Roxy (Pandemic Sorrow #3)

by Stevie J. Cole

  I had become a hypocrite, a troll—but when your reality is hell, when you don’t have any dreams, perspectives change. I wanted something to block it all out. I wanted to have hope that maybe it would all end.

  That night I used, I let go of what I’d hoped to become. That first hit filled my lungs, and within moments everything faded. All the colors smeared together, and for a second, nothing mattered. That was the most freeing moment of my life. Nothing mattered, and when nothing matters, nothing can hurt you.

  Then nausea swept over me.

  Luke helped me to the bathroom and there I sat, leaning against a wall waiting to vomit, a small hope that maybe I’d die whispering somewhere in the back of my conscious.

  After my body had been drenched in sweat and that blissful feeling of the high returned, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and somehow through the euphoria I managed to feel disappointment. No matter how low I was, I couldn’t let myself give in to death like this. That was the first and last time I ever did heroin.

  Later that same night, I ended up in bed with Luke. He wrapped me up in his huge arms, held me while I cried, and promised me it would all be okay. I believed he could take the pain away. I needed a distraction, and Luke acted like he needed me, like I was worth something. And it felt good to be needed, to have someone that I felt could protect me, would fight for me…and then six months in, he beat the shit out of me. Sometimes it just doesn’t seem worth it to fight. At that point in my life, being beaten seemed better than being alone. Unfortunately, life hadn’t left me hardened enough yet.

  Jerking the gear into drive, Luke looked over at me and snarled. “I saw you looking at that guy.”

  “What guy? I wasn’t looking at anybody.”

  His eyes set on me in a cold, rage-filled glare. “You’re a whore. You look at anything with a dick.”

  My initial reaction months ago would have been to be a smartass, to yell at him for talking to me like that, but fear crippled me and I sat in silence, my vision blurring behind tears.

  “Oh,” he said, taking his eyes off the road to look at me. “You think crying will get you out of this?”

  I stared at him. I’d known Luke for years, and I never would have believed that this was who he really was.

  People keep secrets so they can blend in with the expected and accepted image.

  People are rarely what they appear to be.

  Sean never would have been friends with somebody like this. Luke was no different than Bill, or any of the other shitheads my father had let come and go freely from our house.

  One side of Luke’s mouth curled up, and he said, “Maybe if I slap the shit out of you, maybe that’ll teach you to keep your fucking pussy to me.” He raised his hand back and I flinched, closing my eyes. My entire body tensed up for the blow I expected to land over my face at any moment. And then he laughed. “Baby, I’m not gonna hit you.”

  Opening my eyes, I leaned back into the cloth seat and felt another piece of me die on the inside. I watched as the run-down houses blurred past the window, and out of the front windshield I could barely make out the illuminated letters of the Hollywood sign that peeked over the hills.

  I always thought that was so fucking cruel. That sign, as far as I was concerned, was a torture device. It gave me glimpses of something I’d never have—wealth, safety, dreams—and it constantly loomed over the dark shadows of my shitty life.

  I was stuck. People from this underprivileged part of LA were lost. We all came from shit-poor families, mostly drug dealers and prostitutes. I was one of the few people who hadn’t given into the poverty I’d come from. I had been trying. I’d wanted more than this. I’d even gotten a scholarship to UCLA. Sean was so proud that I was going to do something with my life. He thought I would get out of that town, find a dream; but when I found him dead, well, that took all ambition away, and I lost my scholarship.

  Dream gone, smothered by the filthy hands of the mess I’d come from. It was like fate had let me slip through the cracks by accident and then, when it saw that I might actually escape this hell, it clawed its fingers into my legs and jerked me back down, pulling me under the polluted waters to drown me in my own hate and regret.

  Fuck dreams and fuck those people who actually had them. Sometimes I thought I should just give into it all and hope that I’d be swallowed up in the despair of that town just like everyone else, but the thought that there was life after death and that Sean might possibly have some idea of what I was doing, that was the only thing that kept me from throwing my hands up and letting all those ugly demons devour me.

  We pulled up in front of the dealer’s house and Luke opened the door. “You just stay out here.”

  I watched him stumble up the concrete stairs. It was cold out, but the smell of the cheap vodka Luke had all but doused himself in brought back memories from my childhood, and I couldn’t stand it. I had to get that scent away from me, even if it meant freezing my ass off by having the window down. I heard the door to the house open; the fifteen dogs crammed inside the house went crazy, and their barking almost drowned out the conversation.

  “Man, you’re short a hundred bucks,” the dealer said.

  “No, man. It should all be there.” Luke slurred his words, but somehow managed to sound certain.

  There was a pause, most likely because the dealer was recounting the bills. “Fuck no, man. It’s short. What you gonna do about this? I can’t be having shit like this. Fuck, L. I like you, don’t make me fucking put a bullet in your head over a hundred bucks.”

  “What do you want? I don’t have any more cash. I can get it to you tomorrow.”

  “No. That’s not gonna work.”

  I heard the distinct sound of a gun cock and I slowly slid over to the driver’s side. My heart felt like it was in the back of my throat and my mouth instantly became dry. I fumbled for the ignition and realized Luke had taken the keys with him. As much as I’d thought I didn’t care if I died, I realized in that moment that I actually did.

  I was staring intently at the porch, and the dealer’s stout silhouette blocked out the porch light. “That your girl in the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” He laughed. “I think we can work something out.”

  Luke rubbed his hand over the top of his head. “What, you want to fuck her or something?”

  “She any good?”

  I watched Luke shrug, and he mumbled, “Good enough that it should cover the hundred dollars.”

  They both made their way toward the car, and I gripped the steering wheel.

  When Luke got to the sidewalk he shouted, “Get out of the car, Roxy. Come on.”

  I opened the door, but instead of walking toward him, I ran in the opposite direction toward another house, my shoes slapping the pavement as I tried to escape.

  I barely made it across the street before I felt someone grab the back of my shirt. It ripped and he spun me around. Luke’s eyes were wide and that chiseled jaw of his that gave the impression he was worth a shit was clenched.

  “Are you fucking stupid?” he growled, the strong aroma of vodka and Marlboro Reds hissing over my face. “I said,” his fingers wrapped around my throat and squeezed, “to get out of the car, not to run. You got a hearing problem, bitch?”

  Everything inside of me tried to shut down. My defense mechanisms I’d learned as a child kicked in, and I tried to force myself to become numb.

  Luke kept tightening his hold on my neck until I instinctively reached up and tried to pry his hands free. “Please,” I managed to choke out. “I love you.”

  I didn’t mean it—I had grown so numb by the time I was ten, I couldn’t love anyone besides my brother and sister—but those words were the only thing that would usually make Luke stop.

  He loosened his grip momentarily, his eyes flickering in the street light. “Whores can’t love. Shut the fuck up and get in the house.”

  He let go of me and shoved me on the ground, the chilled concrete
tearing open the knee of my worn jeans.

  It’s amazing how a human can become conditioned to take something like abuse. Ever since my mother’s death I’d been exposed to it, been a victim of it, and when that’s what you’re used to, sometimes that’s the only way you can feel.

  To me love was pain. I felt like I had no choice. If it wasn’t Luke it would just be another sorry-ass mother fucker.

  I was trash by lineage and no respectable man would have anything to do with me once he found out what I’d come from. I was destined to be a cracked-out whore before my life came to an end. Just like my father had said I would be.

  I’d needed a distraction from the pain, and I’d ended up in the same situation I’d tried to escape my entire life.

  That saying, “You can become whatever you want,” is a crock of shit. It’s a bald-faced fucking lie. Maybe if you’re a normal, middle-class American you can become whatever you want, but how many people who come from utter shit can change their route in life? It’s a vicious rotation, and I had been stuck in the repeat cycle.

  Luke jerked me up by my hair. I grabbed the top of my head to try and lessen the burn caused from my hair ripping out of my scalp, and I fought the tears. I had to be hard. I couldn’t cry because crying wouldn’t save me from this.

  The dealer widened his stance, wiping his hand over his mouth. “Don’t worry, baby girl. I’ll take good care of you. Treat you real nice.” He glanced over at Luke. “Take her inside. If she runs, I’ll kill you both.” His eyes fell on me. “Got that? I’ll kill you. Right after I kill him.”

  I was dragged toward the house. I didn’t fight him. I never fought him. I glanced up at the guy he was handing me over to, at the guy I knew was about to rape me, and I couldn’t stop myself from crying. What was I doing with a guy who beat me, who sold drugs, who was addicted to heroin and cheap alcohol, a guy that would willingly hand me over to be raped by another man just over a hundred bucks?

  Luke wouldn’t fight for me.

  He would fight for a high, but not for me.

  I would rather die than fucking live this life. I was tired of taking it, of accepting that my life had to be worthless. How could I expect anyone to fight for me if I couldn’t even fight for myself? That was one of those moments that changed my life.

  Pulling in several deep breaths, I waited until we reached the steps and then I swung my arms and kicked my legs as hard as I could manage. I bit down on Luke’s arm, hard, until coppery, warm blood oozed into my mouth.

  I screamed to the point I thought I’d ruptured a vocal cord, and somehow I managed to break free, jumping over the railing and sprinting across the lawn, still shouting for help.

  Within moments both men were chasing me. I tried to go faster, but the dealer caught me with a blow to the head. I tripped, stumbling forward and landing face down on the ground.

  The air had been knocked out of me and when I tried to roll over, I couldn’t. I tried again, and this time sharp shreds of pain ripped through me. My breathing was quick and desperate. I was stuck to the ground. As I tried to move again, sharp pains radiated through my abdomen and I felt hot liquid gush beneath me. I laid on the grass, gritting my teeth against the intense pain pulsing through my body. Blood spurted out with each breath, and within seconds the dark liquid that was pooling underneath my stomach had crept through the grass and was collecting beneath my palms.

  I heard footsteps as Luke and the dealer fled, and I lay there pinned to the ground, impaled by a stake used to play horseshoes and bleeding out on a lawn in the middle of Van Nuys.

  I’d been abandoned for the last time in my life.

  The familiar sound of the police helicopters that surveyed the area echoed above, and the hum of the blades faded into the ringing in my ears just before everything went black.

  I lowered my shirt back down, forcing myself to stop that memory.

  I’d almost died.

  Had that metal pierced me a few centimeters to the left, it would have severed my aortic artery.

  When I’d woken up in the hospital Layla was the only person there. That was the last person I had, and I saw how hurt she was. I couldn’t leave her.

  That was when I made the decision to just cut everyone else out.

  I couldn’t numb myself with drugs, but I could make myself numb to others.

  Half of the people I knew were lowlifes anyway, but regardless, I just didn’t need anyone in my life. At least that’s what I told myself—but deep down inside, I knew it was a lie.

  I didn’t want to be alone. I just couldn’t handle any more hurt, any more lies, any more broken promises. And it seemed like that’s all anyone had to offer me.

  Chapter 7

  That next weekend I had almost forgotten about that concert, almost. Unfortunately, when I got to work that Saturday, the entire bar staff was chattering and giggling about the new VIP guests we had added to our list. Pandemic Sorrow had decided they needed a new venue to hang out at. They wanted a new club to piss on and mark as theirs, and, much to my horror, they had picked The Club.

  “Now, I expect all of you to behave, which means I better not find any of you girls pinned up in the bathroom with them—” Carlos, our manager, narrowed his eyes on Tess, who was waving her arm around. “What, Tess?”

  “So, just not the bathroom? So, under tables, behind the bar, or in your office is totally acceptable?” She counted off the places on her fingers.

  Carlos slapped his hand over his forehead and groaned.

  “Hey,” Tess shrugged, “I’m just trying to get my game plan together.”

  “You can’t fuck at work. This isn’t the Pink Pony Ranch. Just be professional, that’s all I’m asking. Don’t let them pay for anything. Give them whatever they want,” he glanced back at Tess, arching a brow, “except sex in this club.”

  Carlos got up from the bar and made his way back to his office. The rest of the staff broke up, blabbering about how exciting it was to have Pandemic Sorrow choose us as their place to load up on booze and drugs.

  This is great. Really great. What if he remembers what a bitch I was to him? I mean, that obviously had an effect on him. I think it made him a little angry after he got over the initial shock. Shit, he is going to make my life hell if he recognizes me.

  The night went on as usual. Martinis, beers, vodka tonics. Surfer guys, preppy guys, models, tourists, a ton of bleached-blonde girls with hot pink lipstick.

  It was midnight, and I was relieved that I hadn’t had my night disrupted yet.

  I grabbed three beers from the cooler, popping the tops of each before setting them down on the bar.

  “You’re pretty.” The guy tried to reach across the counter to swat at my hair, but I dodged him and he slumped down over the bar top.

  I had heard those words slurred a thousand times. They held no meaning besides the guy had been shot down by every other girl he’d hit on, and now he thought maybe a bartender would be a little easier.

  “Thanks.” I smiled and wiped my damp hands on my apron. “What was the name on the tab?”

  He looked up from the counter and hiccupped. “DeBoise.”

  I nodded.

  “What time do you get off?” His eyes were glassy and slightly crossing from the beer they were swimming in.

  A disbelieving laugh fought its way from my tightened smile and I shook my head. “Not interested. Thanks, though.”

  I peered around him and pointed to a group of girls sitting at a table. “There are five girls over there. Chances are you can talk one of them into going home with you.”

  He jerked his beers up, grumbling to himself and staggering off into the crowd.

  I was in the middle of pouring several tequila shots when I heard a screech, followed by the name “Roxanne” being belted out to what sounded like a Sting song.

  Chills shot through my bones, not just my spine, no—splintering chills coursed through every bone in my body when my eyes landed on Jag parting the crowd like the Red
Sea and making his way toward the bar with his eyes honed in on me.

  Shit!

  I waited, and then the rest of the lyrics to “Roxanne” flowed across the room, and the entire club damn near fell silent. People were taking pictures, videos, some of the girls were even grabbing onto him as he passed by them. I decided maybe if I just ignored him, he would go away, but Jag was just like a rash: ignoring doesn’t make it go away, and scratching it only makes it worse.

  I quickly made my way to a customer and placed his drink on the bar. Looking up as I took the customer’s money, I went limp when I noticed Jag was still coming straight at me. I felt my eyes twitch and my nostrils flare; my breathing was growing shallow and erratic, my heart banged around in my chest like a steroid-injected gorilla that had been shoved into a tiny cage.

  Jag leaned against the bar and the crowd of people closed in behind him. His eyes narrowed on me and one side of his full, blush-colored lips curved up, causing the piercing below them to glint under the lights.

  “Well. Nice to see you again. Enjoy the show the other night?” He leaned over the counter, which put his face way too close to mine. He was close enough that I could smell him over all the liquor and beer that had been spilled on the bar top. He smelled like tropical sex and money; it was clean, and crisp, sexy smelling, and I was ashamed at how badly I wanted that smell to be all over my body. I wanted to hate that scent, but my traitorous body betrayed me, flushing head to toe.

  He inched a little closer, and now I could see the tiny golden flecks embedded in his dark brown eyes. This guy made me nervous and uneasy, and the only way I could handle that was…

  “No, I told you, your music sucks!”

  I acted like a child. I was really good at that.

  I panicked and grabbed the rack of glasses under the counter, dropping them a little too hard on the counter. I watched droplets of dish water fly up and land over his cheeks.

  Carlos is going to kill me.

  Jag’s eyes flinched, but he didn’t bother wiping the water off. “Are you gonna take my order or what?”

  I should have just calmly asked him what he wanted and fixed him his drinks, but that would have been too easy. I watched him smile, shake his hair from in front of his face, and then wink at me just before he ran his tongue over his lips like he was suggesting he wanted to sample me. I couldn’t stand him, so why was I so damn nervous? Why was I shaking on the inside? He stared at me like I was a challenge, and I couldn’t handle that. I had to retaliate.