by Tara Wylde
At least I’ll have the memories to keep me company during the long nights that I know I’m going to encounter and that’s better than nothing. Isn’t it?
The bus doors slide closed behind me and I quicken my step, but I’m not fast enough. As it lumbers forward, it belches a huge cloud of exhaust, which settles over me and burns my nose and lungs.
I pick my way through the icy sludge that soaks my shoes and freezes my feet and hope it’s not some sort of metaphor for my existence.
At the third-floor landing, I transfer my sopping wet shoes which I’d removed as soon as I got into the apartment building to one hand. Dirty water drips off the toe of each shoe, creating a mucky puddle on the landing’s linoleum floor. I ignore the mess and push the door open.
Instead of the empty hallway I’m expecting at this time of the day, my eyes land on two no-necked, wide-shouldered guys who study me with bored expressions.
A wave of anxiety creeps up my spine. The little hairs at the back of my neck stand on end as I look past the two goons and spot Abe.
He’s set up a chair, an actual fucking chair that he must have brought from home and hauled up in the elevator, in front of my apartment door. He’s sitting in it, his posture, combined with the way his fat rolls pool in his lap reminding me of Jabba the Hutt.
I swallow the impulsive burst of hysterical laughter that bubbles up in my throat. How the Hell can I think of Star Wars at a time like this?
One of the neckless goons clears his throat and Abe looks up from the smart phone he’s holding.
A wide smile that shows off his chipped, yellowed teeth splits his wide face. “Ella!”
Tossing the phone on the floor beside his chair, he braces his hands on its arms and heaves himself to his feet. I brace myself as he lumbers towards me.
“Just where have you been?”
Expecting a not-too-subtle comment about how I should be warming his bed instead of working my ass off at menial jobs, the comment catches me off guard.
“Why do you ask?” Abe has never expressed any real interest in my activities or whereabouts before. Of course, I’ve never spent the night in one of Chicago’s most eligible billionaire’s beds before either. I knew even as I’d left with Jason that there was a chance they’d see him, and that they would ID him.
Was I right all this time? Have they been watching my moves? Making notes about who I spend time with? Trying to figure out how they can use that connection against me? Maybe I’m not paranoid after all.
Abe shrugs one massive shoulder. “Just wondering, that’s all,” he says. Tiny beads of spittle fly out of his mouth and I resist the urge to step out of their way. “It’s not like you not to come home at night.”
“Something came up.” A warm blush steals over me as I consider my words’ double meaning. Something came up all right, and it kept coming up all night and again this morning.
Abe cocks one of his brows. It looks like a caterpillar that’s in the throes of despair. “Really?”
He stops in front of me. He reaches out and uses a fingertip to trace my right cheekbone. I fight the urge to flinch away from his touch. Something tells me that would be very bad for my overall health.
“What was it?” he asks. Hs whiskey scented breath sours my stomach.
“It’s nothing that concerns you.” Probably not the smartest thing to say to a guy that never goes anywhere without at least two bodyguards, both of whom I assume are armed to the teeth, and that I owe money to, but bravado is the only real defense I have against him.
Abe stares at me. For the first time, I realize that there’s nothing in his eyes, no joy, no hate, no spark of life. They’re completely blank, reptilian. I wonder if they’ve always been so cold, or if I’ve never bothered to give them more than a passing glance.
“Everything about you concerns me,” he says, stepping even closer. “Ain’t you figured that out yet? You’re an asset.” His gaze rakes over me and he licks his chapped lips. “In more ways than you can possibly imagine.”
Bile burns my stomach. Until this moment, I’ve always respected Abe and been hyper-aware of the potential danger he could be to my daughter, but I wouldn’t have said I was actually afraid of him, just afraid of what he represents.
Now is different. Staring into those chilling eyes, my fear is one hundred percent directed at the short, fat man who’s breathing on me.
I take a deep breath and command myself to remain calm, to handle this the same way I’ve handled every other encounter with Abe.
“Why are you here, Abe?” I’m pleased that even though it’s pitched higher than normal, my voice remains steady.
“I need to chat with you about your next payment.”
“It’s not due until Friday.”
“Yeah.” Abe draws out the word. “The due date ain’t the problem.”
Even though I just know I’m not going to like the answer, I can’t prevent myself from asking. “What problem?”
20
Ella
Abe crosses his arms over his enormous chest as an expression of pure pleasure spreads across his face. I realize that he’s been anticipating my question and looking forward to it since before I entered this hallway.
I brace my shoulders. Anything Abe looks forward to isn’t a good thing.
“We’ve been looking at our records,” Abe says slowly, drawing out the moment, “and we’ve come to the realization that you’ve only been making the bare minimum payments since you took out the loan.”
“But I’ve been diligent about making those payments on time and I’ve never shorted you!” I refuse to think about the one time I hadn’t had enough cash to make my monthly payment. There’s no point in bringing it up now.
“And those payments haven’t even kept up with the interest,” Abe points out, all but rubbing his hands together and jumping up and down with delight. “Dad and me, we know you needed the money to support your little girl, it’s an honorable cause, we know that, but you have to understand, as much as we want to help you out, we’re not a charitable organization.”
As if I’d ever make the mistake of thinking that.
“We can’t afford to keep hemorrhaging.” He stumbles a little over the word, like he’s sounding it out. I’m astounded that Abe knows such a big word. Then again, maybe this isn’t his little speech. Maybe his dad or someone else, someone who’s actually read a book or two in their lifetime, wrote it for him. “And right now, that’s what we’re doing. It has to stop. So, me and Dad talked about it and we came up with a new payment plan for you.”
I thread my fingers together in a desperate attempt to hide the way they’re shaking. “What new plan?”
“We decided that in order to stay on our good side, you’re going to have to give us thirty-six hundred every single month.”
I reel backwards, only to be brought up short by the hallway wall. I press my shoulders to it, needing it since there’s no way in hell my knees can support me. “Thirty-six hundred dollars,” I repeat. I struggle to wrap my mind around the figure.
Abe nods, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. Good to know my reaction is pleasing him. “That’s right.”
I gulp some air. “Starting when?”
“With this next payment,” Abe says, confirming my worst fears. “Which is due Friday. The day after tomorrow.” He really didn’t have to add that last part. I know exactly what day it is today and when Friday will roll around. It happens every week.
Black spots dance in front of my eyes. I struggle to ignore them. “That’s a fifty percent increase,” I whisper. My voice sounds like it’s coming from a long, long way away. “That’s not fair.”
Abe shrugs his massive shoulders. “Don’t like it? Call the cops. See what they have to say.” He tilts his head to one side. His eyes glitter with an unholy light. “I’m sure they’ll be very interested in some of the things you did for the organization a few years ago.”
And just like that he reminds me exactly how al
one I am in this situation. Desperate for money, I went to the wrong people and started operating beyond the reach of the law, and while that wasn’t strictly illegal, the same couldn’t be said about everything I’ve done.
Abe has me squarely over a barrel and he knows it. Even worse, he’s loving every second of it.
He leans close, so close his lips are a whisper away from brushing my skin and there’s nothing I can do about it. His sour breath washes over my face, and still he keeps coming closer, mashing me between his body and the wall. There’s nothing I can do to stop him.
“If you don’t have the money, you should come to me, and we’ll talk about it. There’s some things you can do to work off your debt.”
“Go. To. Hell.” I force the words out, and am pleased that they sound firm and don’t bely the way all my internal organs have turned to jelly.
Abe isn’t put off by my words. He chuckles and leans even closer, and kisses the corner of my mouth. Cringing, I avert my face, which only encourages him to lick a slimy trail along my jaw and up to my ear.
“I think you’ll find that my idea for an alternative source of payment is a great deal easier than whatever you try to do to earn the money at your little call center job.” One of his thick hands finds my ass and squeezes my cheek. I yelp and try to press myself through the hallway wall. Anything to escape his touch.
“Just make sure you come to me, not my dad. I’ll make sure the work you do is…pleasant and mutually beneficial.” With one more ass squeeze he backs away and his grinning pair of goons follow him into the elevator.
21
Ella
As much as I want to leave the hallway, to escape into the dubious safety of my own apartment and lock the door behind me, I can’t. It’s like all the strength has been drained from my body. Instead of pushing myself away from the wall and running to my door like I want to, when the elevator doors slide closed on Abe’s ugly face, the only thing I do is dribble, jelly-late, down the wall and sit on the floor.
A crumbled shell of a human.
Utterly and totally defeated.
And my body isn’t the only thing lacking the strength to carry on. My brain has completely shut down. It simply can’t process Abe’s words, much less deal with the depth and seriousness of my current problem. I know I should be feeling something: fury, fear, anguish, the need to flee, something, but I don’t. There’s just a vast nothingness.
I don’t know how long I sit there. I know it’s more than long enough for the elevator to descend to the ground floor and for Abe to depart, because the doors ding again, announcing that it’s made a return trip.
My eyes roll in that direction and my stomach muscles tense as the doors slowly start to part. Anticipating Abe’s reaction, I’m glad I haven’t been able to get up. I instinctively know that my complete and utter despondency, which he’ll see as total defeat, will please him even more than if I were to suddenly reach into my laptop bag and pull out the entire amount I owe him and his father.
But the man who steps out of the elevator isn’t Abe. It’s a tall, lanky man I vaguely recognize as the motorcycle mechanic who moved onto this floor from the eighth floor a few months ago when one of the pipes broke in his apartment.
His eyes slide over me, taking in my posture and expression. I think I see a glitter of pity and compassion flicker across his expression, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask if I need any help. I’m not surprised. In this place and others like it across the city, the inhabitants learned a long time ago to stay out of other people’s business.
I wait until the mechanic lets himself into his apartment before I use the wall for both leverage and support and manage to slowly climb to my feet.
I stand there a moment, waiting for the strength to return to my legs while I dig through my bag and locate my keys.
Ignoring my shoes laying in a sodden heap on the floor, I shuffle to my apartment door and let myself in.
Standing in the kitchen of my apartment feels strange. It’s familiar yet distant, like it’s been years since I last stood here instead of a little more than twenty-four hours.
I stare at the fridge, at the pretty pink unicorn Kelsey drew last week hanging there. The sight of that unicorn and the memory of how happy Kelsey had been as she drew it, triggers something inside of me, causing whatever has been holding my emotions in check to snap like a piece of gossamer thread.
Bile bubbles up in my throat once again, the acid burning the inner flesh, and I rush to the sink, barely managing to bend over the side of it before I lose the remains of the Chinese feast I shared with Jason last night. I
turn on the water, letting it wash the mess down the drain while I grab the dishcloth that’s draped across the top of the faucet and use it to scrub the side of my face and neck, desperate to rid my skin of the creeping sensation Abe’s touch left behind.
I keep scrubbing until the skin is raw. Still I don’t feel clean, but that’s nothing compared to the fury boiling inside of me. Screaming nonsense, I grab a coffee mug out of the drying rack beside the sink and hurl it against the wall. The mug shatters on impact, the broken bits of ceramic sliding down the wall and landing in a heap on the floor. Still screaming meaningless words, I repeat the sequence over and over again, hurling a plate, then two more coffee cups before I run out of ammunition.
Sobbing and angrier than I’ve ever been before, I dig my cell phone out of my bag. I stare at the screen for a moment, knowing what I have to do yet hating it, before I finally enter a familiar number and hit the green call button.
I’ve run out of options.
22
Jason
I jog up the basement stairs and close the door firmly behind me.
Dejected and frustrated, I slump against the wall. Daryl steps out of my office and watches me with dark, unreadable eyes. “So,” he says in his deep, sub bass voice.
“She’s gone.” Even as I say the words, I can’t wrap my mind around them. Sure, this is a big house, but it’s not a mansion or anything like that.
Daryl slowly nods. “Yeah, I kind of got that message between the second and third time you insisted we search the house.”
I cut him a nasty glare, which he ignores as he walks into the kitchen and pulls the orange juice out of the fridge. “Who is she?”
“Ella. Ella Collins.” I run my hands through my hair and try to come up with a plan, some sort of strategy to track her down, but nothing comes to mind.
“Good to know, but I wasn’t talking ‘bout her name.” Daryl digs a clean glass out of the dishwasher and fills it with juice. “I meant who is she to you?”
“Huh?”
Daryl rolls his eyes. “I know you ain’t no priest, but in all the years I’ve known you, this is the first time I’ve come face to face with a woman. Based on that, I’ve got to assume she’s more than just a casual, good-time fuck. So, who is she?”
I stare at the plate of cold bacon still sitting on the countertop. Bending, I slide open the warming drawer at the bottom of my stove and remove the two plates I tucked inside just before Ella came into the kitchen and distracted me.
Each plate contains a Denver omelet. When I put them in the drawer, they’d been light and a brilliant shade of yellow. Now they’re just burnt and dried up. Grimacing, I toss them, plates and all, into the trash.
Once again, Ella has taken off rather than share breakfast with me. I glance down at the mess in the trash can. Maybe it’s not something I’ve done; maybe she just really hates omelets.
“She’s Ella.” I’m starting to feel a bit like a broken record. “Florida Ella.”
Daryl’s head snaps around so fast he stumbles. Wide-eyed, he stares at me. “Holy shit. You mean THE Florida Ella? The one who walked away without so much as telling you her last name? The chick you’ve been carrying a torch for since we were in college?”
Daryl is one of the few people in the world who knows about my magical night with Ella. And the only reason he knows is because
in the months following her leaving me, he was the one who had to scrape my drunken ass off a variety of barstools and shuttle me back home, where he was diligent about sobering me up.
“That’s the one.”
“Damn!” Daryl emits a low whistle. “I didn’t think she was real, man. After listening to you mope about her for a few years, I figured she was some sort of drunken hallucination. I don’t know what’s more amazing. That she exists at all, or that you managed to hook up with her again.” His brow furrows. “How did you find her?”
“She called me.”
“She called you,” Daryl repeats, incredulous. “Like out of the blue?”
“Sort of. She works for a call center. Apparently, they got hold of my number somehow, and the night before last, she called me. I recognized her voice right off the bat.”
“Dude.” Daryl drags the word out. “’That’s freaking amazing. I mean, a Vegas bookie wouldn’t even touch those kinds of odds. So, then what did you do?” Here’s the thing about Daryl: he looks like this big, black badass, but there’s a romantic soul hidden behind the badge, the gun, and the mountain of muscle.
I quickly recount how she hung up on me and how I’d used my hacking skills to figure out where she worked and got into the building on the pretense of being an interested investor.
“Sneaky,” Daryl says, conveniently ignoring the fact that when I obtained the information, I broke – at least bended – group and it a few Federal laws, laws he’s supposed to be duty bound to enforce. That’s one of things I love about the guy. He knows when to let a few felonies slide. “I like it.”
“I liked it better when she was here,” I mutter darkly. I drag my fingers through my hair. “What the hell made her bolt?”
“You probably said something to piss her off,” Daryl supplies, “or you started blabbing on and on about computers. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done that, even though I keep telling you, chicks don’t dig on computer shit the way you do.”
