by Hazel Parker
“This is where you want?” the Uber driver said, as surprised as I was, albeit for different reasons.
“Yeah…yeah,” I said, scrambling to get out of the car before I could think better. “Thanks.”
The driver just grunted and shrugged, taking another ride before I was out the door. I confirmed I had my keys, wallet, and phone in my purse and walked up.
There was not a sound coming from within. Maybe it was just a party every other week, or maybe…maybe something bad had happened.
I knocked on the door.
“Hello?” I said.
But I didn’t hear anything on the other side. I stepped back, looking up and down. Some recent aesthetic work had clearly been done, but otherwise, there wasn’t any sign of life around.
Well, you tried. That’s all you can really say, right? That you tried.
I grimaced, started to pout, and walked away.
And then the door opened behind me.
I recognized the man because of his walking boot, but I forgot his name. Mark, I think?
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Yeah, is, uhh, Lane around?”
“Lane?” he said as if he’d never heard the name. “Oh, Niner! Um…no, he’s out taking care of some things for the club.”
“Oh. Is he…will he be back soon?”
Mark or Marcus, or whatever his name was, did not look hopeful with his expression.
“He’ll probably be out until two or three in the morning.”
I can’t be out that late. Damon will probably do something then. I need…I need to get home.
“OK,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”
I got three steps before the man called back to me.
“Aren’t you Carrie?” he said.
“You know my name?”
“My brother knows Lane really well. Think he put two and two together,” he said. “Do you want me to tell Ni—err, Lane—that you came by?”
I thought about how we had ended. It didn’t feel right to keep a fire alive when all that happened was us getting burned the last few times. It would have been one thing if I was there to ameliorate the threat of getting burned. It was another if someone else had simply told Lane that I had shown up.
But I didn’t just want to let him go without knowing I’d tried.
“I…if you think it’ll make him happy, you can tell him,” I said. “Otherwise, don’t.”
The bald man looked uncertain about how to handle it, but he eventually just nodded.
“I’ll see how he is when he gets back.”
“Is he doing OK?”
I hated that I blurted out the question. But then again, it wasn’t like I was ever going to see him again.
“With Lane, it’s sometimes hard to tell.”
But with me, it never feels that way. That realization only made me feel worse, knowing what I was walking away from.
“OK, thanks,” I said, and this time, I made a point of walking away and not continuing the dialogue with Marcel—that was it, that was his name.
I didn’t call an Uber at first. I just sort of numbly moved through the streets. I guess fate was trying to tell me that I wasn’t going to see Lane again. If this effort to come to his workplace had failed, then everything else would.
It was only the sound of motorcycles roaring by that got me out of my funk and to call an Uber. But the motorcycles also did something else.
They brought me back to that happy day when he and I rode his bike all the way out to New Jersey, escaping the clutches of the city that never slept and gaining temporary respite. It was perhaps the day in which we most fell into each other and most cared for each other. Yes, Damon had appeared at the start, but otherwise, nothing had interfered with our day.
And then the reality of work for both of us intruded, and we were never meant to be like that again.
But, for at least one fleeting afternoon and evening, I got to see what it was like to be with him.
I guessed, in time, I would come to see that as the lasting memory of Lane. If that was what the memory was going to be, I’d have to say it was a pretty damn good one.
“Thank you, Lane. Thank you for the best night of my life.”
With that, I headed home, went upstairs, and closed the door on the New York City chapter of my life.
Chapter 17: Niner
I couldn’t find a goddamn thing.
I was patrolling the streets like a rabid dog, hoping to find the scent of anything Bloodhounds-related. I went to the spots I thought Damon was most likely to be. I went to abandoned parts of town. I stretched myself out pretty far, putting myself into a few locations that, if things went to shit, I wouldn’t get help at for quite some time.
But there was no luck.
And, making it worse, I couldn’t get Carrie Griffith out of my head, no matter how much I told myself to act like a goddamn sergeant-at-arms and stay calm. My emotions were clouding my actions and judgment, but it was worse than the day we had caught the one Bloodhound in question. My angry emotions that day had gotten him to talk. My emotions now were just getting me to be a hot mess.
I’d meant to go until four in the morning, but shortly after midnight, just a couple hours into my shift, I gave up. I didn’t see a reason to keep going like this, not when I was more likely to stop and yell at myself than to actually catch Damon. This whole futile pursuit was just going to increase my frustration.
I couldn’t believe I was thinking this, but maybe I just needed to take a day or two off. Maybe working at the shop all working hours wasn’t what was good for me. Maybe I needed to take a couple of days to digest everything and think about what I had gone through.
No, that wasn’t it. But I definitely couldn’t keep going tonight.
I returned to the repair shop, parked my car inside, and walked over to Marcel, sitting in the office, plotting out our next moves. To his credit, he was not as fearful as when we’d started, but I wondered how much of that was a function of him still recovering from the bullet wound to his foot. I didn’t think he was faking it, but I did think that he would need to be out on point at some time to really understand it.
“You find anything?” he said.
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Fuck…sorry man. You OK?”
I shook my head.
“Frustrating fucking week. Can’t keep my mind straight. I’m going to go home and try and make some sense of everything.”
Marcel nodded, opened his mouth, and paused. He looked at me like he wanted to say something, but every time he seemed like he was about to, he just couldn’t get it out.
“What?”
Marcel shook his head.
“Sorry. I was just going to ask if there was anything I could do to help, but I know you don’t need it.”
I knew right away he was lying. But I didn’t really care.
“No, I don’t. I just need to buck up and get my shit together. I know I’m acting like a pussy right now—”
“It’s not that at all, Niner.”
“I’m taking time off to get my head in order,” I said. “If you’re in the middle of a criminal pursuit, you don’t get to say, ‘oh, let me take a mental break.’ You go and finish the job.”
Marcel sighed.
“Niner…”
“You’re lucky,” I said with a chuckle. “You got love at home. You can use that to unwind. I thought I had a chance, but it’s OK. I’ll move on and get over it.”
Just probably not for the foreseeable future.
“OK, I can’t bullshit you anymore, Niner,” Marcel said. “The thing I was going to tell you? She came for you.”
“Who?”
But I knew damn well who as soon as he said it.
“She was wondering where you were. I think she wanted to see how you were doing. She asked me to only tell you if you seemed in a good mood, but I think you need to know…”
His voice trailed off because I just left. I couldn’t take him tellin
g me this. I had my chance to see Carrie, and I’d been out patrolling.
I was feeling emotional, again.
And while I could feel angry and I could feel violent, I could not, in my position, start crying and acting that way.
Still, Carrie, I wish I was here. I wish I was here to hear whatever you needed to say.
I knew she was closing the shop, so I doubted I could see her. But…maybe she’d have to come in the next day to do some cleanup. Maybe she’d have to make a drop by the store.
I suddenly knew what I was going to do with my off day.
* * *
At precisely eleven in the morning, across the street from Southern Comfort, I sat down at a nearby coffee shop. Not surprisingly, Southern Comfort showed no signs of business, and though I couldn’t read the words on the paper pasted to the front door, I knew that it wasn’t likely to signify anything promising.
But I believed that so long as there was a chance of Carrie coming by the store for any last-second work, I owed it to her to wait because of what she had done for me.
And so I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Eleven turned to noon, which turned to two, which turned to five in the afternoon. The only time that I took my eyes off of the building was when I went inside to the coffee shop to grab some pastries to eat. Otherwise, it was either directly in my line of sight or in my periphery, but either way, I never saw Carrie.
When five turned into eight, I knew she wasn’t coming by. At this point, the sun had set, and the bars were starting to open. The coffee shop I had come to, in fact, had closed for the night, with a couple of the baristas asking me if I needed anything. It only made things worse to know that they pitied me, as if I were some guy who was stood up on a date.
I didn’t regret the decision, though. She had gone out of her way, and I—
Is that who the fuck I think it is?
I kept staring at the man who was walking up to the shop as if staring long enough would show me his true identity. But I knew it was him. I knew it was the man I’d chased for years.
Damon Wicker.
For all the patrolling and all the chasing I’d done, I hadn’t seen him in the flesh since I left the NYPD…until now.
And I needed to hide if I didn’t want an opportunity to get blown.
I quickly went to a table that was not so poorly lit and turned my body as much as I could to avoid drawing Damon’s eyes without also compromising my own vision. Using my periphery, I did my best to try and make sense of what he was doing.
He looked like he was trying to open the door but was not having luck. He then got a little frustrated, appearing to kick the door in frustration, though he didn’t make a big show of it, as if he knew doing so would draw some suspicious eyes. He then went into his pockets, as if he would have a key there.
If he was doing this at Southern Comfort…if he was trying to break in like this…
Damon didn’t do break-ins. In all the time that I’d tracked him, whenever he committed a crime, it was to rape or murder. He didn’t do small-time petty crimes like theft, and he most certainly didn’t break into restaurants to steal some money from the cash register.
He knows of Carrie.
The absolute worst-case scenario was playing out in my head. The motive didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that Damon was hunting Carrie, trying to find her for his own means. The things he was going to do to her…
Her life was at risk.
But of more immediate concern was that Damon was now walking away. I texted the club’s officers in a group chat. “Found Damon. Following. On foot from Southern Comfort,” and immediately began the pursuit.
Although I felt very confident that I was keeping my distance properly and that Damon had not seen me, he was zig-zagging in and out of alleyways, across streets, and taking circular routes, as if he knew he was being followed or wanted to expose someone for following him. I’d seen him do this before, which led me to believe Damon was just following “best” practices to avoid getting caught. It sickened me, but it didn’t stop me.
Unfortunately, I lost track of him around a subway station.
“Fuck!” I muttered to myself, drawing more than a few glances from confused people.
OK, so you didn’t get him. But you had better go and protect Carrie. That’s the least that you can do.
I went back up to street level. The instant that I had cellular reception, I called Carrie.
She didn’t answer the first call.
OK, she’s probably fine. She’s not anywhere near here. Even if one of Damon’s cronies found her, you have time to get there before he does if you hurry.
I sprinted back to the repair shop so I could get my bike and hurry over. I called Carrie a second time.
Again, no answer.
Now I was beginning to panic. I understood if she didn’t want to talk on the first ring; maybe she thought that my calling was some desperate plea to win her back, and she wanted nothing to do with that. I wasn’t under any illusion that my providing protection would win her back or keep her in New York City.
But on the second call? That made me believe there was something holding her back. There was something preventing her from answering me. That was unacceptable. That was terrifying.
I called her a third time, silently praying that she would answer her phone just to let me know that she was alive and safe. She could hate me for calling her; that was fine. I was willing to sacrifice her feelings for me if it meant I knew she’d be alive.
It got to the fourth ring when she finally picked up.
“Lane? What’s going on?” she said, sounding more concerned than I would have expected.
“Where are you?”
“In my apartment, why?”
“Are you safe?”
“Yeah?” she said, her voice shifting from concerned and confused to fearful and perhaps slightly annoyed. “Why?”
“I need you to stay where you are right now,” I said. “I’m coming to you.”
“Wait, Lane, why? What the hell is going on?”
“You’re being stalked by a very dangerous man, a man—”
“Bald man with neck tattoos?”
Oh, shit. How long has this been going on? How long have I let her be in danger?
“Yes, Damon. You know him?”
“He’s just a creepy guy that’s come to my restaurant a few times and offered to make investments. And…yeah.”
There’s something else she’s not saying.
“I don’t think it’s anything serious, Lane. I appreciate your concern, but—”
“No, Carrie, listen to me, just, listen,” I said. I didn’t give a fuck how demanding I sounded; this could not be played with. “Damon is not just some creepy guy. He is a serial rapist and murderer. I can’t…how long has this been going on for?”
“Couple of weeks, maybe? Not that long.”
“He’s sizing you up,” I said. “It’s how he operates. He’s a sick fuck, and—”
“Lane!” Carrie said. “I’m leaving on Tuesday. I have a flight booked.”
There was just something that felt so much like a gut punch about that sentence, even though it wasn’t exactly a surprise. She was leaving that soon? It wasn’t like in two weeks or a month, but in three days?
“And on top of that, I have pepper spray. I know how to defend myself—”
“No, Carrie, please,” I said, frustration palpable in my voice. “That’s not going to be enough on Damon. Even if you get lucky against him, he’s going to have people nearby who can help. He’s the one that I was looking for when you came by the shop yesterday.”
“Oh,” she said, perhaps surprised Marcel had told me.
“You need protection until then. I’m coming over to your place.”
“Lane—”
“This isn’t a discussion, Carrie. I know you may hate me for it, but I’d rather you hate me and be alive. Whatever you do—”
I looked around the area to make sure no one was listening to me.
“Do not open the door for anyone until I show up. I will knock deliberately four times, at which point you should let me in.”
“Lane!”
“I’ll see you in about twenty minutes.”
I hung up before she could argue the point. It didn’t matter what her counter was.
Nothing was worth risking Carrie’s life over, most especially some silly streak of independence that stood little chance in the face of Damon’s evil wrath.
Chapter 18: Carrie
The hell is he thinking?
I figured part of me was trying to push Lane away because of the emotions that were bound to come, especially after all of the missed attempts I’d had at trying to see him and trying to end on a good note. But part of me just didn’t understand the big deal. Damon was far from the first creeper I’d ever had to deal with at Southern Comfort.
While he was probably the worst, I had dealt with some unusually disturbing people who just didn’t understand proper manners; among them, I’d had someone propose to me, someone tell me that I’d go to hell if I didn’t suck his cock, and someone I had to call the cops on because he was scaring off other customers. Damon certainly wasn’t normal, and while I had a healthy fear of him, that didn’t mean I didn’t know how to protect myself.
I knew Lane had arrived even before he knocked on the door because I could hear the high-pitched screams of his bike as he arrived. It was pretty obvious from the noise that he had been speeding, and the fact that he seemingly bounded up the stairs to my apartment in almost record time told me he believed I was in danger. He knocked on the door as if someone was trying to chase him with a machete.
“Coming, coming,” I shouted.
Remember, this is someone you want to be around. He’s just a little crazy because he likes you. Humor him a bit.
I opened the door just an inch, but Lane immediately came in, shut the door behind him, and started going through the apartment.
“Lane?” I said.
It was an odd juxtaposition in my head to see a man that I had been so aroused by and had slept with so willingly acting like a conspiracy theorist who had lost what little he had of his mind. It was like my body wanted to like him, but my mind would not allow it even to begin thinking about it, let alone actually want him.
