Find Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book Two)

by Rachel Dunning

  Blaze kept me away. Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t hard staying off the shit with her around. I hadn’t even thought of it. But that’s the point. Because isn’t that real rehab? Never having to think about the dope again? Now you go find me one AA member who doesn’t fight the urge every moment of every day, with shaking hands and a dry mouth.

  Right, you’ll find zero.

  Will my hands shake for Molly if Blaze is gone? I don’t plan on finding out.

  This relationship is raw. It’s real. But, most of all, it’s new. I’m old enough to know this is the kind of shit that you feel when you’re sixteen. And, yet, I’m feeling it at twenty-two. What does that tell you? Does it tell you it’s a dream? It’s bull? I think not.

  If I go to Blaze and I tell her I’m having nightmares because of “my old girlfriend” and that I can’t stop thinking about work “because three extremely attractive women took their clothes off in front of me,” do you think this early-blooming romance will continue to feel the sunshine? I ain’t willing to risk it. I ain’t willing to risk anything when it comes to losing Blaze.

  If there’s one thing I know, it’s that that cannot happen. No matter what, it must not happen.

  I feel it’s the only thing I’m holding onto in a world that’s turned upside down for me in so short a time.

  -2-

  Two days before...

  On Tuesday I visited Trev’s mom (“Deck, boy! Why you been avoidin us!?”) and I even touched fists with Tramone, Trev’s brother. Me and him go back a bit—more than Trev in a way. Trev’s always been the straight-up guy, the one to keep people in line when they’re about to fall off the tracks. Me—I’ve been a little wilder. I never gangbanged with Tramone, but I smoked it up with him. A lot. He’s changed, I notice. His eyes are darker—or maybe it’s his aura. Prison does that to folks. He expresses his condolences for my pops while we share a smoke outside on the balcony (Queen Green for him, Lucky Strike for me.) He asks me why I’m not sharing a spliff with him, and I tell him I’m done with that shit. He finds it hard to believe, sort of like how Randy found it weird I didn’t drop at House Market the night I met Blaze. But I tell Tramone it’s possible. Sometimes it just takes a life changing event to stop.

  He starts laughing, and it’s not entirely the weed making him do that. I wanna sit him down and tell him there’s more to his life than what he’s doing. Only problem is, I’m having trouble believing it myself. I want Tramone to go straight because I think, if he gets in shit, it’ll hurt Trev. And I think Tramone knows that, on a deeper level, the older brother lives in the shadow of the success of the younger. Tramone’s always being told to look at what his little brother’s done.

  It doesn’t help. The dude needs to find some pride in himself. That’s the only thing that’ll get him to change his life around. So all I end up saying is, “Tramone, you gotta consider where you headed, homes.” I put a hand on his shoulder, squeeze. “There comes a time we all gotta give up this shit.”

  His eyes struggle to meet mine. He sucks in another whiff of the high quality White Widow (winner of the Cannabis Cup in 1995) and then stubs the spliff. He smiles. “You know I ain’t never gonna give up the ’erb, nigga.”

  I also get into the gangsta talk. When in Rome... “You know I ain’t talkin about no fuckin weed, homes.” Although I am, but I’m focusing on the greater of two evils right now. One step at a time. “I’m talkin about other shit, you dig?” I look down at his belt. I can see he’s packing: A big fat glock judging from the bulge.

  He pulls up his belt. With a darker frown on his brow, he says, “You know it ain’t that fuckin simple, Deck. Blood in blood out.”

  I see that flick of the eyes again. The one that says, But if I could, I would. I swear it.

  I slap my arm around him and we head inside where a bucket of thirty Crown Fried Chicken buffalo wings is waiting for us...

  That was the last we spoke of gangbanging and drugs. But Tramone never took his gat out of his belt. And when I left, he went back out on the balcony. When Trev and I got downstairs, I looked up, and thick white smoke poured from Tramone’s mouth. I feel like Tramone didn’t hear a word I said.

  I wonder if Trev ever felt the same way talking to me about this shit.

  -3-

  Blaze’s online advertizing starts gaining ground and we get three deals hooked up for February—seven hundred bucks a pop. Which she tells me is good for private parties. But that seems like it won’t be so necessary, because she told me about this private forum she had access to and things seemed to be going nuts on the subject of her mixing. “It’s a good backup plan,” she says to me about the ads. “And the main plan is moving forward as well.”

  And what about my plan?

  I never want to feel all hesitant and watching my words around Blaze again, like I was on Monday night. Never again. My business idea is good. “Brilliant” was Skate’s precise statement. But not when it’s done for people who are as audacious as Tatiana and her callgirls. So I put up my own ads—for the new biz, the Sexy Movers. I don’t need the likes of Dalya D-Cup and Samantha Red-All-Over to make it work. There are plenty of non-slutty fish in the moving-business sea.

  All four of us go past Tom’s on Thursday (today) and I tell Clarissa I’ve been seeing Gina, and that the Doc confirms that me being there might actually help her. Her face lights up. Occasionally, her eyes meet with Skate’s, and the darkness falls on her again. But, hey, the dude has a point: If he doesn’t love her, being with her would be even worse. At least he doesn’t keep her on a string and lead her on.

  “So, what’s the deal with Blaze’s friend?” I ask him.

  He blushes. And Blaze answers for him. “She...uhm...told him—”

  “Hey!” Skate holds a finger up, telling her to stop talking. “It’s between me and her.”

  I was just pushing his buttons, because I know damn well what the deal is. Blaze told me earlier. Mizz Viktoriya Golovkina (“Who has a rack to make you slaver,” says Skate) won’t go near a dude who drops. But, according to Blaze, she is also an extremely seductive woman. And she’s told Skate he needs to be free of anything other than booze for at least four weeks before she gives him a “taste” of her. Blaze is not so sure if “taste” was meant as literal or figurative.

  One thing I’ve learned about users, they all want to quit, but always need some excuse to do it. Dumbo and his feather. Viktoriya is the feather. And I’m cool with that. Because it’s about time Skate lets that shit go. In my case, Blaze ain’t no feather. I never needed a reason to stop dropping. I was pretty damned happy doing it. I just didn’t feel the need to do it after I met her. And when she laid down the law about how she feels about it, well, decision made. I ain’t gonna risk losing her for anything.

  -4-

  Dino Molotov Moretti, you ask? Not a sign of him. His parents are freaking out. He’s not with his uncles in Jersey. Just gone. Along with his blue Hyundai Accent. Disappeared off the face of the earth.

  And the fuzz still have nothing to put him at the scene of the arson crime at Blaze’s place.

  It makes me nervous. But I don’t tell Blaze this. I don’t tell Blaze anything that might worry her. I only realize when it’s too late that this has been an insanely fucking stupid thing to do.

  Rearview mirrors.

  THIRTY

  SITTING ON BLUE PLASTIC CHAIRS

  -1-

  Blaze Ryleigh

  Thursday night. Red Lipstikk’s playing at Goodbye Blue Monday—a grungy place with vinyl records on the walls and collages of the most random shit in the bathroom cubicles. We watched Red Lipstikk last night as well, and the more I hear Vikki’s music, the more I love it. Their sound is heavy, filled with passionate vocals. Raw, jagged. Tell-It-Like-It-Is.

  Trev’s leaving back to PSU on Monday. I can tell there’s a darkness surrounding the boys, like their family’s being torn apart. Trev bobs his head to the music, and Deck grooves with it as well. But their eyes are heavy.


  Deck lights up a smoke. “I only smoke when I’m stressed,” he says. He’s tapping his leg furiously, not really letting the music fill him, just hearing it as if it were coming out of a tinny radio somewhere. I ease my arm around him, bring him closer. Rub his chest a little. Just to let him know that I get it. Because I do. I so do.

  We start boozing, because that’s what they do when they mourn. And Trev leaving for a few months is the equivalent of mourning to them. Even to me. Because he’s as much my new brother as Skate is.

  “But we’re also celebrating!” shouts Skate, a bottle of Brooklyn Lager in his hand. “Because he’s the only motherfucker out of all of us doing something with his life!”

  Red Lipstikk’s doing easy tunes for now, not too loud yet. So we can still talk. Skate looks over at Viktoriya—torn fishnets, pale skin, dirty blonde hair frazzled up like she’s stuck her finger in a socket. Thick black mascara. Every time she looks at him, she smiles. Seductively.

  Eyes back on the table, it hits me that it’s not so much that Trev’s leaving for college in a few days, but also that he’s only got a year and a half to go. And after that?

  I ask him if he’s gonna come back to New York after graduating.

  He shrugs. “If I can. But I’ll go wherever the work is at.”

  Declan taps his finger on the table, calls up the waitress and orders a Jameson on the rocks. When it arrives, he downs it in one gulp. Orders another one.

  Viktoriya bends the mic pole down and howls a mellifluous call. The band plays louder and it becomes harder to talk.

  We drink. A lot.

  Toasts are made and soon the booze makes the boys smile and laugh and forget about life and their fears—and the loss of a friend. Two hours later, Vikki’s still rocking it, people are dancing and hugging and holding bottles while the rafters shake with stomping feet and clapping cymbals. Deck puts an arm around Trevor and slurs, “Too my fuckin bruvva! I freaking love you, homes!”

  He holds his beer up. Trevor laughs, staggering. They bump into a redhead who scowls back (she looks like she needs a few drinks herself.) Skate puts his arm around me. We sway. We swing. We somehow land at the bar counter. Red Lipstikk moves onto a cover: No Woman No Cry. The crowd goes wild. The clinging whiff of Mary Jane billows into the air from outside.

  Declan stumbles, laughs.

  A cold breeze rakes my sweaty back and makes me turn to the door, shivering.

  There’s a guy there. Large and bulky, two guys behind him. He looks a little like Tolek—but his nose is different... Sharper.

  He’s holding a chain in his hand.

  And then he’s charging.

  Toward us!

  -2-

  “Declan!” The words are barely out of my mouth when the chain comes down on Declan’s head. I see his eyes roll back, and blood pour from his scalp. It mars his shirt.

  His beer glass falls and shatters.

  He falls.

  His head hits the counter—thud—then a stool—thunk—and finally it hits my shin before it lands on the floor—sku-dunk. On the broken beer glass.

  The music stops.

  My howls fill the room! I’m screaming like that chick from Psycho! My hands are to the sides of my cheek, trembling there.

  I don’t see the Tolek-Lookalike lift the chain for the second swing. But I do see the chain around his fist, as it comes down again, crush into Declan’s shoulders.

  And then he kicks him. Severely. At least three times.

  The man looks like a crazed monster! And he’s massive. Or maybe he just looks massive.

  A lot of things happen at once, and it’s the sounds I’m most aware of. The screech of speakers giving feedback. Followed by a sudden eerie silence. And then an explosion of noise as the crowd in the bar realizes what’s happening: Someone’s swinging a chain, and trying to murder the blonde boy on the ground.

  And there’s a chick screaming. Me!

  -3-

  So far, Deck’s been hit twice with the chain: The first took him down. The second came when he was already down. And then several boots to the ribs. On some level, I realize this is that Dino Moretti guy that Deck told me looks like Tolek. Before the brute gets a third swing with the chain, I jump at him! A kitten to a bull!

  But then my arms are held back and I don’t reach him! Two tight and firm hands grip my elbows and pull me away from the monster about to pulverize Deck on the floor. Blood pours from Deck’s nose onto the wood.

  “NO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!” I scream.

  And the words sound so darned familiar...

  “LET ME GO! HE’S GONNA KILL HIM! STOP!”

  The chain is in mid-air again, held up for an eternal second. The brute speaks: “You motherfuck—”

  And that’s when Trev gets involved.

  And, oh, motherfucker, that changes things. Trev looks suddenly gargantuan.

  -4-

  It happens so fast. Dino had been standing there, chain up in the air, fist clenched around it. And then he was on the counter, hit by a monstrous shadow that flew into him on his right. Huge! A football tackle like no other.

  Dino’s chin hits the edge of the counter! Now I hear people behind me. My arms are still being held back. “Let me go!” I don’t know who it is, but I guess it’s Skate, because I don’t see him anywhere.

  Then, again, numerous things happen at the same time:

  Trev’s arm cocks back and gets at least three jaw-shattering punches into this Dino Moretti’s face! Dino’s eyes roll and, I’ll be true with you here, I’m happy about it!

  The other thing that happens is that several men (not very large) from behind me rush ahead to Deck and Dino. Two kneel by Deck’s head. “Don’t touch him! Don’t move him!” I scream. Another three or four pile onto Trev to try get him off Dino.

  The dudes might as well be flies, because Trev’s door-ram of an arm just cocks and fires another two more times—pam kablam! His elbow connects with one bearded dude who flies back. Blood spews from the dude’s mouth and he screams, “My tooth!”

  An image of a movie comes to me: Joe Pesci, killing a dude with a pen by ramming it into his face a million times, then Robert de Niro pumping his oxfords into the loser’s face—slam bam pam.

  He’s gonna kill him, I think.

  And this is a bad thing. This is a very bad thing!

  But before I can cry it out, another few things happen:

  The bartender’s on the phone, and I hear the unmistaken chitter-chatter of a nine-one-one call—address, emergency (“Some black guy is killing a dude here!”)

  Oh fuck, that’s bad. What that dude just said is bad.

  The other thing that happens is that Dino’s goons—two of them—have jumped on Trevor! These boys are a little bigger. They hang onto him like flies to shit, not letting go. Then one of them sticks a hand in his back jeans pocket.

  And I see the unmistaken handle of a Stiletto Street Knife, its blade retracted. Trev gets in at least another punch while these two dudes hang on.

  By now, no one else is joining in, just standing around in a circle, too afraid to join the rhinos killing each other.

  Hand behind his jeans, Goon Number One flicks the blade open.

  “LET ME GO, SKATE! THEY’RE GONNA KILL HIM!”

  All I can think is, This is so out of control. Oh, please, don’t let it get any worse.

  But it does. It so does.

  -5-

  “Skate, you have to help him! You have to—”

  He lets go of my arms and I fall forward! I see another flying tackle and—

  Crash! Skate’s got Goon One on the ground! Goon Two stumbles back, his leg caught underneath the other two. Goon one has dropped his knife. I run for it! Goon Two goes for it as well. He grabs it! He stands and aims it at me. Then Trev is suddenly there! Fist to the jaw! Crash! Flying tackle. Trev’s on Goon Two. I don’t know if the knife is there or not.

  But Trev goes to work on Goon Two’s face. He straddles him and pulverizes him
with his right hand! “You fucking CUNT! YOU WANNA HURT MY BOY YOU MOTHER”—punch!—“FUCKING”—punch!—“COCK”—punch!—“SUCKING—”

  Me, from behind Trevor: “TREV, NO! PLEASE GOD NO! YOUR SCHOLARSHIP!”

  He hears me. His fist slows mid-punch, and fades out as it gets lowered. He drops his head. Shakes it. I can’t really see Goon Two at all from here, just Trev’s mammoth back, and his heaving breaths. I call out to him, because I’m afraid he’ll react mistakenly if he feels foreign hands on him. “Trev!”

  I look at Skate, and that’s a little out of control as well. Him and Goon One are rolling on the ground. Chairs have fallen. Tables are in the process of falling. Trev flies over to the two of them! Trev is such a monster. Massive. He rips Skate off Goon One and Skate falls back on his ass. Goon One is on the ground, but not unconscious.

  I steal a glance at Goon Two. Oh, god, he’s dead. He’s absolutely dead. Blood pours from Goon Two’s mouth and nose and, fuckit, I think even from his goddamned eyes!

  I put my hands to my eyes. I can’t believe this is happening. What the fuck is going on here!?

  Back to Goon One: Skate rising. Goon One rising. And Trev’s booted foot rising.

  Oh mother—NO. NO! “Trevor!” My calls are desperate pleas for cessation, and I can’t believe I’m crying out for these men’s mercy. But this is going so wrong that it just needs to stop. “Please, Trevor! No! Don’t do it!” I’m crying now. “Don’t do—”

  He does it.

  And Goon One lifts off the ground like so much paper.

  And he retches.

  Then Trev kicks him again.

  And again.

  And. Again.

  -6-

  It’s a massacre. Just a massacre. Goon One gets lifted by Trevor’s fists and boot. He’s a rag-doll now. And if he’s not dead yet, he will be soon.