pushed myself up and out of the chair so hard it crashed over backward. Then I stomped into the kitchen and grabbed the chef’s knife Regina had given me when I first moved out. It was sharp. Maybe too sharp, because I’d cut myself on it more than once. It stayed sharp, too, because Earl had given me a whetstone to go with it, and the crazy man wasn’t above doing spot checks to make sure I cared for my tools, kitchen and otherwise.

  Lifting the knife, I tested the edge with my finger, a line of red fire appearing.

  The pain felt good.

  Simple and easy to understand, unlike the pain still ripping through me every time I pictured my mom’s face. Had he beaten her to death? Shot her? Maybe he just got her drunk and pushed the car over the edge—that would be simple enough.

  Why the fuck hadn’t I found a way to get her the money?

  I grabbed the couch cushion I’d made from Earl’s old shirts and sank the knife deep inside, pretending it was Teeny’s face. Then I ripped it open and pulled out the stuffing, throwing it on the ground. Next was a wall hanging I’d made from strips of cloth sewn together in a sunburst pattern. Didn’t take long. After that I went after the posters. They ripped almost too easily, making a beautiful tearing noise that failed to satisfy.

  Spinning, I looked for something else to destroy.

  The curtains. Tearing them would be better . . . They were more work, which was good. The red fabric was heavier and I had to drag a chair over to reach, because when I tried to yank them down they were too strong for me.

  Earl had hung the rods, and Earl didn’t do shit halfway.

  First I cut them into strips, savoring the sound of the knife ripping through the threads. Then I pulled the rods down, throwing each of them across the room in a different direction. In my mind they were spears, punching holes through Teeny’s chest.

  Strips of fabric puddled like blood across the floor.

  I eyed my couch. I wanted to kill it. I wanted to kill everything. I started toward it, figuring I’d start with the cushions before I attacked the frame. I could use my hammer on that part.

  Fuck you, Teeny!

  A glint of reflected sunlight caught my eye.

  My Singer.

  She sat there in the turret window, bathed in light, calling to me. The machine was a work of art. Smooth, black lines. Perfectly oiled, ready and waiting to create something beautiful. They’d painted it with real gold leaf, and not even the electric motor could tarnish its glory.

  That Singer was a thing of beauty.

  Too bad that beauty was a fucking lie.

  Regina had given it to me, and I’d been so proud because she’d trusted me with it. Idiot. She told me to use it to create, to design a new life for myself. This was the kind of machine that a mother gave to her daughter as a sign of her love, but only in a real family. A normal family.

  It sat there in the sunshine, pointing at the ceiling like a middle finger.

&
nbsp; Putting me in my place.

  Fuck this. Fuck all of it. I bypassed the couch with grim purpose, my decision made. Of course, I flubbed the grand gesture by tripping over the bin holding my fabrics, falling on my face. The knife went flying. Somewhere in the back of my brain I realized that my nose was hurting.

  I wiped it with the back of my hand, then stared at my skin, mesmerized by the sight of bright red blood.

  The blood between my legs had been red. After Teeny got me that first time, Mom took me into the bathroom and hosed me down in the shower. I remembered watching the stained water swirl around and around before it disappeared down the drain. I don’t know what I expected after that.

  No, that’s a lie.

  I expected her to save me.

  I expected her to put me in the car and start driving far far away.

  Instead, she cried and I cried but when it was all over, nothing changed except Teeny visiting my room at night. Then he’d started sharing me with his friends and there’d been more blood.

  Catching the edge of the Singer’s wooden cabinet, I steadied myself. The legs were wrought iron—stunningly beautiful in their own right. The whole fucking machine was art and it was perfect and creative and it had no fucking place in my life.

  None.

  I staggered to my feet, then reached down to lift the entire thing up. It was heavy, but not too heavy for me. I wasn’t some useless, delicate little girl who’d been spoiled and fussed over. Nope. I was strong. I’d survived rape, I’d survived Teeny, and I’d damned well survive losing my mom.

  It took two tries to raise the Singer high enough, but I managed it.

  Then I turned to the window. The sun was shining down across the mountains, bathing me in light just like it’d illuminated the Singer earlier.

  Mom would never see that sun again.

  Hoisting the machine, I threw it through the curved glass with a scream. The shattering sound broke the air and it was more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. Vaguely I realized there were shards of glass in my hair and my clothing but I didn’t give a shit.

  Nope.

  My work wasn’t done yet.

  I reached for the fabric bin, hoisting it next. On top were the squares I’d started cutting for the Jacob’s Ladder quilt. Stupid, stupid, stupid little fuckers . . . I dumped out the plastic tub through the window, then tossed it through to join the shattered machine on the street.

  “What the hell is going on?” someone shouted. I looked down to find three very startled people staring up at me.

  One of them was my former boss, Eva. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open. Combined with her heavy makeup and fake red hair, she looked just like a clown. A nasty, hateful clown. I flipped the bitch off, then reached for the plastic chest holding all my craft sundries and bobbins. The lid flew free as I chucked it, sending threads and ribbons flying out into the air like an explosion of colorful textile fireworks.

  Suddenly my stomach rebelled.

  Too much pain, too much anger, too much adrenaline. Breakfast was coming back up, and it was coming up fast. I ran for the bathroom and missed, crashing into my kitchen table in the process. That’s where I threw up the first time, a disgusting mixture of half-digested food and fresh blood from my nose. The second time I made it to the sink.

  I stood there, panting and crying. People were still yelling outside, then I heard someone pounding on my apartment door.

  The enormity of what I’d done hit.

  I’d destroyed Regina’s sewing machine.

  The same machine I hadn’t been willing to sell to save my mother’s life. What the hell was wrong with me? How could I ignore my mother’s suffering to protect a fucking machine?

  Dear God, how was I going to explain it to Regina?

  I stood slowly, ignoring the pounding on my door as reality crashed around me. Teeny had murdered my mom and he was going to get away with it. I’d never even get her ashes unless I paid him off.

  No.

  Just . . . No.

  The thumping on my door continued, but I didn’t pay any attention, because suddenly things were so incredibly clear. How come I hadn’t figured it out earlier? I felt a hysterical laugh trying to force its way out as I ran into my bedroom and grabbed a backpack. I had to work fast—any minute someone would call Regina and Earl, tell them that I’d lost my mind. That I’d thrown their precious family heirloom into the street.

  Maybe they’d forgive me for that. Probably. That’s the kind of people they were. Now wasn’t the time to find out, though. I had way too much to do and I couldn’t risk them stopping me—the last thing I needed was to drag them down with me as accomplices. I started grabbing clothes and stuffing them into the bag. Leaning across my bed, I picked up the cigar case on my bedside table and shoved it in, too.

  Bathroom.

  Brushing my teeth with one hand, I grabbed my toiletries with the other. Shampoo, conditioner, razor. Makeup. All of it went into the backpack, which I threw over my shoulder. My purse still hung from the little hook on the wall next to my door. It had my money inside—fourteen dollars. Pathetic. That wouldn’t even fill my gas tank.

  But I knew where I could get more.

  Flinging open the door, I nearly ran Eva down as I pushed past her. She shouted something at me, which I ignored. Eva didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered. My little blue car sat waiting for me out in the alley. She’d been good to me, and now I needed her to be better—we had a long drive ahead of us.

  All the way to California.

  And when I got there? Well, then I’d use my other family heirloom from Regina and Earl to kill Teeny Patchel. End this shit once and for all.

  I couldn’t wait.

  THIRTEEN

  An hour later I pulled up to the Vegas Belles Gentlemen’s Club. The adrenaline and initial explosion of anger had faded, leaving me tired but determined. My phone had been blowing up the entire drive. Regina. Earl. Danielle. Blake. Even Darcy tried to get in touch. Apparently my tantrum was the biggest thing to hit Callup since . . . Well, since my fight at the Breakfast Table last week.

  Oops.

  Not that it mattered—I had a job to do, and I’d worry about Callup afterward. Odds were good I’d never come back here anyway. I couldn’t risk making Puck an accomplice any more than I’d risk Regina and Earl—he’d already spent enough time in prison. The thought of leaving hurt, but the thought of Teeny continuing to live hurt even more.

  I had to end it. End him. Maybe I’d get lucky and find my mother’s ashes at his place, but that wasn’t the part that mattered.

  What mattered was killing him.

  To do that I needed money, enough money to get down to California and then hopefully get away once I finished. I could try to borrow it, of course. But anyone who helped me would become an accomplice to murder. We couldn’t have that. Nope. This one was on me, no one else. I might not be much better than my mother, but at least I wouldn’t take anyone else down with me.

  I’d work at the Vegas Belles for a day, get as much cash as I could, and then start driving. If I ran out of money on the way, I’d stop at another club and do it again.

  Too bad I hadn’t gotten over my precious dignity in time to save my mom.

  The bouncer at the door recognized me. I’d stopped to clean up, of course, and change into something more suitable. I remembered the bartender’s words and wondered if she’d been serious about the blow job.

  Probably.

  Oh well. I’d had to do worse.

  “Welcome back,” he said, opening the door for me. “Decide you want to work after all?”

  “Yeah,” I said, putting on my friendliest, least crazy face. “I got cold feet last time—now I’m ready to go.”

  “It’s your lucky day,” he said, winking. God, men were stupid. “We’ve got the big boss coming in from out of town, and three of the girls called in sick. Don’t fall on your face and you’ll get hired, no hassle.”

  That was lucky. About ti
me something went my way.

  The same bartender was inside again. She frowned when she saw me and I wondered what her problem was. Then I realized it really didn’t matter, because I wasn’t here to impress her. I just needed to convince them to let me work long enough to collect a couple hundred bucks.

  Then I’d never see them again anyway.

  She walked over to me.

  “You should leave,” she said in a low voice. “Not a good day to start here.”

  “I need the money. Is the manager around?” She nodded tightly, then pointed toward the door leading to the hallway.

  “Go down to his office,” she said. “We got VIPs coming in soon. He’s busy, so go fast.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me,” she muttered. “Fucking stupid to come back here.”

  Stupid? She didn’t know the half of it. I walked across the room, noting that only one waitress was working the floor. There were two men sitting near the stage, where a girl danced slowly. Her heart really wasn’t in it, and I couldn’t blame her. Two customers weren’t enough to make any money.

  Shit.

  What would I do if I couldn’t earn enough? Crossing my fingers, I walked over to the door leading to the office. Three big men stood out in the hallway wearing “Security” shirts. More bouncers.

  “I’m supposed to talk to Mr. McGraine about a job,” I said, looking between them. “The bartender sent me. I already talked to him once this week—he said I could come back if I changed my mind.”

  One of the guys nodded.

  “He’s on the phone. Give it a minute, and then I’ll ask him.”

  “Okay.”

  We stood there for long seconds, me trying to look like I knew what I was doing. One of the men checked me out blatantly the entire time. A second was checking his phone while the third—the one who’d talked to me—stood still and blank as a statue.

  Kind of creepy.

  I felt a nervous giggle building in my stomach, and I swallowed it down ruthlessly. I couldn’t afford to blow this by doing something stupid. Finally the big blank guy knocked on the door, as if in response to some secret signal only he could hear.