by Hazel Parker
“So that’s it,” I said. “Thanks for the memories.”
Yeah, maybe it was weird talking to a closed store. But what else was I supposed to do in the face of such a heartbreaking day?
I turned and started walking to the subway.
And then, across the street, I saw Damon.
He didn’t see me—or at least, he didn’t act like he saw me—and I took the chance to duck behind a couple of other pedestrians, hoping to use their height and size to block him from seeing me. I refused to turn around for the first block, fearful that if he saw me walking away, he would only increase his pursuit of me and land me in even more danger.
I made it to the subway stop before I finally turned back around. I didn’t see him anywhere but having seen him once was enough to creep me out. Instead of riding the subway, I decided to pay for a taxi back home. I figured it would get me back faster and reduce my chances of getting ambushed.
The taxi dropped me off at my apartment without incident, and I took one last look out on the street before I walked inside. Best I could tell, I was not being pursued any further. Of course, that didn’t mean that Damon wouldn’t have seen me in some fashion, but I was going to get a cheap flight out as soon as I could. I just needed to survive a few days.
As soon as I got inside, I immediately started searching flights. Flights Saturday and Sunday were a little over two hundred bucks, but there was one Tuesday for under a hundred. It was a Spirit Airlines flight, which meant I’d have to ship everything back home, but I didn’t care. If I had to sell everything or even give it away, I would. It’s not like New York apartments allowed for much room for a lot of possessions, anyway.
I then texted an old friend, Samantha, and explained my situation, asking if I could crash for a few days when I got home. She immediately wrote back that I could. She didn’t seem quite as thrilled that I would be shipping some boxes to her on Monday, but having been in the same sorority in college, I knew that she would help me get on my feet.
Finally, I drafted a letter informing my landlord that I would be terminating my lease, effective thirty days out. I was going to pay for some time that I wasn’t here, but I couldn’t put a price on safety or sanity. I needed to be away from Damon and, unfortunately, I needed to be away from Lane.
Really? You just put those two in the same category? They aren’t even close. One’s a creeper, probably a criminal. The other, you just couldn’t make it work.
Is that really how you want it to end? You want you two to end by you thinking you need to get away from him? From twice having one of you abruptly cut things off when it ends?
No, no way. You need to see him at least once before you head home. It can’t end like this.
I groaned in my kitchen, trying to figure out what to do. How was I going to see him again? Yes, I had his contact information, but a text wasn’t going to suffice. He could just ignore it. Same with a phone call.
I had to see him in person.
And, come to think of it, I knew where to do so.
I would just go back to the spot where I had first reunited with him—at the repair shop. Caroline had introduced me to the place during a Friday night party; might there be another Friday night party there as well?
It was the least I could do. If I wanted to see Lane again, I had to take the gamble.
I got dressed in something slightly cuter, if only because I didn’t want to get turned away at the door for looking like I’d just come from work. I called an Uber, the better to minimize my risk of running into Damon—yes, it was getting that bad. I could no longer trust that he wouldn’t pop up out of nowhere and cause hell for me.
I really hope this works. I just want us to end on smiles of gratitude, not desperate escapes from each other.
I hopped in the Uber feeling a little optimistic that at least we’d end on a good note. I didn’t need Lane to kiss me, to hold me, or even to shake my hand. A simple smile or a few words would do the trick. And then I could return to Georgia and we could both start our lives over, finding someone new.
If anyone new like Lane could be found. I wouldn’t count on it that much, though.
But things felt off the second the Uber turned the street corner and wound up in front of the repair shop. For starters, I didn’t hear blaring music. I didn’t see girls dressed in skimpy outfits walking in, nor did I see men drunkenly staggering out of the place.
“This is where you want?” the Uber driver said, as surprised as I was, albeit for different reasons.
“Yeah…yeah,” I said, scrambling to get out of the car before I could think better. “Thanks.”
The driver just grunted and shrugged, taking another ride before I was out the door. I confirmed I had my keys, wallet, and phone in my purse and walked up.
There was not a sound coming from within. Maybe it was just a party every other week, or maybe…maybe something bad had happened.
I knocked on the door.
“Hello?” I said.
But I didn’t hear anything on the other side. I stepped back, looking up and down. Some recent aesthetic work had clearly been done, but otherwise, there wasn’t any sign of life around.
Well, you tried. That’s all you can really say, right? That you tried.
I grimaced, started to pout, and walked away.
And then the door opened behind me.
I recognized the man because of his walking boot, but I forgot his name. Mark, I think?
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Yeah, is, uhh, Lane around?”
“Lane?” he said as if he’d never heard the name. “Oh, Niner! Um…no, he’s out taking care of some things for the club.”
“Oh. Is he…will he be back soon?”
Mark or Marcus, or whatever his name was, did not look hopeful with his expression.
“He’ll probably be out until two or three in the morning.”
I can’t be out that late. Damon will probably do something then. I need…I need to get home.
“OK,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
I got three steps before the man called back to me.
“Aren’t you Carrie?” he said.
“You know my name?”
“My brother knows Lane really well. Think he put two and two together,” he said. “Do you want me to tell Ni—err, Lane—that you came by?”
I thought about how we had ended. It didn’t feel right to keep a fire alive when all that happened was us getting burned the last few times. It would have been one thing if I was there to ameliorate the threat of getting burned. It was another if someone else had simply told Lane that I had shown up.
But I didn’t just want to let him go without knowing I’d tried.
“I…if you think it’ll make him happy, you can tell him,” I said. “Otherwise, don’t.”
The bald man looked uncertain about how to handle it, but he eventually just nodded.
“I’ll see how he is when he gets back.”
“Is he doing OK?”
I hated that I blurted out the question. But then again, it wasn’t like I was ever going to see him again.
“With Lane, it’s sometimes hard to tell.”
But with me, it never feels that way. That realization only made me feel worse, knowing what I was walking away from.
“OK, thanks,” I said, and this time, I made a point of walking away and not continuing the dialogue with Marcel—that was it, that was his name.
I didn’t call an Uber at first. I just sort of numbly moved through the streets. I guess fate was trying to tell me that I wasn’t going to see Lane again. If this effort to come to his workplace had failed, then everything else would.
It was only the sound of motorcycles roaring by that got me out of my funk and to call an Uber. But the motorcycles also did something else.
They brought me back to that happy day when he and I rode his bike all the way out to New Jersey, escaping the clutches of the city that never slept and gaining temporary
respite. It was perhaps the day in which we most fell into each other and most cared for each other. Yes, Damon had appeared at the start, but otherwise, nothing had interfered with our day.
And then the reality of work for both of us intruded, and we were never meant to be like that again.
But, for at least one fleeting afternoon and evening, I got to see what it was like to be with him.
I guessed, in time, I would come to see that as the lasting memory of Lane. If that was what the memory was going to be, I’d have to say it was a pretty damn good one.
“Thank you, Lane. Thank you for the best night of my life.”
With that, I headed home, went upstairs, and closed the door on the New York City chapter of my life.
Chapter 17: Niner
I couldn’t find a goddamn thing.
I was patrolling the streets like a rabid dog, hoping to find the scent of anything Bloodhounds-related. I went to the spots I thought Damon was most likely to be. I went to abandoned parts of town. I stretched myself out pretty far, putting myself into a few locations that, if things went to shit, I wouldn’t get help at for quite some time.
But there was no luck.
And, making it worse, I couldn’t get Carrie Griffith out of my head, no matter how much I told myself to act like a goddamn sergeant-at-arms and stay calm. My emotions were clouding my actions and judgment, but it was worse than the day we had caught the one Bloodhound in question. My angry emotions that day had gotten him to talk. My emotions now were just getting me to be a hot mess.
I’d meant to go until four in the morning, but shortly after midnight, just a couple hours into my shift, I gave up. I didn’t see a reason to keep going like this, not when I was more likely to stop and yell at myself than to actually catch Damon. This whole futile pursuit was just going to increase my frustration.
I couldn’t believe I was thinking this, but maybe I just needed to take a day or two off. Maybe working at the shop all working hours wasn’t what was good for me. Maybe I needed to take a couple of days to digest everything and think about what I had gone through.
No, that wasn’t it. But I definitely couldn’t keep going tonight.
I returned to the repair shop, parked my car inside, and walked over to Marcel, sitting in the office, plotting out our next moves. To his credit, he was not as fearful as when we’d started, but I wondered how much of that was a function of him still recovering from the bullet wound to his foot. I didn’t think he was faking it, but I did think that he would need to be out on point at some time to really understand it.
“You find anything?” he said.
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Fuck…sorry man. You OK?”
I shook my head.
“Frustrating fucking week. Can’t keep my mind straight. I’m going to go home and try and make some sense of everything.”
Marcel nodded, opened his mouth, and paused. He looked at me like he wanted to say something, but every time he seemed like he was about to, he just couldn’t get it out.
“What?”
Marcel shook his head.
“Sorry. I was just going to ask if there was anything I could do to help, but I know you don’t need it.”
I knew right away he was lying. But I didn’t really care.
“No, I don’t. I just need to buck up and get my shit together. I know I’m acting like a pussy right now—”
“It’s not that at all, Niner.”
“I’m taking time off to get my head in order,” I said. “If you’re in the middle of a criminal pursuit, you don’t get to say, ‘oh, let me take a mental break.’ You go and finish the job.”
Marcel sighed.
“Niner…”
“You’re lucky,” I said with a chuckle. “You got love at home. You can use that to unwind. I thought I had a chance, but it’s OK. I’ll move on and get over it.”
Just probably not for the foreseeable future.
“OK, I can’t bullshit you anymore, Niner,” Marcel said. “The thing I was going to tell you? She came for you.”
“Who?”
But I knew damn well who as soon as he said it.
“She was wondering where you were. I think she wanted to see how you were doing. She asked me to only tell you if you seemed in a good mood, but I think you need to know…”
His voice trailed off because I just left. I couldn’t take him telling me this. I had my chance to see Carrie, and I’d been out patrolling.
I was feeling emotional, again.
And while I could feel angry and I could feel violent, I could not, in my position, start crying and acting that way.
Still, Carrie, I wish I was here. I wish I was here to hear whatever you needed to say.
I knew she was closing the shop, so I doubted I could see her. But…maybe she’d have to come in the next day to do some cleanup. Maybe she’d have to make a drop by the store.
I suddenly knew what I was going to do with my off day.
* * *
At precisely eleven in the morning, across the street from Southern Comfort, I sat down at a nearby coffee shop. Not surprisingly, Southern Comfort showed no signs of business, and though I couldn’t read the words on the paper pasted to the front door, I knew that it wasn’t likely to signify anything promising.
But I believed that so long as there was a chance of Carrie coming by the store for any last-second work, I owed it to her to wait because of what she had done for me.
And so I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Eleven turned to noon, which turned to two, which turned to five in the afternoon. The only time that I took my eyes off of the building was when I went inside to the coffee shop to grab some pastries to eat. Otherwise, it was either directly in my line of sight or in my periphery, but either way, I never saw Carrie.
When five turned into eight, I knew she wasn’t coming by. At this point, the sun had set, and the bars were starting to open. The coffee shop I had come to, in fact, had closed for the night, with a couple of the baristas asking me if I needed anything. It only made things worse to know that they pitied me, as if I were some guy who was stood up on a date.
I didn’t regret the decision, though. She had gone out of her way, and I—
Is that who the fuck I think it is?
I kept staring at the man who was walking up to the shop as if staring long enough would show me his true identity. But I knew it was him. I knew it was the man I’d chased for years.
Damon Wicker.
For all the patrolling and all the chasing I’d done, I hadn’t seen him in the flesh since I left the NYPD…until now.
And I needed to hide if I didn’t want an opportunity to get blown.
I quickly went to a table that was not so poorly lit and turned my body as much as I could to avoid drawing Damon’s eyes without also compromising my own vision. Using my periphery, I did my best to try and make sense of what he was doing.
He looked like he was trying to open the door but was not having luck. He then got a little frustrated, appearing to kick the door in frustration, though he didn’t make a big show of it, as if he knew doing so would draw some suspicious eyes. He then went into his pockets, as if he would have a key there.
If he was doing this at Southern Comfort…if he was trying to break in like this…
Damon didn’t do break-ins. In all the time that I’d tracked him, whenever he committed a crime, it was to rape or murder. He didn’t do small-time petty crimes like theft, and he most certainly didn’t break into restaurants to steal some money from the cash register.
He knows of Carrie.
The absolute worst-case scenario was playing out in my head. The motive didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that Damon was hunting Carrie, trying to find her for his own means. The things he was going to do to her…
Her life was at risk.
But of more immediate concern was that Damon was now walking away. I texted the club�
�s officers in a group chat. “Found Damon. Following. On foot from Southern Comfort,” and immediately began the pursuit.
Although I felt very confident that I was keeping my distance properly and that Damon had not seen me, he was zig-zagging in and out of alleyways, across streets, and taking circular routes, as if he knew he was being followed or wanted to expose someone for following him. I’d seen him do this before, which led me to believe Damon was just following “best” practices to avoid getting caught. It sickened me, but it didn’t stop me.
Unfortunately, I lost track of him around a subway station.
“Fuck!” I muttered to myself, drawing more than a few glances from confused people.
OK, so you didn’t get him. But you had better go and protect Carrie. That’s the least that you can do.
I went back up to street level. The instant that I had cellular reception, I called Carrie.
She didn’t answer the first call.
OK, she’s probably fine. She’s not anywhere near here. Even if one of Damon’s cronies found her, you have time to get there before he does if you hurry.
I sprinted back to the repair shop so I could get my bike and hurry over. I called Carrie a second time.
Again, no answer.
Now I was beginning to panic. I understood if she didn’t want to talk on the first ring; maybe she thought that my calling was some desperate plea to win her back, and she wanted nothing to do with that. I wasn’t under any illusion that my providing protection would win her back or keep her in New York City.
But on the second call? That made me believe there was something holding her back. There was something preventing her from answering me. That was unacceptable. That was terrifying.
I called her a third time, silently praying that she would answer her phone just to let me know that she was alive and safe. She could hate me for calling her; that was fine. I was willing to sacrifice her feelings for me if it meant I knew she’d be alive.
It got to the fourth ring when she finally picked up.
“Lane? What’s going on?” she said, sounding more concerned than I would have expected.
“Where are you?”
