Stain

by Francette Phal

  In the silence that follows, Dro uses the crowbar to leverage himself to his full height. He looks down at Baz.

  I sniff the air and sniff again. “Jesus, fuck!” Taking two quick steps back from the puddle of piss stretching out from under Baz’s ass toward us, I sneer at the cocksucker. I manage to avoid it. Dro isn’t so lucky, but he’s wearing boots so I guess it’s not so bad.

  He doesn’t seem to think so.

  “AHHHHH! AHHHHH!” Ramming his size sixteen between Baz’s legs, Dro applies weight, crushing Baz’s dick and nuts beneath his booted foot. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Not really though.

  “Two days. I’m giving you two days to get my money or I’m going to let the kid here shoot not only your brains out, but your little girl and that little faggot-ass boy toy of yours.”

  Outside, Dro has me follow him to his car. He pops open the trunk, lifts the compartment where he keeps a spare and retrieves a brown paper bag.

  “Do the drop-off tonight. Three grand. There and back. Route four, under the South Bend overpass. The cop is expecting you.” He hands me the bag but retains a firm hold on the opposite end. Looking at me with two black eyes that are pin needles on his face, he says, “Lose my shit again and I’ll put a bullet in your ass.”

  “One fucking time…”

  “One fucking time too many, kid. I’ve got too much riding on this business to have you fuck it up.” He finally lets go. “Take the back roads. Let me know when it’s done.”

  We split. He leaves me in his dust while my truck wheezes down the road. It takes forty minutes to get to the South Bend overpass. I drive down the gravelly pathway that leads to the graffiti-covered bridge. Down here, it’s a hotbed of homeless people, with their makeshift tents made out of tarp and donated clothes. Grocery carts with their entire life’s contents parking against water-stained concrete walls fill the area. For a good eight months after the murder/suicide of our parents, this had been our life. Twelve years old with too much damn knowledge about sex and not enough about the world. We had to learn very quickly that charity on the streets wasn’t freely given. People always wanted something. Tit for fucking tat. I did what I had to do for both Noah and I to survive.

  There wasn’t an amber alert out for us or anything like that, but we learned to evade cops and anyone else who looked like they wanted to take us in. We slept on park benches, under freeway overpasses like this one, and washed our asses in public bathrooms. I stole what we needed to eat from convenience stores. The plan was to eventually make it out west by hitchhiking. Nothing special was there, just figured anywhere was better than Trenton. But shit got derailed when I got caught stealing a few bags of chips, sodas, and some candy. That’s when we got shuffled off into the system.

  Shaking my head to bring me back to focus, I shut off my headlights and drive farther down. I don’t bring any unnecessary attention to myself. Not that snitching isn’t a possibility but most of the people down here are junkies, too loaded to see straight let alone be taken seriously by anyone who came around asking questions.

  Three successive flashes from a pair of headlights grabs my attention. I drive closer to find a black SUV idling next to a pile of long metal cylinders. I wait a good five minutes, because you can never be too cautious when it comes to shit like this. With the paper bag scrunched up tight to fit inside my back pocket, I get out of my truck. The last two times I came with Dro for a drop-off the cop got out of the car to meet him. I’m guessing he’s not going to give me the same courtesy as he remains in the SUV. In the back of my head I’m wondering if it’s a setup. A sting of some sort meant to catch Dro, but he sent me instead because he knew what would go down. Set me up for his fall. That’s the cynical part of me. It never lets me get too comfortable. But with my luck, this sort of shit wasn’t impossible. Either way, I wouldn’t be going down without a fight. The SIG is exactly where I want it to be, snug at the crack of my ass. I can reach for it easily enough if I need it. When I approach the SUV, the driver rolls down the window about halfway down. A slight tilt of my head allows me to see that it’s the same guy I remember.

  He’s what you’d expect a cop to look like. Tall, broadly built, and stocky. He still has that ugly-as-fuck crew cut, but he’s shaved off his beard from the last time I saw him. My eyes flick to the passenger seat. There’s a girl seated there, not much I can tell about her except that she’s not wearing much in the way of clothes, except of course for the sports cap covering her long, black hair, the bill lowered to cover her face. With her jaw moving as she chews on what I can only guess is gum, she keeps her gaze focused straight ahead.

  The abrupt “Hey,” is accompanied by a short whistle and a snap of his fingers. When I look at him he stares back with glassy, black eyes. “Got something for me?”

  Reaching inside my back pocket, I hand him the brown paper bag. “Three grand.”

  He smirks, adding, “Heard your boss got some new product he’s dealing.”

  I shrug. “Couldn’t tell ya.”

  As his stare narrows, he doesn’t say a damn thing.

  “We good?”

  “Tell your boss if he wants to keep dealing in my city, it’s going to start costing him a little more.”

  Poker-faced, I ask, “How much more?”

  “Double.”

  “I’ll give him the message.”

  He smirks. “Like a good little errand boy.”

  Clenching my jaw on the “Eat my dick, motherfucker,” isn’t without effort. Clear as fucking day, I can see the challenge in his eyes, the antagonism that dares me to give him a reason to haul me in, and I sure as fuck am not about to give him one. No matter how much I wanted to spray his car with bullet holes. I wait until he drives off before heading back to my pickup to head home.

  Chapter 6

  Aylee

  It’s Friday and typically we’d be in school right now, but we’ve been given a day off because of faculty meetings. Rachel, Sarah, and I leave first. I’m not overly fond of sitting in the passenger seat so Sarah hops in next to her mother, while I slide into the back. Just as we’re pulling out from the driveway, I see Tim step out of the side door of the house. I watch him through the tinted window as he makes his way to the second car parked in the garage. The black Dodge Durango is what he generally takes to work. Slung over his shoulder is a big, navy blue duffel bag he dumps into the trunk. Just before Rachel drives away, Tim looks up and spears me with black as night eyes. A shudder trickles down my spine at the small smirk he gifts me with. It’s like he knows I’m looking at him. Like he can see me looking at him through the dark glass. I remain unsettled all the way to the hospital.

  Beth Israel Psychiatric is a twenty minute ride from the house. I could’ve ridden my bike here, and normally I do, but whenever she can, Rachel likes playing chauffeur. She likes being needed, I guess. I thank her for the ride and she tells me she’ll pick me up in an hour and a half. She idles for a bit, probably making sure I actually go to the group. If she could, I’m sure she’d want to hold my hand and walk me inside herself. Stepping inside the glass revolving door always makes me feel like I’m being swallowed alive. The feeling of claustrophobia that takes me by the throat when I step inside is thankfully brief. I breathe easier when I make it to the other side. The foyer is like any typical hospital. Overly-waxed, white tiled floors, bright florescent lights and uninspired white walls. There’s a reception area directly in front of me with two employees seated behind a long, black desk, both occupied with their respective guests on the phone. The only thing remotely appealing about the winding wooden staircase to my right is the elegantly crafted black wrought iron handrails. Heading to the bank of elevators located farther down the foyer, I make a small detour to the Starbucks facing the first floor waiting area, and come out a beat later with a cup of Venti passion fruit iced tea. Just as I round the corner, I barely manage to avoid colliding with a very pregnant woman and her boyfriend/husband. My immediate apology doesn’t save me from the boyfrie
nd/husband’s wrath as he proceeds to cuss me out.

  “Stupid bitch, watch where the fuck you’re going!”

  I murmur another apology before hastily escaping further scorn. With no further incident, I hop inside the elevator, press the button for the fourth floor, and exit the cab when it reaches my destination. I’m the only one to get out from the small cluster of eight people who hopped in with me. On both my right and left there are a series of closed doors that continue down the carpeted hallway. Black plaques with golden lettering hang next to each door indicating the names of the physicians and their specialty. Outpatient group therapy is the fifth door on my left. I step inside to find a room of seven familiar faces. They’re all seated around a long, white-topped rectangular table. Every other chair is empty because no one is sitting next to each other except of course for the bleary-eyed couple at the end of the table. Jay and Sylvia. They’ve moved their steel chairs so close together that Sylvia is practically on Jay’s lap. They have their hands firmly interlocked on top of the table as if letting go seemed blasphemous. There are five chairs that remain unoccupied. I take the empty chair toward the back next to Sylvia and it’s not too long before the remaining four trickle into the room rounding out our group of twelve. There’s two clinical social workers in charge of our group. Monday’s, Wednesday’s, and Friday’s group therapy is always lead by Patricia Wallis. While Tuesdays and Thursdays are Regina Petersons’ days. I like Patricia the most because between the two she seems far more experienced at her job than her coworker. She also has a sort of empathy that makes it easy for people to talk to her. So I’m a little disappointed to find that rather than Patricia, Regina is leading the group today.

  “I’ll be covering Patricia’s sessions for the next two weeks,” she announces.

  “Why?” the girl seated across from me asks curtly.

  Pushing her wire frame glasses further up on her nose, Regina sighs. “I’m not sure, Allison. All I know is that she won’t be here for some time.”

  “I heard it’s because she got caught giving a handy to one of her patients. Is that true?” While the rest of the room erupts in laughter, I look at Regina for a reaction. Although she tries to remain calm, the expression on her face gives her annoyance away.

  A deep frown knits her brow. “How about we start the group, instead.” It’s not a question. “I’m thinking today we focus on personal control.”

  Standing beside an easel holding a dry-erase board, she scribbles down illegible words that look like chicken scratch. I take my sketchpad out of my canvas bag and open it up to my recent work in progress. I’m not completely ignoring her. I have half an ear of what she’s saying, but she’s not saying anything I haven’t already heard. It’s going to be ninety minutes of her droning on and on. I can get my sketch done in that amount of time. The sound of Regina’s voice fades into the background as inspiration takes hold of me. I lose myself in my artwork, my fingers laboring across the charcoal-covered page to conjure a demon. One of mine, more than likely. Another entity inspired by my fascination with the macabre drawings. The more gruesome, the better it seems.

  There’s a monster on my page. He’s made up of slashing, angry, bold, black lines and shadows. He has stygian black eyes and claws that seem to extend from the sketchpad with the intent of snatching me from my contrived bliss. It’s the sound of the door banging close that draws me back to reality. Like everyone else in the room, my eyes automatically fly to the entryway. Instant recognition has my heart lurching painfully against my chest, while my mind races.

  What’s he doing here?

  That silent inquiry ricochets inside the walls of my mind as I survey him. Black hoodie, black, fitted jeans, and scuffed, black boots sum up the whole outfit. He has rock star hair today, mussed around his head like he just rolled out of bed. There’s a presence about him. It’s something so unmistakable, patented only to him, that I can’t seem to deny or resist the draw. It has me sitting up a little straighter in my chair. That magnetizing appeal he wields so well is the reason why I stare like he’s the Second Coming. It’s also why when I try to swallow, it feels like the Sahara has made a temporary home inside my mouth.

  “Hi,” Regina greets with a tight smile, breaking the awkward silence his entrance ushered in, “welcome to the group.”

  He says nothing in response, only hands her a folded piece of paper before he walks away. He has a slow, lazy gait. Unhurried, like time itself should move in accordance to his progression. Dropping my gaze is almost reflexive when he saunters past me. I would hate to be caught looking. Hate for him to discover my odd fascination with him, and become weirded out by it. Tension sets my spine ramrod straight when he takes the seat next to me. Sweat pearls along my skin making me feel oddly cold and hot all at the same time. The next hour and fifteen minutes is sweetly unbearable. Trying to concentrate on sketching becomes a task I can’t commit to. From my peripheral, I see him but not very well. And when I tell myself not to look, the desire to do otherwise is so strong it’s hard to fight it. I find my head turning more than a few times, my eyes trailing the exquisite structure of his face. He has a wide forehead and low, hooded brows set over slumbering eyes. With him sleeping, it’s easier to look at him. I take in his angular jaw, the cleft in his square chin that leads to the grim line of his full mouth. The small, white scar slashing down the corner of his top lip is noticeable this close up. There’s a slight crook in his nose but it barely detracts from his masculine beauty. Resting on blessedly high cheekbones are full, dark lashes that match the jet of his hair. It’s styled in an undercut, trimmed low all around except the top, which he’s gathered in a short ponytail. My eyes return to his mouth, specifically to the scar, and it’s while I’m wondering how he got it that Regina calls the end to the group.

  “All right, guys, I’ll see you next week. Great session today.” I wouldn’t know. I’ve been preoccupied gawking at my living muse. While everyone gets up and files out of the room, scraping chairs back and speaking a little too loudly, Maddox remains sleeping. Completely unbothered by the noise. I push away from the table, ready to follow behind everyone else in exiting the room except I find myself lingering back and even before I can process the next thought, my hand is reaching out to him with the intention of waking him up. It’s completely stupid and uncharacteristic of me, and luckily my nerves come into play in the next second, stilling my hand and curbing my short bout of insanity. With my hand still hovering inches from his tattooed shoulder, I can feel the heat radiating off his body. Inferno hot. And maybe it’s my overactive imagination or maybe just wishful thinking, but his skin is like a magnet that exerts a pull on my fingers so powerful I have to curl them into a tight fist to keep myself from touching him.

  You need to go.

  It’s a simple command that my mind whispers.

  Don’t be creepy.

  I silently scoff at that.

  Too late.

  Grateful that his deep sleep has spared him of my eccentricities, I gather my things and vacate the room as fast as I possibly can, only to trip over my feet in the corridor. I’m quick enough in catching myself before I go sprawling to the floor, but it doesn’t save me the embarrassment. The three women who’d been standing near the door chatting understandably snicker as I walk by. It’s with reddened cheeks that I step inside the mercifully empty elevator shaft. I’m reaching over to press the L button when I see him coming. He smoothly makes it inside before the double silver doors close at the center. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to act. All there is is the heavy vibration of infinite silence occasionally interrupted by the whirring wires of the elevator gradually bringing us down to our mutual destination. In this tight, enclosed space, I become too conscious of his force. He’s gravity and I’m merely debris, completely drawn in by his influence. I can feel the irregular beats of my heart knocking against the bars of my rib cage, playing out the rhythm of my unease. With every choppy intake of breath, I take his scent i
nto my lungs. It’s a scent distinct only to him. It’s a mixture of sun, wood, and freshly cut grass. There’s a spicy base note that lingers like melted chocolate on my tongue. It’s hell on wires that lasts too long but isn’t long enough when the elevator finally grounds to a stop. I step out first and I’m proud of myself for fighting the impulse to turn and look behind me. Taking a bracing breath, I conquer the revolving door once more and walk outside. Looking to my left and then my right, I finally see Rachel’s car in the second parking lot as it slowly makes its way to me.

  “Next time,” I gasp sharply, my eyes wide, “you should just touch me.” He delivers the words with hushed gruffness. The whisper of his warm breath against my ear and neck sends a foreign sensation ribboning down my spine. He walks away in the same instant Rachel pulls up. My skin is prickling, my heart racing erratically. Standing paralyzed on the sidewalk, I watch his retreating back. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he steadily makes his way to the parking lot until he disappears from my view.

  “Aylee, sweetheart, are you okay?” It takes Rachel’s inquiry to snap me out of my temporary paralysis. Opening the rear door, I glide inside and firmly close it behind me.

  “Yeah.” I buckle my seat belt. “I’m okay.”

  Anxious to see if she’ll mention Maddox, I wait with bated breath.

  “How was therapy?”

  A quiet exhale deflates my body as I slump back into the seat. “Fine.” I’ve never been very forthcoming with my replies about therapy anyway, so when I answer back with one-word syllables it isn’t anything unusual. But I’m distracted. My gaze is focused outside the tinted window. Rachel has to take the next left to navigate out of the hospital parking lot. Unconsciously, I move closer to the door, turn my head completely now, as my gaze bounces around. Searching…searching for a glimpse of him. Nothing. He’s nowhere to be found.