by Noir, Mila
What Anton really wanted was not a run-down, though certainly successful, repair shop. What he wanted was his own tattoo parlor, somewhere that was not Sweethollow, where he could concentrate on the ink and nothing else. He’d been slowly saving over the years but it wasn’t ever enough. He worked on jobs when he could, a town over in Deer Ridge, at a little shop called the Skunk. It was mostly your garden variety tramp stamps and tacky sports team stuff, but he had some clients who paid for the kind of thing only Anton could do. The owner, Crosby, was okay but older and set in his ways. Anton would never convince him to change up his roster or his look. He needed his own place. His own outlet.
He wondered what it was like to work every day doing something you loved. That you really and truly couldn’t wait to do. Not just something you were good at, but that you just had to do. That you had such a drive and passion for, nothing and no one could keep you from it.
For some reason, as he was thinking about that, a face sprang to mind. With braces and frizzy hair, tears running down flushed cheeks, eyes on fire with anger and hate. Taylor Jane Harlow. Why the hell was he thinking about her?
Because, his brain whispered, you still feel guilty. And this time of year always reminds you of what a complete asshole you were.
He sighed, got up, and took a beer out of the office fridge. He knocked the top off on the edge of the desk and drank deep.
“I hate you,” he heard her say, voice low and shaking but somehow sure and powerful at the same time. “You’re always going to be nothing, just like they say you are,” she’d said then, her face full of utter contempt and loathing. It had been like being stabbed in the gut with an icicle. Because he had known she was right, especially after what he’d done. He couldn’t blame her for hating him. For thinking he was scum. Because he was.
Anton had learned that night that there are some things, some choices in life, that you just can’t take back no matter how sorry you are. Because sorry won’t make up for it.
Of course, he’d never actually told her he was sorry. He’d just let her walk away, back straight, pain in every line of her body, knowing he was everything his father had ever told him was and worse. Knowing he was everything everyone in town thought he was: a loser and a bastard and worthless trash. Because he’d just hurt the only person in that entire shitty town who’d ever known him and treated him like a person. And for what?
To this day Anton wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to it. He’d known it was wrong. He’d known it would hurt Taylor. He knew she hadn’t done anything to anyone to deserve it, even if she could be a bit of a pain in the ass, and that it was a cruel and vicious prank.
Yet he’d done it anyway.
“Ready to go?” Carlos asked, interrupting his train of thought.
“I’ll meet you guys later. I’ve got some stuff to do, “ Anton said. Carlos waved and then Anton locked up after the rest. He looked around the shop, quiet now, full of nothing but the smell of sweat and gasoline.
He went up to his apartment and sat at his drawing desk, sketching for a while and trying not to think. But the earlier ruminating crept back in. He stopped, sighing. It was not going to be a productive night. Not drawing, anyway. He was too caught up in memory.
Over the years he’d realized that “prank” wasn’t really the right word for what had happened that night with Taylor. Just like “discipline” would be too mild for what his father had put him through. He hadn’t really realized how badly Taylor had been treated at school, or how much worse he’d made things for her, until he was older. He wished that teen Anton had be less of a selfish dick.
It wasn’t even like he’d done it to get the other kids to like him. He hadn’t given a rat’s ass what they thought then or now. He’d done it…well…because he could. And because some part of it had wanted to hurt someone. Which made him feel sick, because that’s the kind of person his father was. And if there was ever someone Anton wanted to be the opposite of, it was his drunk, abusive, shit of a “dad.”
But could he? That was the thought that plagued him. Could he really outrun his father’s legacy? The man’s DNA was a part of him. He has his thick dark hair and muscular build. He had his tendency to get angry first, think after. And he loved to ride.
Where he differed from his father was that Anton was not a violent alcoholic who took out his anger and frustrations on everyone around him, especially those who cared about him most. Or he hadn’t been, until that night in high school. And Anton was going to make sure that particular trait died with his old man and wasn’t passed down to anyone else. He could do that much to make up for the shit he’d caused.
It was just the thing with Taylor these days that still bothered him. He’d thought about contacting her but he wasn’t sure how to explain the fact that he’d been keeping tabs on her since she’d left without coming across like a creepy stalker. He’d just have to live with it and accept that she probably didn’t even remember him anymore. He was making too big a deal out of it.
He went out on his small deck with a beer, letting the slight bitterness roll around on his tongue. The air was getting a crisp edge to it, the final hint that fall was going to give way to winter. This far north they didn’t tend to get that brief warm snap the city seemed to these days. Here fall settled in got comfortable, and then winter mugged it and held on with icy, tenacious fingers until spring.
Anton hated winter. He wasn’t fond of the cold and it always made him feel trapped because the roads got closed for a good half of the season, what with the several feet of snow and ice. He never felt like he could get warm, and the wind seemed to cut through every layer of insulation, whether it was clothing or home. It was depressing and confining. All there was to do was drink, fuck, or watch TV. And he only really liked doing two of those things.
He was, he had to admit, just a little bit of a slut. There were very few available women in town he hadn’t slept with (and several who were not available he had anyway). Married women were a little less complicated sometimes because they weren’t looking for love, just a good screw. Plenty of them wanted nothing more from him than a wham bam, hold the thank you ma’am.
It was partially because of his “bad boy” rep. Anton was good for banging and a thrilling ride on his bike (not a euphemism, mostly), but he wasn’t relationship material. He was wild and untamable. For a lot of women that was just the kind of challenge they liked. They just learned pretty quick that Anton wasn’t the type who eventually came around.
He was fine with all that. It was uncomplicated and he’d had some fun. And if it was a little empty, well, that was mostly fine, too. He’d seen firsthand with his mom and dad that love didn’t protect you from anything. Better not to get attached to anyone or have his happiness dependent on anything but himself. His mom had wasted her life trying to make his father happy and all it done was literally waste her life until it was over, too soon.
He missed his mother to a degree that was almost painful. She’d done her best, but his father had been too strong. Sometimes Anton thought she got it even worse. Sure, his dad had hit her and put her in the hospital a few times. But she’d borne that. It was his father hitting him, their son, her baby, that hurt the most. Anton was pretty sure she’d rather his father had beaten her to death than ever raised a hand to him.
She’d been a small, plain woman, with light brown hair and eyes. When his father had hit her it was like slapping a doll. He didn’t understand how the man could do it. But there was a lot he didn’t understand about his father and frankly didn’t want to. Some things it was probably best he didn’t get. It meant he wasn’t a monster.
He sighed, remembering how his mom had liked to bake pies this time of year. His favorite had been apple, hers blueberry. His father hadn’t cared one way or another and never appreciated the little details, like the intricate pastry leaves and vines she’d put on the crusts. Or how she’d spelled out Anton’s name on the little ones she made for him.
One of his most
vivid childhood memories was helping his mom in the kitchen when he was about eight or nine. He’d insisted on wearing her pink apron, and she’d let him roll out the pie crust dough while she put a few in the oven for the upcoming bake sale at his school. They’d been laughing, his mom at the flour in his hair, when his dad had come home early in a foul mood (as usual). They’d frozen as he’d stomped in, taken one look at his son in an apron, and completely lost it.
He’d thrown his wife across the room. She’d hit her back on a chair and gone down with a pleading cry not to touch Anton. It was ignored. He’d yanked the apron off his son, then shoved a hot pie in his face while he cried, screaming about “pussy boys” and weakness. Then he’d left to go to the bar.
His mom had crawled over to him and held him, crying, saying she was sorry as she’d been the one who had done something wrong. She’d cleaned him up, his face red from the hot filling, but thankfully not burned.
He hadn’t helped her in the kitchen again; they were both too afraid.
Anton’s childhood was full of too many stories like that one. Most of them blended together. Black eyes and bloody noses, a broken arm, a cut lip. Everyone in town knew but pretended he was just a “rough-and-tumble” kind of kid. He’d even started to believe it himself after a while. It was easier that way.
In the last ten years Anton had stayed on the straight and narrow as far as the law was concerned. Mostly. He didn’t count the occasional bar brawl. Or speeding ticket. Still, the way the cops in Sweethollow acted, you’d think he was some kind of compulsive arsonist serial killer puppy kicker. He hadn’t set a fire on purpose since he was six and had tried one of his dad’s cigarettes. He’d tossed it after one drag and lit the dry brush on fire.
As for the other stuff, Anton liked dogs, only kicked people who were being stupid, and had never killed anyone, serially or otherwise. He thought he was probably capable of it, in the right circumstances. Which these weren’t.
Not that he’d liked any of the guys who’d recently wound up corpses. They were all assholes, through and through. He hated to say it, but they’d all been walking jock clichés. Mostly muscle, very little brains, and a tendency to pick on anyone weaker (which was most people), even in adulthood. How guys like that were considered “popular” was one of the great mysteries of life.
Which was why it was ever stranger that he’d gone along with them and the…“joke” they’d played on Taylor. It wasn’t like they’d been friends. The only reason they hadn’t stuffed Anton in a locker was that he wasn’t one of the scrawny, scared nerds they could intimidate. He’d scared them. It didn’t stop them from lobbing the occasional insult his way, but usually from a distance. He’d had a reputation for having a temper as early as grade school, and that legend had simply grown as he’d gotten older. In high school they’d called him “The Hook.” As in his right hook, which tended to leave anyone it hit on the floor in one blow. He’d knocked out some teeth with it once and been left largely alone after. Just about everyone had given him a very wide berth.
But then, Taylor. He rubbed his face, stubble grazing his rough hands. She’d been…nice to him. Friendly. She hadn’t seemed scared of him for some reason. She’d say hi in the halls, ask him how his day was. It was…weird. He wasn’t used to it and it made him suspicious. Wary. But then he’d still talked to her that day. He’d never understood why.
She’d been awkward in high school, that part was true. Braces. A kind of gawky gracelessness. She’d worn these enormous black or gray sweaters and was a bit plump, though not unpleasantly. Her face had been pale but sweet, so far as he could remember, with big, dark eyes and cheeks that were always blushing. She’d looked younger than she was, too. And her hair was always kind of a fuzzy brown mess. If Anton had been a different kind of person, he might have said the combination was endearing. Instead, she made him feel…well, she made him feel. That was not acceptable. Anton did not like feelings, and anyone who made him have them was bad news.
Maybe that’s why he’d done it. Because if he was honest, he’d felt protective of her for some reason and it had made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to feel anything about anyone. Her being nice was a nuisance.
Well, he’d certainly shown her that trying to be friendly to Anton Quinn was a mistake. And this many years later, he still inwardly winced at how thoroughly he’d managed to debunk her apparent misconception that he was worth getting to know.
He felt himself getting angry. At her, a long-gone ghost, and himself. He didn’t like to be this self-analyzing.
He looked around his lonely apartment and, disgusted at the general disarray of his life, headed out to his bike. He was going to drink away his maudlin thoughts at the Horned Owl and maybe pick up a lady. Or two. And forget about his past in his other favorite way.
What could it hurt?
***
Inside the Horned Owl was pretty busy, mostly locals. However, there were enough tourists were in town for strangers to go unnoticed. Taylor slipped in and got a drink and then a small booth, where she ordered a burger. Then she started to people-watch.
Some of the faces seemed familiar, although it was amazing what you forgot after just ten years. In high school she’d thought she’d never forget any of them. It was a relief to know that some things really did get better.
She nursed her beer, a nice dark ale, and toyed with a straw wrapper she found on the table top. She twisted pieces of it and stacked them into a kind of star. It was a mindless activity, one she did almost every place she ate at. After her food arrived (the burger was serviceable, the fries were criminally good) she started to write down random observations in her little notebook. The sound of laughter with an edge, like it wasn’t genuine. The smell of spilled beer and various aftershaves and perfumes. The way the cold night air would burst in whenever the door opened, cooling the overly heated interior for just a moment.
Snippets of conversation floated around her.
“…and then she caught him with the assistant! Some twenty-year-old, you know, same old story. I don’t know why she doesn’t just divorce him, take half and the kids, and get the hell out of here…”
“…sales have been slow but they’ll pick up with the festival. Mavis made some of those little felt figures of the Rider again and people just love to get ’em for their kids…”
“…he was a shit, you know he was. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. I’m not sorry he’s dead and neither are you.”
“God, I’m so sick of pumpkin everything! Every year it’s like this and now you got pumpkin coffee and tea and I don’t know what else. Who the hell wants pumpkin coffee?”
“…so I says to her, I says, you can’t just wipe it down with some water, you gotta really scrub…”
“…I know! There she was, underwear around her ankles, white dress hitched up, and Carl between her legs, just going at it on her wedding day!”
“Did you hear that they didn’t have heads? Accident, my fanny. It was that fucking ghost rider thing.”
“Now, you know there’s no such thing…”
“Says you. I know better. I seen it. Lots of others have too. You’ll see. There’ll be more. There always are.”
Taylor strained to hear more of that last one, but the speakers had walked away. Obviously not everyone in Sweethollow thought the recent deaths were what the papers and cops were insisting they were. Like they always insisted they were. She hoped some folks like that would be willing to talk to her eventually. Locals could be kind of difficult with outsiders in places like Sweethollow. She wondered how they’d see her, now that she’d gone all “citified.” She’d have to be careful, that was for sure. Because she wasn’t sure she could get very far if people decided to clam up.
Of course, there was the library, the old stories, and the history of other deaths. But that was just a fun bit of old, picturesque, small-town weird history without the current deaths. Without the gruesome and unexplained details.
Did Taylor
really believe in a ghostly rider doling out death in the darkest night? Not really. What she did believe in were serial killers and copycats. Which could explain why there’d been so many similar deaths over the years. That’s what she was hoping to crack open and expose like a hidden boil. It was about time someone got to the bottom of it.
She remembered the deaths from ten years before. That time it had been a bunch of fellow students, and the town had been devastated. Two girls, both popular, one a cheerleader, the other a gymnast. One boy, a sort of midlevel nerd who’d been well liked. The girls had been found in the woods, not far from the Windy Bridge. Well, parts of them had. The boy had been found at the side of the main road, victim of an apparent hit-and-run. Taylor hadn’t known any of them personally, but none of them had been bad kids. The girls’ deaths had been declared the result of a mutual suicide pact, which Taylor had never thought made any sense. She had a hard time understanding what the boy had been doing out there at night. Someone had said he’d been drinking, or whoever had hit him was.
Going back, deaths like these had happened before…although usually to people who had some kind of “bad” history. Abusers. People suspected of killing others in town. Criminals of other sorts. And they were almost always men. Hell, even a Quinn, Anton’s great-grandfather, had ended up as one of the local “mysterious” deaths. He’d disappeared one day and his body, sans head, had shown up a few months later. It was widely known around town that he was a petty kind of crime “boss” locally. People had assumed it was some kind of turf war casualty and not really bothered to look further.
Of course, this time it was also former classmates. The once-great stars of Sweethollow High, the Saints. Which was one of those titles people don’t consider the irony of but probably should.
They’d been, in descending order of popularity, Rob, Nick, and Greg. Tall guys, good-looking in a sort of conventional way that doesn’t tend to age all that well because it lacked character. She’d seen it in the obit photos. Most of them had looked like they’d kind of…shriveled, somehow. Though they’d all still had these drawn lines of meanness around their mouths and a hardness to their eyes. Maybe she was imagining it, but they didn’t look like they’d changed since high school in the ways that really mattered.
