by Claire Adams
“You can say that again,” she says.
I wonder if Chris is having a worse one or if he’s already conned the people in his cellblock into thinking he’s everyone’s best shot at getting out early. That seems like the kind of thing he’d do to make friends in there. Of course, his inability to get out of there when someone finally catches on might have him behaving very differently.
“It’s kind of weird that they have both men and women in there,” Ash says. “I think we’re on different halves of it, but still, don’t they usually break that sort of thing into gender?”
“I really don’t know,” I tell her.
She bites her bottom lip and turns toward her window.
It’s a quiet drive.
We get to my house and we’re barely through the front door when Ash starts, “It’s always been like this. As long as I can remember, they’ve been pulling something and I’ve never seen either of them take sincere responsibility for anything.”
“That must have been rough,” I say.
She narrows her eyes a little then widens them again, saying, “I’m not trying to say that I had a worse—I’m not trying to compare our situations.”
“I’m not saying you are,” I tell her. “I honestly think it must have been tough growing up the way you did.”
“It kind of was,” she says. “I know that must sound so stupid and out-of-touch coming from someone like me.”
“Not at all,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t want that kind of childhood.”
She’s looking at me with those narrowed eyes again, this time turning her head a little to the side. “If you don’t want me to talk about this, I don’t have to,” she says.
“No,” I tell her. “I like hearing you talk.”
“I never know when you’re being sarcastic,” she says.
“Really,” I laugh, “I’m being serious. What’s on your mind?”
“They’re leaving the country, you know,” she says. “They’re actually trying to skip town, state, and nation to avoid taking any kind of responsibility for what they’re doing, and you know what’s funny? I don’t really blame them. If I’d been committing stupid crimes as long as they have and suddenly it looked like everything might come out, I’d probably want to get the heck out of town, too. No offense,” she says.
I furrow my brow. “None taken,” I say, more a question than reassurance not knowing which part of that was supposed to have offended me. She was referencing Chris, but it’s not like I didn’t know my big brother gets into a lot more than his fair share of trouble.
“Have you talked to him?” she asks.
“No,” I answer. “He hasn’t called me and I haven’t called him. Honestly, I think he’s embarrassed or ashamed or something.”
“All the time I was growing up, I spent most of my time with the maids,” Ash says, returning to her original topic. “If it weren’t for them, I might have turned out more like my parents.”
“Eww,” I say, with an exaggerated shudder.
“Right?” she says. “Can you imagine what that would be like?”
“Thanks to most of the people on reality TV shows, I can make a decent guess,” I answer.
She smiles.
“You know,” I tell her, “before I found out my girlfriend was in the slammer, I was on my way to talk to you.”
“Who’s your girlfriend?” she asks.
I try to exude the lack of being impressed, but I’m not so sure that’s how it’s coming across as Ash is now holding her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle laughter.
“What were you coming to talk to me about?” she asks.
“I wanted to tell you some things,” I answer. “Now’s not the time, though. Now, we need to figure out what we’re going to do about your situation.”
“Hey, we can work on a conspiracy charge,” she says. “Sounds like fun.”
“I didn’t mean we should plan a crime,” I say. “I mean we should figure out how we’re going to approach this.”
She lifts one eyebrow a little and the corners of her lips rise a little. “I have to tell you,” she says, “I like how you keep saying ‘we’ here.”
I smile back at her. “I kind of like you,” I tell her. “Don’t let that go to your head or anything, though.”
“I’ll do what I can,” she says and lets out a long sigh.
She takes a step toward me and opens her arms. I pull her into me and we embrace.
“When we’re a little further out from your whole just-got-out-of-jail thing, I should probably tell you about my session today,” I mention.
“Oh yeah, how’d that go?” she asks, resting her head against my shoulder.
I close my eyes a moment and shake my head. “It was interesting,” I answer. “One thing at a time, though. What do you want to do?”
“They’re leaving the country,” she says. “I’m not going with them, so that probably means I should try to find my own lawyer. They didn’t say anything, but I get the feeling their guy isn’t really going to do his best work for me.”
“Okay,” I tell her.
“They’re just going to get into the same stuff when they’re in South America, though,” she says.
I can’t help but laugh a little.
Ash pulls away enough to look into my eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s just a little strange to hear someone say that and know they’re not joking. It’s the sort of thing people talk about in mafia flicks.”
“I guess,” she says, resting her head back against my shoulder. “I just know they’re going to try something stupid while they’re down there and they’re not going to be able to play the system the way they can here. I’m starting to think the best thing to do for them is to rat them out.”
“Why did you agree to go out with me that first time?” I blurt.
“What?” she asks, pulling away again. “Where did that come from?”
“Nowhere,” I answer honestly. “I don’t know. It’s just something that’s been on my mind for a while. Even before I got to know you, it was pretty clear you weren’t the type that’s into fighting and when we first met I wasn’t exactly in a position to make a great impression. We don’t have to talk about this right now.” He repeats, “It’s just something that’s been on my mind.”
“At first I was just screwing with Jana,” Ash says. “Then you were kind of charming and I thought that was rather off-putting, if we’re being honest here. After that, I don’t know. It just seemed like there was more to you than the troglodyte you looked like.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment,” I tell her.
“We’ve really got to get you a dictionary,” she says. With that, she lets her arms drop and we release the embrace. “I’ve got to make a phone call,” she says.
“Who are you calling?” I ask.
She already has her phone out, and she doesn’t look up at me when she says, “I’m calling the police. I don’t know if they’re actually planning on scapegoating me or not, but I’m not going to take the chance.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Do what you think is right.”
She puts the phone to her ear and I get an idea.
I may not know anyone as high up on the legal food chain as Ash’s parents have, but I do know a guy. Okay, so he’s not really the kind of lawyer I’d hire if I knew anyone else, but he did help a few club owners get out of charges for holding our matches in their buildings.
That was back when we didn’t have to look so hard for a place to fight. Come to think of it, I’m not sure the guy’s still around, but the number’s still in my phone.
I press call.
“Yes, I have information about an investigation currently underway regarding Chuck Butcher and Gertrude Shecklemeyer,” Ash says into her phone.
I’m about to ask her who Gertrude Shecklemeyer is when my own call is answered.
“You’ve rea
ched the offices of Blake T. Millhouse and Associates,” a man’s voice says. “Millhouse speaking; what kind of mess did you get into this time?”
“Mr. Millhouse,” I say. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I get a lot of repeat business you know, so I guess I just assume… Anyway, how can I help you?”
I give him the basic idea and, by the time Ash is done with her phone call, he’s ready to talk to her.
“Who is it?” she asks as I hand her the phone.
“It’s your new lawyer,” I tell her. “That is, unless you had someone in mind.”
She shrugs and takes the phone. Before she starts talking, though, I try to squeeze in a quick question. “Who’s Gertrude Sheckler or whoever?” I ask.
“Shecklemeyer,” Ash says covering the phone with her hand. “You didn’t think my mother’s name was really May Weese, did you?” I ask. “That’s just as close as she could come to calling herself Mae West as she thought people would let her get away with.” She uncovers the phone and puts it to her ear. “This is Ashley Butcher,” she says.
What a strange life I’ve made for myself.
* * *
The FBI showed up before Ash was finished talking to Millhouse. She spoke to them for a while. Then they tried to speak to me, only I didn’t have much to add but the bits and pieces Ash forgot to mention.
For a while, my house was a pretty popular scene. Everyone was respectful enough, I guess, but the cops acted more like fans wanting an autograph than they did officers of the law.
They didn’t take Ash away, though. That was the big thing I was worried about, but they seemed to believe her.
When I left the house, she’d decided to take a quick nap. I waited about two hours before leaving to come here, to the gym.
After her ordeal, Ash needs her rest. Me, on the other hand, I’ve got a fight coming up soon and I’m still not where I want to be in my training for it.
It’s late. I’m the only one here. Logan was nice enough to make me a copy of his key to the place. He and the owner go back quite a ways, though Logan’s still never deigned to introduce me to the guy.
I’m getting tired, but I’ve got to keep going. I’m only on my first circuit and I’m seeing spots. This can’t happen when I get in front of Furyk. My body needs to be at its peak.
Even with the added adrenaline that comes from knowing I’m screwed if I don’t start picking it up, though, it’s all I can do to make it through a set with my lats.
I keep eyeing the water fountain on the far wall of the gym, but I can’t overload myself on fluid right now. Gotta keep going.
There’s no doubt I’m slowing down when I start my second set on the bench. I can’t even make it through the whole set before I’m putting the bar back in its cradle.
I sit up slowly, trying to breathe through it. My body’s not that sore, it just has nothing left to give.
This is what separates the fighters from the spectators. The guy in the crowd is going to stop right here every single time. I don’t have that luxury.
My next stop is the squat rack, but I stop to chalk my hands. They’re sweating even more than normal. I’ve already decided to call it a night after this set, but I may as well make it a good one.
I take twenty pounds off the bar before I get into position. Twelve reps and then I can hit the shower and head home. I’m disappointed, but a body needs rest just like it needs exercise. The key is in knowing how to keep that balance just right.
By my fifth rep, I’m seeing spots again. By the sixth, I really have to focus on metering my breath. By the ninth rep, I’m pretty sure I’m just going to keel over right here and now. By the tenth I’m wondering if I already have.
I straighten my knees on the tenth rep and I’m resolved to finish this set out, no matter what. Two reps is doable.
Bending my knees again, I slowly drop into a full squat, making sure I’m getting everything I need to be getting out of the motion. As my vision goes black and I feel my sense of balance turning into a practical joke, I think I may have gotten a little bit too much.
Chapter Twenty
Le Grand Réveil
Ash
“I know I don’t have my license yet or anything, but I am fantastic at what I do,” I tell Mason, admiring my textbook bandage work on his forehead. “You know, with you being in fights a lot and passing out at the gym and everything, I bet I’m going to get more real world experience than anyone else in my class.”
Mason’s lying in bed, his eyes still closed, though I know he’s awake.
“How long do I have to stay in bed?” he asks.
“Until you’ve given your body enough time to recover from the enormous strain you’ve been putting it under,” I answer.
He groans, wincing either from a throbbing head or my unwelcome glee.
This is day three. His sense of humor ran out some time ago.
“My muscles are going to atrophy if I don’t get up and do something,” he says.
“No, you passed out from exhaustion all without anyone around. It’s a miracle you didn’t get more than a goose egg,” I tell him.
Based on his spotty recollection of what happened, I’m surprised he was in good enough shape to call me after he came to. When I got there to pick him up, I didn’t have a key to get in, though I could see him lying there on the floor. I was well on my way toward panicking until I realized he had his phone out and was angling it toward his face.
His text came through a few seconds later, saying, “I’m going to have to let you in, but you’re going to have to give me a minute to get there.”
After seeing him basically crawl through that little window, I have no remorse keeping him bed-ridden. Well, there are a couple of exceptions. I don’t think either of us wants to have a bedpan enter into the relationship just yet.
“You know, when you said you didn’t want me doing anything, I didn’t think you actually meant it,” he says.
“The way you keep repeating that, I’m starting to think you might have conked your head a little harder than you thought you did,” I answer in my cheeriest nurse’s voice.
He groans again. “Just annoyed is all,” he says.
“Well, I’m going to be a nurse, and if I don’t sign off on your health, you’re not fighting,” I tell him.
I think I’m starting to appreciate the draw of having power over someone else. It hasn’t gotten to the point where I’m willing to abuse it or anything, but it is kind of fun teasing him like this.
“I know,” he says. “You’ve done a solid job blackmailing me.”
“Actually, I think it’s extortion,” I tell him. “Then again, I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
“They’re similar enough that it can be easy to get the two confused,” he says, “but where you’re threatening to call the cops to shut down the tournament, exposing not only me, but a lot of people I’ve grown to tolerate over the years makes it blackmail.”
“Between your knowledge of the law and my knowledge of medicine, maybe we should start working toward being one of those doctor/lawyer power couples,” I tell him.
“What, like your parents?” he asks.
“Don’t think that just because you’re in bed at my urging that I’m above smacking you around,” I answer. “And no: If my parents are a power couple, it’s only due to all the money they’ve tucked away over the years. Neither one of them is actually good at anything.”
“You don’t really like your parents very much, do you?” he asks.
I know what he’s doing. He’s uncomfortable being confined to his bed, so he’s going to try to make me uncomfortable by talking about my parents. He tried this yesterday. It didn’t work then, but maybe he thinks my resolve has weakened since then.
Fortunately, I know just how to get out of this.
“You know, maybe we should use this time talking about our families,” I tell him. “Neither one of us is going too far for
a while: You’re supposed to stay in bed until further notice, and I don’t trust you to do that unless I’m right here.”
“Don’t you have school or something?” he asks.
I feel as much of the unbandaged portion of his forehead as possible to see if he’s spiked a fever.
“Summer break started last week,” I tell him. “You don’t remember?”
He looks up at me, saying, “They have summer classes, you know. Don’t you want to get your degree already? I mean, why wait?”
“Because I have to work during the summer,” I tell him.
“Then isn’t there a job you should be getting to or something?” he asks.
I pat his chest. “It can wait,” I tell him. “Right now, I think maybe it’s time for your sponge bath.”
“I don’t know what your obsession is with wanting to do that,” he says, “but I really don’t want to have that be what you’re thinking about when you see me naked.”
“I’m a healthcare professional-ish,” I tell him.
He says, “That’s exactly the sort of thing you want to hear from—”
“Well, I’m not going down on you until you’re all nice and sparkly clean, so I’m open to suggestions,” I say and then turn away, trying to hide my face as I feel the hot blood rising toward the surface of my skin. I’m trying to play it cool.
The way things have been recently, it’s been a little while since either of us has gotten particularly flirty. I think it’s about time we change that.
“I can take a shower,” he says. “I’ll be in and out in five minutes.”
“Nope,” I tell him. “Hot water thins the blood and with you having a problem with lightheadedness because you didn’t stop when your body told you to stop, I really don’t want to risk you going in there and cracking your head worse than you already have.”
“I’ll take a cold shower then,” he says.
“No, from what I’ve heard from sitcoms and late-night talk shows, that’s kind of the opposite of what we’re shooting for,” I tell him.
Yeah, I could use the release, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for him.
