by Holly Hart
“You talkin’ about them gang bangers?” Terry asks. “So what? I’ll work for anyone who pays me.” He lifts the cold point to his lips and guzzles half of it in one long gulp. Foamy droplets of beer fall either side of his mouth and land in a puddle on the table.
“Apparently so,” I growl, wrinkling my nose. Not just because the idea of Terry disgusts me, but because he smells acrid – like stale urine and too many nights spent sleeping on the streets. “But you know what they do?”
“Drugs; women;” Terry chuckles to himself while staring straight into my eyes. “Why should I give a fuck? Ain’t my problem.”
I can’t take mine off of his eyes – they’re obscured by some kind of strange film. It’s like a shadow scooting across the sky, except in Terry’s case, it’s not going anywhere. He’s drinking himself into an early grave. I doubt he’s got five years left in him. But feeding his habit isn’t an easy task. It’s hard, dishonest work. He lies as easily as he drinks.
“Can you write?” I say. My tone conveys a warning – a “you don’t want to fuck with me right now” kind of warning. Terry doesn’t seem to catch it.
“Write?”
“Yes,” I grimace, “like with a pen.”
“What’s in it for me?” Terry asks, scrunching up his face and leaning back against the booth. He’s got a rat like face: a greedy, clutching, grasping face. I want to break it.
“You want to know?” I smile, leaning forward.
The anger bubbles inside me like a pool of lava just waiting to explode out from a volcano. Terry takes my lead and joins me in the middle. His eyes keep darting towards the spare pint of beer near my right hand.
I reach over, grab the back of Terry’s head and bring it down against the dark wooden table. There’s a sickening crunch as his nose shatters against wood, then a piercing cry of pain. I let him up once, twice, and smash it down again. Blood is pounding in my ears. I got a taste of it on my tongue, now. The anger has taken over. I could beat him to death without anyone noticing.
“Stop!” Terry squeals, desperately trying to pull his body away from me. “I’ll tell you what you want. I promise, just stop.”
I do. I pull myself back from the brink. I was close – too damn close this time. I don’t know why violence is so easy for me, but it is. I could have killed him. I know I could.
I pull a wire-bound notebook and a pen from the inside pocket in my jacket and slide it over towards the old drunk. He looks like a monster from a nightmare – blood dripping down his face, and terror in his eyes.
I curl back my lips and let the rage pour out.
“Write down everything you know: every name, every safe house, every location. You leave anything out, I’ll know.” I lean forward, grabbing his greasy, dirty hair one last time. “And trust me, Terry, I’ll make you pay.”
9
Frankie
I reach up above my head and tie my still-kind-of-wet hair up into a loose ponytail. I’m forced to do it with an elastic band I found lying around. That’s a bone I’m going to have to pick with Ridley. If I’m going to stay here, I’m going to need a few “personal items” that a guy doesn’t have to worry about.
The first time my stomach growls, I ignore it. The second time, it doesn’t give me a choice. The bubbling screech that groans out of my gut is loud enough to wake the dead.
“All right, all right,” I mutter. “Gahwd!”
I can’t remember the last time I ate. It must have been at least twenty-four hours. The Templars weren’t exactly punctual when it came to feeding us.
Us.
I come to a halt a couple of yards away from Ridley’s brushed-steel fridge and close my eyes. I don’t have a choice in the matter. A bolt of pain lances through me for the first time since Ridley saved me from my captors. My breath is heavy and loud in my ears, and my legs suddenly feel as though they are made of jelly. A voice whispers poison in my ear.
You just left them there: alone; scared.
I tear my lids open and look around Ridley’s palatial bolt hole through a different set of eyes: tormented eyes. Guilt wracks me to my core, causing waves in a pool of acid, a torturous tempest in my stomach, doubling me over. I can’t accept that I’m here: safe; sound; inside four thick brick walls and a damn train track; while those other girls – my friends – are probably being punished for the fact that I managed to get away.
I can picture them now: a dozen scared, pale faces; women wrapped in torn clothes and rags. Some still have life in their eyes. Others don’t… They’ll be dragged out, one by one. The men will come; they’ll hurt them; all because of what I did.
Tears well in my eyes: I can’t stop my heart from beating; faster, and faster. My breath is ragged: panic’s threatening to overtake me; I stumble forward; I can’t let this happen; not again. I need to concentrate on something: anything else.
I’m hungry. I can focus in on that, instead of the overwhelming feeling of guilt and powerlessness. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten. I can do something about that.
I push myself forward, towards the fridge, and tug at the handle with wild arms. The jars, on the shelves, rattle as the door swings open, bashing against the brick wall behind it.
A jet of cold air escapes the fridge and slaps me in the face. It sobers me up, pushing back the panic attack that was threatening to completely overwhelm me. I wipe the tears in my eyes on the back of my hand and whisper thanks that I didn’t bother putting on any makeup. Not that I could; the closest thing to make up that I can find is a few jars of wall paint.
“Oh come on, Ridley,” I say in the kind of voice you use when someone makes you smile when you’re crying, “a girl’s got to eat!”
The fridge is – unsurprisingly – empty. Other than a shelf stacked high with bottles of French champagne, I can’t see more than a couple of boxes of eggs, a few peppers and…
Well, actually, that’s it.
I rest my head against one of the fridge’s shelves. The cold pane of glass feels nice against skin that’s still hot from the shower – and the near-miss panic attack. I don’t know how long I rest there. Long enough for the fridge’s fans to kick into high gear and start spinning in a desperate attempt to pump cold air back into the unit.
Suddenly, a loud bang echoes around the small bolt hole: then another. I freeze.
For a second, all I can think is that they’ve found me: the cartel. I should’ve known that I could never get away from them. Maybe Ridley was in on it from the start. Maybe he sold me out. Maybe this was just a game to him.
Then I pull myself together. I don’t know anything about Ridley – not really. But I know one thing: I trust myself. I looked into Ridley’s eyes and I saw a man that was telling me the truth. I don’t believe he’d ever do anything to hurt me.
I reach into the fridge and grab a bottle of champagne. The metal foil around the cork is cold to the touch, and rough. It makes a good handle. I choke back a laugh as the absurdity of the situation strikes me. I should grab a knife or a gun – I’m sure Ridley must have one lying around somewhere – but instead I’m heading to battle with a bottle of champagne in my hand.
I sidle towards the heavy metal door, sticking to the wall. Scenes from a thousand movies play on my mind. I can almost see the metal door exploding inward as an explosive charge explodes against that. I can feel the kiss of metal as it flies towards me and puts me out of my misery.
Bang!
Bang!
The sound comes again. Someone’s fists are smashing against the heavy metal: knocking. They know I’m in here.
“Who,” I say – my voice barely more than a whisper. “Who is it?”
There’s a short pause: then an answer that steals the breath from my lungs. “Ridley, doll. Let me in, will ye? It’s freezing out here.”
My legs almost give way with relief. I feel so stupid. I don’t know how I let myself get so worked up. Why did my mind jump to the worst possible scenario, when the most likely was that the noise w
as simply Ridley returning?
I glance at a glowing panel near the bolt hole entranceway.
And why the hell didn’t I just check the CCTV screen. You know, like Ridley told me to do… I could have saved myself a whole lot of stress. Heck, a near heart attack!
I stumble towards the door, switching the bottle of champagne to my left hand without thinking. I pull open the bolts, and punch in the key code. A lock clicks, and I pull against the heavy metal door. Not a whole lot happens until Ridley presses his shoulder against the door and pushes.
“You okay, doll?” He says the second he walks through the door, slightly hunched to contain his height, his eyebrow jumping up like a dancing caterpillar. He glances at the bottle in my hand. “Planning a party?” He grins. “Do I get an invite?”
My tongue feels glued to the top of my mouth.
“Oh,” I whisper. “It’s you.”
Ridley glances at me and winks. “Oh,” he says, copying my breath the turn, “it’s me indeed. Expecting anyone else?”
I shake my head. “No. No, I just … just got scared, that’s all.”
“Thought I was someone else?” Ridley asks, a shadow of concern flitting across his face. He hides it well; I can tell he doesn’t want me to feel like a victim, but I do. I’m scared, on edge, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.
I nod.
“And your solution,” he says with a kindly smile, “was to go into the fridge –.”
My cheeks start to redden with embarrassment.
“– Grab a bottle of champagne, and … What exactly? Batter me to death with it?” He grins. “It’d be a messy way to go, I guess: all them bubbles.”
Ridley reaches forward and pries the bottle from my fingers. He raises it up to eye level and examines it. “A ’98. Good year.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I stammer, feeling all kinds of stupid. Now I come to think of it, choosing this as my weapon of choice wasn’t exactly my finest decision.
“Honestly,” Ridley confides with a smirk, “I think this wine thing is all for show. Don’t tell me brothers, though – but I’m getting a taste for Champagne. I know, I know – it’s not,” he lifts his fingers into the air and makes quotation marks, “gangster – but it tastes damn good. Want to try?”
My head bounces up and down. Then my eyes dance across Ridley’s knuckles – the ones wrapped around the neck of the bottle of champagne in in his fingers. “What happened?” I asked, my face wrinkling with surprise. “You’re hurt…”
Ridley glances down at his hand, then tries to hide it behind his back. “Ah, it’s nothing girl. Just doing me job.”
A look of determination settles on my face. I clench my jaw. There’s a lot I can’t control right now – but this isn’t one of them.
“Nope: no way; that isn’t enough.” I say. I think I even surprise myself by the firmness of my voice. “Your knuckles are all scraped up. You’ll get an –”
“Seriously, doll,” Ridley says, his voice a soothing dance that waltzes with my ears, “it’s cool. It happens once a week. I’m used to it.”
“Seriously, doll,” I mimic, “we’ll be having a talk about that as well. Come on, sit yourself down and I’ll look at your hand. Do you have a first aid kit?”
Ridley bows his head to me, recognizing that he’s been beaten. “Okay,” he grins. We’ll do it your way.”
“Damn right we will.”
“Kit’s in the bathroom.”
Ridley moves off, heading somewhere that isn’t the sofa. I raise my eyebrow, and use the voice my mom always used to put on when I was in trouble as a kid. “And where, exactly, do you think you’re going?”
Ridley lifts the champagne bottle and waggles it innocently. “Thought you might like a glass – ye know – for when you’re patching me up…”
I frown, and purse my lips. All of a sudden, I can’t help but think how handsome Ridley looks. There’s something powerful about his cocky charm and his unwavering self-confidence. He never seems to treat anything in life seriously. If I hadn’t seen his dark side come out when he saved me from my captors, I’m not sure I would believe it existed.
“That’s okay, I guess.”
Ridley blows me a kiss and turns on his heel. I wonder if he knows the effect he’s having on me. A simple smile, a kiss on the cheek, or a touch that means nothing, yet everything at once, is enough to bowl me over: like finding a message in a storm tossed bottle from the ocean, that’s actually addressed to me.
Then guilt strikes again. I feel like a rod of iron being beaten on a metalworker’s anvil. The hammer strikes me, and forces me down, and I have to concentrate just to force one leg after the other.
It doesn’t take long to close the distance to the bathroom. Maybe longer due to the state I’m in …dragged back by an anchor of guilt and depression. I press the light switch and blink as the bulb blinds me. In the distance, a cabinet clatters in the kitchen, a drawer opens, and a champagne cork pops.
“How much do you want?” Ridley calls.
I don’t reply.
“A big one, then,” he says, his voice light and airy, the words coming out like a peal of laughter.
I shake my head and try to talk some sense into myself. This guilt, this pain: it’s not helping anyone; not me; sure as hell not the girls I’ve left behind. I need to pull myself together. Maybe there is something I can do to help them, but I can’t do anything while I’m a scattered mess.
I bend over, open the cabinet, and grab a green first aid kit. I turn around and bump into Ridley’s powerful, imposing chest. He pulls two champagne flutes from my path just in time. His eyes glitter with humor: one green, one hazel. It’s so unusual I can’t help but stare.
“Something on me face?” Ridley jokes.
“I said the sofa,” I croak.
My skin is still burning from bouncing off Ridley’s frame. When he’s this close, he’s all I can smell. I’ve never believed that there’s a soul mate for everyone; that out of all the people in the world, only one fits.
Yet Ridley is challenging all that. It’s not who he is: nor how he looks; nor the way he speaks to me. It’s the way he smells. I can’t describe it, but he just smells right.
“You’re the boss,” Ridley grins, handing me a tall, thin glass of champagne. I take it, and stare at the bubbles. Every time one detaches itself from the side, it reminds me of a hot air balloon soaring into the dawn sky.
I follow Ridley, sit down next to him, and rest my flute on the floor. When it’s quiet, I hear the bubbles tinkle in the thin glass.
“Hand,” I order. I feel I’m on safer ground now that I’ve got something to do. Ridley gives me his hand without complaint. I open the first aid kit and pull out an antiseptic wipe, and start to clean his cuts and scrapes.
“Did it hurt?” I whisper. For some reason, I need to know the answer. The question is calling to me. It feels important.
“Him more than me, doll,” Ridley chuckles as I run a bandage around his fingers.
That’s not the answer I wanted.
An urge overcomes me. “What would you do if I hit you?” I ask, taping the dressing tight. “Right now: hit me back; throw me out onto the street?” My voice lowers to a terrified whisper. “Take me back where you found me?”
Ridley leans forward and lifts up my chin with two fingers, so that he can look me in the eye. I try to look away, but he holds my chin in his hand.
“Why don’t you try me, doll,” he growls. Not in a threatening way: if anything, his voice is almost comforting. It’s raw, unvarnished, and honest.
I shake my head. Once again, the fires of guilt are burning inside me: weighing me down; pressing against me like an NFL linebacker after tackling me. It’s not what I want. Not really.
“Do it,” Ridley says. “Come on, hit me.”
“No.”
“Do it: like you mean it.”
“No!” I yell, turning away from Ridley’s challenging gaze. My chest is rising
and falling way too fast, the blood pumping double-time in my veins. Ridley’s pushing me toward the place I don’t want to visit. He grabs my shoulder, pulls me back, doesn’t say a word, just stares into my eyes and drinks me in.
“Trust me, Frankie,” he whispers. It’s not a romance novel whisper – not controlled and sexy, like tree leaves rustling together in a summer breeze – it’s commanding. It’s controlling. It’s a lifeline in the dark.
I look up at him until my forehead aches. Then, almost without thinking, my fingers close into a loose fist. I pull my shoulder back, drive it forward, and my knuckles bounce off Ridley’s granite arms.
“I said like you mean it,” Ridley says, his voice low and hard. “Come on, show me what ye got.”
I bite my lip. My lungs are pumping like bellows, the air rushing in and out as if I had emphysema and was on oxygen. “I don’t want to…”
“I don’t care. Sometimes what we want and what we need are very different things. Hit me.”
That’s what does it. Like the final, tiny droplet of water that flows into a reservoir and breaks the dam, Ridley pushes me over the edge. My fist bunches. I glance down to see white lines, tension, and I pull it back and slam my knuckles into Ridley’s arm.
“Again.”
I do: again and again. I punch; I hit; I slap. I close my eyes and force tears to well out: hot, angry droplets of hate that pour down my face like lava. I keep punching until my chest is heaving, until my knuckles ache and my muscles scream for release. I hit until my tears are my own personal Niagara Falls, until my muscles burn, until I don’t see Ridley’s face anymore, or the men who hurt me, who abused me. I just see darkness.
Then I stop. I collapse forward. There’s nothing in my mind: no pain; no sadness; just release; just nothingness. I haven’t felt this in so long. But it’s here.
Ridley gathers me up and presses me against his body. He holds me tight, until the tremors from my heaving chest fade away.
“Hurts, doesn’t it,” he growls. The vibrations from his chest reverberate throughout my entire body.
I nod, and wipe my tears – cooling now – against his T-shirt. I look up, searching for his gaze, and capture it.
