Red-Blooded Heart

by V. J. Chambers

  And what should I do? Rush in there and get between him and haul him off to take care of him?

  Damn it, I don’t want her to see me!

  But how can I leave her there to be ravaged by this mons—

  She is screaming. “No, please. Stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just had too much to drink. That’s all. Please, Graham.”

  I rush forward, to the edge of the driveway. I’m still obscured by the trees that grow down here. Wouldn’t be in daylight, because they are bare, but it’s dark, and they can’t see me.

  She is on her knees.

  He is over her, bringing his fists down again and again.

  She is crying and screaming and begging. Now the words aren’t intelligible and I have to make a move. I have to stop him. He could fucking kill her, and it would be my fault—

  A howl. The coywolves in the distance.

  Graham is startled. He stops.

  It’s all Juniper needs. She scrambles to her feet and runs away from him, runs through her yard, runs in the direction of the woods.

  Graham stumbles after her but he is slow and drunk and he can’t keep up. “Get back here, you bitch!” he growls after her.

  But she doesn’t answer. She only runs. And soon the woods has swallowed her up, and neither Graham nor I can see her anymore.

  Graham stops next to the chicken coop. The chickens just moved into the coop two days ago. They are barely older than chicks, but they are too big for brooding. They were asleep, but the yelling woke them, and some of them are poking their chicken heads out to see what is going on.

  I walk up the driveway.

  Graham yells after Juniper one last time, and then he seems to give up. He turns back to the house and begins staggering toward it.

  I advance on him.

  He sees me, and a puzzled look crosses his face. “Deke? What are you doing here?”

  I smile, and everything inside me is coiled and taut and itching for release, like I’m riding the edge of an orgasm that’s about to burst.

  * * *

  -juniper-

  The coywolves are howling and they sound close.

  My entire body hurts. My lungs are screaming at me because I have been running. I am in good shape, but most of my exercise has been strength training, not aerobic exercise. My muscles are strong, but I am not used to running like this.

  I could have stopped running a while ago. I could see that Graham wasn’t following me.

  But the terror urged me on. I’ve never been so frightened. I’ve never seen Graham like that. He’s never hit me like that.

  I stop now, going to my knees on the forest floor, panting. I touch my face. I am bleeding, and it hurts to touch my tender skin. He has never hit me in the face so many times. I’m afraid he broke something. I try to examine my nose, but it hurts too much to touch it.

  My skin has also been lacerated by various branches and thorn bushes that I ran through as I careened through the growth in the woods. I barely feel those little punctures and scratches compared to the beating that Graham gave me.

  I’m thirsty.

  I wish I was at home in my house. I want ice and bandages and ointments and ibuprofen. I hug myself, and I start to cry.

  What am I going to do?

  I cannot keep this up with Graham. He is too volatile, and I have no control over him. I have no control over myself either, apparently, because I know the way that I yelled at him made it worse.

  He would have hit me anyway, but would it have been this bad?

  I can’t cry. For one thing, the tears are stinging my wounds, and it hurts. For another, crying is not going to help me. I can’t simply sit out here in the woods and sob until my sides hurt. I have to think. I have to come up with a plan. I can do that. I’m smart.

  So, I force myself to breathe evenly, and I swallow the tears, and it hurts to swallow.

  A howl.

  Closer. The way these things sound, it’s not like a regular wolf’s howl. It’s a creepy sound, almost… almost human in some way, reminiscent of a baby’s cry. It’s not quite human, of course. It’s alien and strange, but there is that bit of familiarity to it. I think that is why it is so upsetting.

  “I’m not afraid of the coywolves,” I mutter, and I stand up.

  That howl wasn’t even that close anyway.

  Another howl. Closer.

  How could it have moved that far that fast? Or, no. It must mean there are two of them. I guess these things travel in packs.

  From what I understand, coywolves aren’t that big. They are smaller than regular wolves. One on its own would never take on big prey like a human, but a pack…

  No, they aren’t dangerous.

  Graham is dangerous. That’s what I need to worry about.

  I have to stay out here for a while, but he’ll probably pass out soon, and then it’ll be safe to go home. Once he’s out, he won’t wake up until late tomorrow, and then he’ll have a wicked hangover.

  Usually, after he hits me, we both pretend it didn’t happen. But usually, he doesn’t leave so much evidence on my body.

  It will take a long time for all of this to heal.

  Damn it, if I go to see Watson like this, what will he think? I’ll have to come up with some kind of story, but what can I possibly say? I ran into a doorknob five times?

  God, Graham is ruining everything.

  I check my phone. No service out here, but I don’t want to call anyone, just look at the time. Except that doesn’t help me, because I don’t know how long it is I’ve been out here already.

  I resolve to stay out here for twenty more minutes.

  I can do that.

  But now, I feel cold, and I shiver in my coat.

  One coywolf howls and another answers. I could swear they are on either side of me.

  I shiver again.

  * * *

  -deke-

  I didn’t bring a gun with me or a weapon of any kind. Some things are meant to be done up close and personal. Intimately.

  It’s a bit more fair this way, as well. If I was armed and he wasn’t, then we wouldn’t be evenly matched. But that doesn’t matter anyway, because we are still not evenly matched. For one thing, he’s drunk and sloppy. For another, I am stronger than he is, and I have more experience with this sort of thing. He may be used to beating up someone who isn’t even trying to fight back, but he’s got no experience with a real fight.

  I don’t punch him or anything. A fist fight is exactly that—a fight. This isn’t a fight. It’s an ambush.

  I bend over and hurl myself into him, almost as though I’m a linebacker. I use my shoulders and we go down on the ground.

  He thrashes. He is still surprised. “What the fuck?”

  I use my weight to pin him down and wrap my hands around his neck.

  His eyes bulge and he immediately starts to struggle. Then he punches me. One fist collides with the side of my head, with my jawbone.

  The world whites out, but I don’t let go of him. I keep my grip around his neck.

  An upper cut to my jaw.

  It throws my head back, and I roar in frustration. But he hasn’t hit me as hard this time. His aim is shit. He is drunk.

  I put my knee into his chest and press down.

  He grunts in pain and surprise.

  I tighten my hands around his neck.

  He can’t breathe. His eyes are wide. He is still struggling, but now he is getting weaker.

  I tighten again, and my heart is pounding, and there is a strange euphoria stealing over my limbs. This is not like with Darius, not at all. This is right. This is good. He deserves this.

  And then, almost too soon, he’s not moving.

  I keep my grip around his neck for a while afterward, just to make sure.

  Then I let go.

  I climb off him and I struggle to catch my breath. I am wheezing. I didn’t realize how much effort I had expended.

  I sit there for a long while, getting my breathing under control,
staring at his body.

  I don’t feel sorry.

  I realize that I didn’t tell him why I was killing him, but I don’t have any regrets about that either. I wouldn’t have gained any more pleasure from his emotional reactions. I don’t see him that way. He’s an animal. Once I realized that he was hurting Juniper, I took him out of the box of human and put him into a sub-human box. He must be, after all. There is no other explanation for his behavior.

  But I can’t sit and rest for too much longer.

  I have to get him out of here before Juniper comes back.

  I feel exhausted, but I have more work to do.

  Damn, I wish my truck was closer. I gauge the distance between here and the truck, and it’s too far. I’m going to have to go and get the thing, move it closer. Maybe that’s a bad thing, because Juniper will hear it, but it’s a chance I’ll have to take. I’ll never be able to carry him that far.

  I leave Graham where he’s lying and go down to my truck. I start it and pull into the driveway. Then I turn it off.

  Now, I have to work quickly.

  In the back of the truck, there is an old blanket. I push it aside so that there will be room for the body in the back. The bottom of the truck is lined with tarp, which I am going to have to bleach again. I’ll put the body on the tarp and I’ll cover it up with the blanket once I’ve got him in there.

  I head back to Graham and I heave him up over my shoulder.

  He’s heavy.

  I grunt. But I’m not a weakling. I can do this.

  I manage to get him over to the truck and then I push him into the truck bed.

  But, hell, he’s landed on the blanket in a funny way and the blanket is stuck underneath his body.

  “Damn it,” I say, yanking on the blanket, trying to get it out from beneath him.

  It’s stuck.

  I yank again, yank as hard as I can.

  “Deke?” calls Juniper’s voice.

  I look up. She is coming out of the woods, heading right for me.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  -juniper-

  I hurry across the yard. What the hell is Deke doing here? And where is Graham? Is he inside, already asleep? He must be. I don’t see him anywhere.

  Deke just waves at me, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s messing with something in the back of his truck.

  When I finally get there, I see it’s an old blanket.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” he says.

  I point at the blanket. “What are you doing there?”

  “I hit a deer,” he says.

  “So, you put it in the back of your truck?”

  “It’s West Virginia,” he says. “And I live off the land. Don’t tell me you’re squeamish about roadkill, because I’m not.”

  I guess it barely makes a difference if he killed it with a gun or a truck. I shake my head, and my face hurts, and why isn’t he asking me about my face?

  “You okay?” His voice has gone deep and soft.

  I bow my head. I feel embarrassed and weak, and I hate it. “What are you doing here?”

  He scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Call it a sixth sense or something, but when you guys left, I had a bad feeling. I couldn’t shake it, so I came by. I…” He looks away. “Where the hell is he?” His voice is harsh.

  I want to cry again. “Leave,” I say. “This is none of your fucking business.” I sound like Aleisha.

  “I can’t leave you here with him.”

  “He must have passed out by now,” I say. “He’s asleep. He’ll be better when he sleeps it off.”

  “Better for how long?”

  “If you hadn’t gotten him so damned drunk, this wouldn’t have happened.” My voice is sharp.

  He hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”

  And now it’s far too hard to fight off the tears. I clench my hands into fists. My voice comes out strangled. “Go. I mean it. Get the fuck away from me.”

  “Juniper…” He looks up at me and his hand comes up as if he’s going to stroke my cheek. But his fingers hover next to my skin without making contact, which is probably a good thing, because it would only hurt if he did touch me. He lets his hand drop, looking defeated. “Yeah, okay, I’ll go. But if you think I can stand by and watch this, you’re wrong. I can’t.”

  Oh, damn him. Damn him to hell.

  “Please,” I say. “Please go.”

  He holds up both of his hands, palms up, a surrender. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want,” I say.

  He gets into his truck and pulls the door closed. He starts the truck and backs out of the driveway.

  The driveway curves down over a hill, so I can’t really see him at the bottom, but I hear the truck pull out onto the road and drive off into the distance.

  Bone tired and in so much pain, I limp to the door of the house and open it. I expect to see Graham passed out on the couch, but he’s not there.

  My heart leaps into my throat. Is he still awake?

  Hell, maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to send Deke away, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  My gaze sweeps the house. My pulse bangs away at my wrists and my neck.

  I don’t see him anywhere.

  The house is not that big. I hurry over to the bathroom, but the door is open, so I should see him if he’s in there. And he’s not in there. Then I take the stairs up into the loft, which is filled with boxes for now. Maybe someday I’ll turn that into a more livable space, but it’s only storage. He’s not up there either.

  There’s nowhere else for him to hide.

  I go down the steps, back to the main floor, and my head hurts and my brain hurts.

  Where could he have gone? If he was outside, wouldn’t I have seen him?

  Maybe he followed me into the woods. Maybe he’s lost out there.

  Hell.

  I drag myself into the bathroom and turn on the light. I survey the damage to my face. It’s pretty bad.

  Even if he is lost out there, I can’t go looking for him. In the shape he’s in, he’ll hurt me worse. He’s going to have to figure his own way home or else sleep it off under the stars. It’s cold out there tonight, but it won’t be below freezing or anything. He’ll survive.

  I set about cleaning and bandaging myself up.

  * * *

  -deke-

  I pull into my driveway, and I hear a thump outside.

  What the hell?

  I throw open my door and I’m face to face with Graham. His hair is wild. His neck is bruised. He’s just jumped out of the back of the truck, and he is not dead. At all.

  Shit.

  Graham lets out a roar, like a caged animal, and he charges me.

  I’m surprised and off balance. I barely react.

  He slams me back into to the side of the truck—probably denting it, the bastard—and claws at my face like a girl.

  I bellow, and I punch him, because I don’t know what else to do. I hit him in the nose.

  He howls, lets go of me, staggers away. Blood is pouring out of his nose. “What the hell is your problem, dude?” he’s screaming.

  “Me?” I touch my chest. “I’m not the one who gets off hitting women, am I?”

  “This is about her?” he says. “You can have her. I don’t even know how she convinced me to come out to this godforsaken place to begin with. The woman is the devil.”

  Listen to him, passing Juniper off to me like she’s a possession, like he has the right to give her away. He deserves to die.

  And he has to die. It’s not as though I can let him go, not after this, not after what I did. The pansy would be at the police station in half an hour, crying about how I tried to hurt him. No, he’s got to go.

  But I don’t have it in me to attempt strangling again. Strangling may be intimate and all, but sometimes a job just needs done. I start to back away from him. I’m going to get my gun. It’s on the back dec
k, propped up near the hot tub where I usually keep it. I need to get to it.

  “What are you doing?” he says.

  I don’t answer, I just walk backwards. There’s the deck. There’s the step up. There—

  I trip. Fall down on my back, the edge of the deck catching me between my ribs. It hurts. I wasn’t watching where I was going and I stepped in the wrong place. It’s a stupid mistake. I’ll get up—

  But Graham is on top of me now, and he’s raining down blows on my face, and my skull is reverberating, and I’m seeing stars.

  I scream.

  He screams.

  I wonder if Juniper can hear this all the way back at her house. Sometimes, sound carries real well out here.

  Graham smashes my head backwards into the deck.

  Fuck, that hurts.

  I groan and I try to stand up. I can’t, maybe because of my head, or maybe because of Graham’s weight. I need to hit him or hurt him or—

  He slams my head back into the deck again.

  I grunt.

  And then again.

  The lights go out.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  -deke-

  I come to moments later sprawled on my back on the deck, Graham looming over me with a huge piece of wood in his hands. He’s about to bring it down on me and smash my skull.

  I roll away just in time, and he narrowly misses me.

  He smashes the wood into the deck instead and loses his balance. He stumbles.

  It gives me time to scramble to my feet. I feel dizzy. I could have a concussion. I touch the back of my head and my fingers touch something warm and wet and sticky. Blood. I’m bleeding. This bastard has made me bleed.

  That can’t happen. I throw myself across the deck, heading for the gun.

  “No!” he yells. “Where the hell are you going?”

  I seize the shotgun, and he sees what I have and lets out a little whimpering sound.

  “Stop,” I say to him.

  He stops. He shakes his head at me. “Come on, man, this is fucked up. What the hell are you doing? All over Juniper? She’s not worth it.”

  “Maybe not to you,” I mutter. “I mean, that’s obvious.” Where are my shells? Ah. There, on the chair over there. I move over to the chair and snatch up the box.

  “Wait, what’s that?” says Graham. “Isn’t it loaded? You fucking asshole!” He charges me again.