by Marata Eros
Thorn watches my sadness, his face like granite. “Fucking blew.”
I bark out a laugh that sounds somewhere between a cough and a hiccup of despair. “Yes, it did.”
“Your Snare do that for ya?”
“More,” I say, so embarrassed I don't know how to speak about what happened. Even with a man that lived what we lived. Where we lived.
“This Riker dickhead, he try to rape you?”
I jerk my chin up, and he spreads his arms away from his body for the second time, and strapped on his face is a smile that doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. “Lots of Rikers running around. Need to be stopped. That's why I became a cop. Do undercover here and other places. I can act the part, get in close. Take the fuckers out of their abuse cycle.”
It was part of the nondisclosure I'd signed. Knowing Thorn was a police officer. He's right about fitting the role. He's so rough around the edges people would never suspect he's anything but the manager of a swanky strip club.
Because that's what he wants people to see.
“How old are you?” I ask suddenly, knowing he was raised in the same neighborhood as me, trying to place him.
“Closer to thirty than twenty.” He smirks.
I smile back. “So we just missed each other?”
He nods. “Ya know how it is. Yesler is big.”
I lace my fingers into a knot. “But small,” I finish for him, and he shoots a finger my way like exactly.
“Tell you what, Kitty. I'll give you a two-week leave of absence. If your stepbrother”—he pauses over the word, just like Lola did, and I gulp my embarrassment back again—“doesn't pan out, you got a place here at The Crawl.”
My nose begins to run as my tears pile up at my chin. Drip, drip, dripping onto my hands and dampening my long skirt. “Thanks, Thorn.”
“I'm not a charitable guy,” he states.
I look into his face, studying the compassion he keeps at bay. I think Thorn might be more gentle than he admits, but I'm not stupid enough to say.
“You love your stepbrother?” he says.
I nod. “I know how it sounds, how—eww.” I keep my eyes on his. “And for the record, I don't love him”—my voice goes low—“I'm in love with him.”
Thorn holds up a large palm. A hand built for breaking skulls, and I'm suddenly glad he's not my enemy.
“Don't explain. He's a man that loved you more than his own skin. Or he wouldn't have risked it for you. That's worth a lot.”
“I've only ever been with him,” I confess in a quiet voice, my face blushing so fiercely my head's probably bursting into flames.
Thorn is silent for a second. “Pretty impressive, considering the lifestyle.”
I don't comment.
Finally he says as he stands, “He know that cute kid ya got is his?”
Fuck.
I look up at him looming over me and shake my head. “No.”
“Take some advice, Kitty. If everything you've told me about this guy is true—and it's too fucking wild to be made up”—my blush comes back to miserable life—“then he's not the kind of dude who doesn't want to know a piece of him's out there. His own flesh and blood. Tell him. Now.”
I stand, and he grips my elbow, his fingers encircling my entire arm, he's just that big.
I blink back more tears. “What if he hates me because I didn't tell him sooner. Find him?” My gaze searches his face for clues before he speaks.
Thorn shakes his head. “No man that lived through what you guys endured is gonna hate the mother of his child.” His head cocks, the warmth of his hand bleeding through my thin blouse. “Why did ya leave him to begin with?” His dark eyes search mine.
I tell him in as few words as possible, and his hand drops. Thorn shakes his head. “He's for real. Let Snare do him. If he wanted you then, it was for all the reasons that matter. Don't be scared for him to love you. Don't be scared of love. Period.”
My smile's crooked. Sounds like he's speaking from experience. “You're pretty deep for a strip club boss.”
Thorn puffs up his chest dramatically. “I'm more than meets the eye,” he says, tapping the corner of his eye.
I laugh, and he walks to the door and opens it for me.
Passing through the threshold, I turn.
Thorn is leaning against the jamb with his arms folded across an impressive chest. “You take care. If you don't come back after two weeks, I figure you found your happily ever after.”
His words make my mouth drop open, and he frowns. “Something I said?”
I give a soft shake of my head. “No, something I thought.” Long for.
I turn away from Thorn, and The Crawl—hoping it's the last time I ever have to darken that particular door.
*
“Mommy, what are you doing?”
I turn, wiping the dust off my nose.
Jaylin's little face is screwed up into a pout, her spoon dripping milk all over our four-seater kitchen table.
I sigh. The lies keep piling up. But until Snare appears to take me away, I can't get Jaylin's hopes up. Dammit.
“We're taking a little vacation, baby.”
Her small frown becomes a big one. “Ya mean moving, Mommy?”
Shit. “Not exactly.”
Jaylin purses her lips, dipping her spoon into her cereal and swirling the donut-shaped pieces around, creating a whirlpool of milk.
I've already packed a small cooler of food, and since we woke up so damn late after my crazy night last night... Cheerios it is.
“What about school, Mommy?” Her voice has shrunk into itself, and I hate—hate—having to do the white lie program.
I keep telling myself that soon I won't have to lie. Soon it'll be a house, the same school, and a life where I put my clothes on and the only time they come off is to shower.
I shiver. Or when Snare removes them from my body.
I shake off my fantasy. “Finish your Cheerios, baby girl. We don't need to worry about school this week.”
“Okay.” Voice sullen.
I glance her way, and her cheek is propped in her little hand as she takes a lackluster bite. Her black hair sweeps forward, hiding her from me.
I drop what I'm doing and walk over there. Packing can wait a few minutes. “Let Mommy braid your hair, monkey.”
A smile lights her face, her blue eyes sparkling. “Yes, Mommy, yes!” She frowns. “No pulling.” She pouts again, folding her arms in front of her.
“No pulling,” I agree.
I brush Jaylin's hair, and we settle into a familiar rhythm that never gets old. Just a mom and daughter performing a soothing ritual.
While I wait for my handsome prince to come rescue me.
*
I try to keep the faith. But as four-thirty in the afternoon rolls into seven at night, even I have to admit that Snare's not showing.
I've cried so much in the last day that my eyelids are slightly swollen. Probably not quite done either.
Except for Lola checking in, my cell remains dark. Silent.
I clutch the hard rectangle of plastic to my breast, willing Snare to text. Remembering every thrust, every lick, every look from him is so painful to think about I can barely breathe through it all.
“Let's go to Gasworks Park!” I announce to Jaylin in false cheer when a five-zero-zero flashes on the digital clock in my living room.
I am not pathetic, I tell myself. I will not wait around for Snare. After last night and our heart-filled confessions, I was so sure. Sure that he loved me as much as I loved him.
Sure that he'd be that white knight I didn't even know I was waiting for.
My lips quake, so I press them together in a line. An I'm-not-going-to-bawl lip lock.
“Yes!” Jaylin yells, flying around to grab her jacket.
We leave, shutting the door behind us.
We stay at the park, where the huge sundial sits at the very top of a grassy knoll, until darkness edges in, eating the light of the day like a banquet of black
satin.
*
“Let me take Jaylin. You need some you time, and I'm going to give it to you.”
I grump, folding my arms and shifting my weight, my gaze glued to my sneakered feet. My bright red Converses are loosely tied. Just threw them on. Not giving much shit about clothes right now.
“Look at me, Sara.”
I glance up at Lola and giggle. She's parked in six-inch clear platforms and a dress that's more a shimmering Band-Aid than an outfit.
“Quit. I know I look like a ʼho of the moment.”
Gales of laughter break out of me, and I slap my hands over my mouth, which somehow makes it worse—and better.
“Yuk it up, princess.”
Comedic relief. Totally needed it. I finally hiccup to a stop. “I can't see you as Candy, Lola.”
“And I never saw you as Kitty, Sara. The name change is easy for me.”
I nod. “Yeah. I still see you as Lola, though.” I pause for a second, feeling my smile fade at the edges. “Snare just—I don't know—blew me off.”
Lola shakes her head. “No way. No dude goes to all this trouble to get laid. You say he's a looker? With a badass scar and Mr. Biker to boot? And he's got a ten-inch shlong?”
Oh my God. “Lola,” I warn.
She shrugs. “Looks like you were having trouble walking today. Those eight-inch plus penises, they'll get you bowlegged in a hurry. I just figured...” Her eyes twinkle.
“Don't,” I say, covering my hot cheeks with my hands. “I didn't say Snare had a ten-inch penis.”
Her eyebrow arches. “You didn't say he didn't.”
Oh boy.
We laugh, and I know it's better than crying.
“Let me take Jay-jay. Have a hot bath, a glass of wine. Hell, maybe old Snare will come back and find you naked in the tub and you won't care he's hours late.” She waggles her brows.
“Okay,” I agree reluctantly.
As if on cue, Jaylin exits her tiny bedroom with a bag of books and her stuffed Peter Rabbit.
“Auntie Lola is going to read to me again.”
“I'm illiterate,” Lola replies in a droll voice.
“Huh?” Jaylin asks with a frown, giving Lola's wardrobe choice a long look. “Is that your Halloween costume, Auntie Lola?” Jaylin's big blue eyes blink at her.
“How does she know about a holiday that doesn't come for another seven months?”
I smile. “They're learning all the holidays in school.” Were learning.
Damn.
“Come on, cutie pie. Don't keep Lola waiting. I need to get out of these shoes. My feet are killing me.”
“I don't know how you can walk in them.” I laugh. Though I wear ones that are similar, I would never attempt real walking.
“Got your attention, right?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Perfect outfit for the Ds,” I say, mindful of Jaylin's sharp ears.
Lola smirks. “Exactly—for the Ds!”
I hold up my palm, and she high-fives me with a resounding smack. Lola doesn't even hate that I put in my notice at TC. Or that Thorn cut me slack for the two-week window.
That's why we're friends. Lola wants what's best for me more than she wants to hate me for pursuing a chance at happiness.
15
Snare
I've used my fists a fuck ton. I've fought for my life before. From my dad. From others. But these odds?
They fucking blow.
Mover watches the action from the sidelines like a proud football coach.
Five Chaos Riders move in on Noose, and his hand slides a knotted rope from the depths of his jacket.
He shrugs off his cut and flops it over the seat of his bike at the same time I do.
Knives shiver out of their sheaths, and my stomach clenches, my balls crawling high.
Fuck.
The first few rush Noose, and his rope flies like a twisted snake, taking out two noses in a strike that looks like a whip of white magic in the depths of the forest.
Then I'm surviving my own catastrophe. Two Chaos Riders charge me, and I use judo. It's the simplest way to deflect the violence—using their momentum against them.
The two closest to me tumble over my foot-sweeping leg like bowling pins. One guy lands hard, square on his face, too fast of a move to save himself with his hands. The other guy knows how to move his body and rolls with the momentum, bounding to his feet behind me and moving in close.
I strike back with my leg, making a lucky hit to the groin. It only has to glance the jewels to make a man go to his knees.
He does, sinking and gasping like a fish out of water.
I hit the next guy in the throat with stiff fingers, and he staggers back, clutching his neck and relearning how to breathe, but two others catch one of my arms, wrenching it behind my back.
I twist hard, spinning in their hold, and break one off.
The other clocks me with his fist at my jaw, and I land on my knees hard. Bell soundly fucking rung.
Noose is also on the ground, bent back, his wrists locked, rope around one of their throats.
The same big fucker from last night is beating him from behind.
But Noose doesn't budge from strangling the third body until someone hits him over the head with the brass.
Noose slumps.
I evade the same treatment, too fast for them to nail hard. But even judo experts can trip with uneven footing provided by roots, slick moss, and a forest floor that's not inside a dojo.
I do an accidental somersault. Once I’m on the ground, more Chaos swarm over me like angry bees, and my consciousness fades to black with their fists that sting.
And fading with it, my promises to Sara.
*
I wake up. My first conscious thought is: I can't feel my arms.
My eyelids flip open, but I don't move my head. Experience has taught me to avoid quick movements if I don't want to hurl chunks and make the headache fucking worse.
Cautiously, my gaze scans the surroundings.
Cinder block walls are painted in gun-metal gray. No windows. Drain in the middle of a concrete floor with rust stains that probably won't come out for all the bleach in the world.
Shit.
Road Kill's got a room like this. It's where fuckers go that aren't feeling like being chatty. Teeth get pulled—nails too. Most of the subjects find themselves wanting to sing like canaries after a few exposed nailbeds greet the open air. That'll do it.
I realize after a moment why I can't feel my arms. I'm hanging from a ceiling like meat on a hook. Bad. Very bad.
A loogie flies, landing by me with a dull splat. Blood-laced snot.
I turn my head slowly, so slowly. Still, my vision warbles like glass under rain. I don't shake my head to clear it. I shut my eyes, giving my body time to adjust to the fact I asked it to move before it's ready. “Noose,” I croak. My voice sounds as parched as my throat.
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
He laughs. “Yeah.”
I crank my eyes in the direction of Noose's voice. Using my heels, I slowly turn my hanging body until I find him.
Fuck me, he's in as bad a shape as any man I've ever seen. Crisscrossing rope burns abrade the taut flesh of his neck. There's not a free spot of skin without the marks of ropes.
“They fucked you with your own ropes, man.”
Noose chuckles, spitting out more blood. One eye's swollen shut. “Pussies couldn't strangle me if they tried. Don't know what the fuck they're doinʼ. Probably can't tie their shoes either. Fucktards.”
Noose jokes while we're hanging from the Chaos Riders’ ceiling, awaiting another fun torture session.
“Can't see the humor,” I admit and cough. Pain flares through my head, and I grimace.
Noose's one pale gray eyeball finds me. “There's always humor, Snare. Don't you forget it. In the end, sometimes that's all a man has. His balls, his woman, and his sense of humor.”
That's up for debate.
“Looks like they knew what they were doing with this tie-up.”
Noose grunts. “Fuck ʼem.”
Noose raises his arms, huffing and puffing through his bruised throat. Spreading his arms wide, he lifts his body weight by his bound wrists. “Try it,” he says between harsh breaths, “you might like it.”
Fuck. I do it, and pain radiates through my shoulders to my hands as I begin to shove my arms down flat by my sides. “Hurts,” I hiss like a snake.
“Embrace the fucking pain, Snare. You want the use of your arms when these fuckers undo us.”
If they undo us remains unsaid.
We do a series of five each. Noose came to before me so he's ahead of the game, but I like the way I can feel my arms now. Pins and needles march like biting ants from shoulder to wrist. Pain is better than numb and helpless.
The doorknob rattles, and we still, giving each other a full glance before Mover saunters inside along with what looks like a big, shambling mouth-breather prospect.
His eyes inspect our tethering with an easy smile. Coming to hate this fucker for so many reasons. “Gentlemen.”
Noose and I stay silent.
“You're here today for a few reasons.”
I don't know why Chaos would hike our guns, beat the fuck out of us, and take us into their torture room. Because make no mistake, I know what the fuck is what in a room that's windowless with a drain in its center.
“One, Ned was a naughty boy, and though he might have thieved from Road Kill—he destroyed us.”
Mover confessing his secrets can't be good for us.
Noose's eye flicks to mine.
I know what he's thinking. That Mover will justify, and whatever they do next is payback for my interference with Sara. I just don't get how all of it ties together.
Mover walks to a chair, straight-backed and all wood. He twirls it around and sits on it backward. He plucks his slacks up and flashes argyle socks. He makes a fist with one hand and drops his chin on top of where it rests on the arched wood.
