MANIC: Rook and Ronin, #2

by JA Huss

  "Ma'am—" I'm suddenly having flashbacks of Ronin checking me for drugs and a laugh bursts out.

  Spencer and the cop look at me funny.

  "I'm not drinking, I swear."

  "What?" the cop asks.

  "I'm just saying, I'm not drunk or anything, officer. It's just I've never driven a truck like this before and it was so much fun, I got a little carried away." I stop to bat my eyelashes at him. "I'm sorry, I'll tone it down, OK?"

  "License and registration."

  Fucktard. I reach into my pocket and pull out my license and hand it over. Spencer's already on the other side of the truck fishing through the glove box for the insurance card and registration. When he finds them he hands the papers to me and I pass them along.

  The cop takes them, eyeballing Spencer as he shuffles through the glove box, trying to hide a gun under some Dairy Queen napkins. "Please tell me that's not what I think it is."

  "It's permitted, Scott. You wanna see my concealed carry card?"

  "Only if it has her name on it, Spencer. She's the one driving the truck."

  I glance over at Spencer and raise my eyebrows. He just shakes his head until the cop walks back to his car and gets inside.

  "Goddamn it, Rook! You're on the road thirty seconds and you get pulled over!"

  "Am I gonna get busted for that gun in the glove box?"

  "I'm not sure. He could be a dick about that, but it's not technically illegal—we could fight it. I forgot it was in here to be honest, I have guns stashed everywhere. And you driving like Danica Patrick isn't fucking helping the situation. This might be the Wild West, but you can't piss off the locals like that, Rook!"

  "That's not fair, Spencer! It's the middle of nowhere!" I look around trying to figure out where the cop came from but all I see is a little dirt road that leads up a hill and some cows munching on grass across the way.

  "Well, if you'd listened to me when you were busy gunnin' it, I would've told you that a cop lives right up that road and that's where he eats his lunch every day."

  "Oh."

  Ford walks up and leans in my window. "This is good TV, Rook. Nice going."

  "It wasn't a plan, you dickbitch," Spencer growls at him. "This guy hates my guts and he just saw my fucking piece in the glove box, so let's not piss him off, OK?"

  We wait there in silence for what seems like eternity and then the cop finally comes back, writing something down on a pad of paper.

  "Scott," Spencer says, trying to begin the negotiations that are surely coming. "Don't be an asshole. You know my trucks are legal, you know that gun is mine. She's new, she was having a little fun, she's—"

  "She's got a missing person's report out on her in Illinois. Some guy who says he's her husband, Jon Walsh."

  I lean out the window and puke right on Ford's shoes.

  Chapter Twenty-Six - ROOK

  "Rook?" Spencer and Ford are saying my name together but all I can do is try to remember how to breathe. "Rook? Stop, Rook. Look at me!"

  "Get her out of the truck. Take her out!" The cop is pushing Ford to get out of the way and trying to open the door but I'm grasping onto the window and pulling in the opposite direction because I feel like I'm dying.

  I'm dying.

  He's found me.

  I grab at Ford's shirt, pulling him towards me as I gasp for breath. "Help me! I can't—"

  "She's just hyperventilating. Rook, look at me." I look up at the cop and he's pointing to his eyes. "Look at me, OK? Can you look at me?"

  I nod, my breathing becoming harder and harder.

  "Do you have any breathing conditions? Do I need to call an ambulance?"

  I shake my head as I continue to sob and gasp for air.

  "OK. Listen, I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just going to put my hand over your mouth and pinch one nostril closed. Then you can only breathe through one side of your nose. This will help you calm down, OK?"

  I nod and he does what he described. I struggle at first because it reminds me of being suffocated by Jon, but he keeps a firm hold over my mouth and talks to me in soft, soothing words. "Slow down, OK?" He looks me in the eyes. "Slow."

  I try, but it's very hard to stop the chain reaction inside my body. I shake all over as I try my hardest to get my breathing under control. And then slowly, after many minutes, he removes his hand and I am not gasping.

  And then I just cry. "He's gonna find me!"

  I just cry.

  "Rook," the cop says. "Don't cry, OK? No one's gonna find you. You're OK. If you start crying, you'll have another attack. Just calm down."

  I stop the sobbing but the tears still come. They pour out in rivers and roll down my cheeks. "He's gonna find me. He's gonna know where I am!"

  "Who, Rook?" Ford pushes the cop out of the way and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Who's gonna find you?"

  "My ex, Jon. He's gonna know." I look over at the cop. "You ran my name and it triggered the report, right?"

  "Yeah, but he won't have access to that, you don't—"

  "He's a computer forensics specialist for the Chicago PD!"

  The cop is stunned silent because I'm sure he's seen this scene play out a hundred times. There's only one reason for a girl to act this way about a man from her past.

  "Scott, can we just take her home?" Spencer asks from the passenger seat. "If you're gonna write a ticket, do it fast, OK?"

  "No, you're good." He looks past me, over to Spencer. "Sorry, dude. I had no idea. It was just a stupid traffic stop."

  "Get in, Rook," Ford says, taking my arm. He opens the door to the back cab and pushes me in, then follows me. "Drive, Spencer."

  Spencer climbs over the console and plops down in the driver's seat and starts up the truck. He turns around and takes us back to the shop. When we get there, Ford talks into his little microphone and tells the crew to turn off the cameras. Then he and Spencer take me into the house and sit me down on the couch.

  "OK, I'm not gonna fight with you about this, Rook," Ford says with a hard edge to his voice. "I'm only gonna ask you once. Is this man dangerous?"

  I nod and the tears start again.

  "How dangerous? Does he fight men? Or just women?"

  "Just women, I think."

  Both Ford and Spencer exchange a sort of conspiratorial look.

  "Is he really your husband?"

  I cry harder as I look up at Ford and nod. "He is. He made me!"

  "OK, that's enough, Ford. She's had enough now. I'm calling Ronin. He's probably not even halfway yet." Spencer pulls out his phone and messes with the screen. We listen together as it dials Ronin on speaker.

  It goes straight to voicemail.

  "Shit, no service in the mountains. I'm not leaving this kind of message on voicemail, Rook. So we'll just have to wait until he gets back in range near Steamboat and I'll try again later."

  I am suddenly exhausted and I just nod and lie down on the couch, my face buried in the pillow.

  Ford sits down on the coffee table as Spencer goes outside to run interference with the camera crew coming up the front steps. "You're safe here, you know that right? You're totally safe here."

  "I don't feel safe, Ford. I feel the opposite of safe."

  "This is your damage, isn't it? You ran from him, didn't you?"

  I nod my head into the pillow.

  "And somehow you found Ronin, and he figured it out. Because I know you didn't tell him. You're not a teller, are you, Rook? You keep secrets, don't you?"

  "Just stop, Ford. I'm not in the mood."

  He hesitates for a second, then takes a deep breath. "I have to confess, I've never seen someone have a panic attack like that. I thought you were dying."

  I turn over a little so I can look up at his face. I'm not sure what I expect, but it isn't sympathy like I get. "I felt like I was dying, too. I thought you were a mental psychosis prodigy, Ford? How could you never've seen a panic attack?"

  He laughs out a little bit of air. "I'm an armchair therapist—"
<
br />   I watch him struggle for words for a few seconds and his eyes dart back and forth as he looks me in one eye, then the other. His expression becomes very serious. "What?" I ask.

  "You really scared me."

  "Sorry."

  "You need to get a divorce."

  "I can't see him again, Ford. I can't. I'm not just not capable of handling that. I'm not."

  He looks away and looks off into the distance. "Just leave it to us, Rook. We'll handle it."

  "What's that mean?"

  Ford shrugs, like this is nothing. "I'm sure Ronin's going to ask for favors when he gets back."

  "I don't understand."

  "Just relax, OK? He won't hurt you again. You should just stop worrying about that right now."

  "The hurt's inside, Ford. He doesn't need to be here to hurt me." I watch his expression carefully as he absorbs my words. This uncharacteristic version of Ford. The one who says he's scared and who talks soft and reassures me. I'm not sure who this guy is and it's making me nervous.

  "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

  I nod yes because my chest hurts with each hiccup of air left over from crying and hyperventilating and my eyes are burning so bad I can't keep them open anymore. "I just want to close my eyes, OK? Just for a minute."

  "We'll be right outside if you need anything."

  I turn away and face the back of the couch, running through all the bad days of my previous life. The psychological torture Jon put me through, the verbal lashings, the physical punishment. My head is throbbing so bad I almost want to throw up again.

  But I think of Ronin instead. Of all the ways he's treated me nice since I met him. Even Ford, who is still a very weird guy who probably has some not-so-innocent intentions with me. But he's nice too, and he seems to care.

  And Spencer, and Antoine, and Elise. Even Billy and Josie.

  I have a whole new life filled with people who are nice. People who don't think it's OK to hurt me.

  But what if Jon decides he needs to hurt them too?

  I start crying again, because I can handle him hurting me, but I would never be able to live with myself if he hurt one of my new friends.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - RONIN

  Clare's sleeping when I finally make it to the treatment center just past two. Antoine and Elise are already back at their little apartment and I'm not even gonna bother stopping in there, I just want to make sure Clare knows I'm still around. I sit down next her and smile when she begins to wake up. She's so much better than she was last week. Not out of the woods yet, but definitely better.

  "You're back," she mumbles, still very drowsy from the methadone treatment.

  "I said I would be. You didn't need to panic, you're gonna give Elise a heart attack, making her call me and threatening to stop treatment if I don't come."

  "I was afraid you'd ditch me for that girl."

  "Well, I wouldn't ditch you. It's not an either-or choice, Clare. You'll like her, you'll see."

  "Are you staying?" She's having a hard time keeping her eyes open now, it's only a matter of time before she dozes off again.

  "No, sorry. I have to get back. But I'm rooting for you, you know that right?"

  She's out. And it's a good thing, too. Because if she was at the tail end of her dose instead of at the onset, she'd be a lot harder to deal with. It sucks to say it, because it's all kinds of wrong, but she's so much nicer when she's sedated.

  I go back out and tell the reception girl I'm leaving, then get back in my truck and start the three-hour drive all over again.

  I've been trying not to think about Spencer's phone call, but it's hard not to, now that I'm heading back and there's nothing else to occupy my time. This makes the drive back to the Shrike Shop agonizing because all of the calm that came from seeing Clare asleep and getting better has been wiped away by Spencer's words. They just repeat over and over in my head. Panic attack. Missing person's report. Married.

  That fucker married her.

  The rage inside me as I picture her being legally tied to that violence is almost too much and by the time I pull the truck into the driveway, I'm ready to kick someone's ass.

  Ford and Spence break from the crowd of crew members out near the shop and start walking towards me. I just stand still, trying to calm myself. Spencer recognizes the look on my face and jerks his head out towards the woods.

  It's like deja vu as the three of us veer off the driveway and head north towards the little bend in the river. Even when we meet up, we say nothing, just continue walking until we are under the cover of the trees. Once there we follow the little footpath down to the river bank— the sound of rushing water just loud enough to layer over our words and make them unintelligible should anyone be listening.

  Old habits.

  I look at Ford, then Spence, and state matter-of-factly in a low voice, "This dude's gettin' wiped. Let's vote."

  "I'm in," Spence says.

  "I'm in," Ford says.

  "I'll wait and talk to her, of course, but I don't see a way around it. It's done."

  We walk back out, part ways in the middle of the yard, and I head to the house and they veer off back to the party.

  I stand outside for a minute to calm myself, then reach down and pick a pink daisy from the front garden. It's just a weedy little thing, half wilted from the afternoon sun, but I want to brighten up her day and this is all I have.

  I open the door quietly. Spence said she was asleep on the couch the last time I talked to him on the phone, so I make my way over to the living room and ease myself down in the large leather chair across the room.

  When she told me what happened to her back in Chicago I processed it, then tucked it away. I've met lots of asshole guys who hit girls. I've met lots of girls who get hit. But I've only ever dated one besides Rook.

  That's how I caught on to her erratic behavior so fast when she showed up. I knew the first moment I saw her crouching down in that stairwell outside the studio door that someone had mistreated her. But I had no idea how sick that fucker really was until she told me about the beating that finally convinced her to leave.

  She made it clear that she wasn't interested in getting the guy back or putting him away. And I don't blame her one bit. But I should never have agreed to her request. And I have no excuse. Spencer was right there. Ford was on his way. It was almost too perfect.

  But maybe a blessing in disguise. We know what we're up against now. Computer forensics specialist with the Chicago PD is nothing to dismiss and had we not known that little detail before making plans, we'd almost certainly be fucked.

  But we are far from fucked now.

  Rook inhales quickly several times, proof of her earlier panic attack betraying her resting body.

  I'm shaking, that's how pissed off I am. I want to kill someone.

  I rub my hands across my face and take out my phone to text the accountant. I instruct him to move all her money to her bank account, put it all in plain sight—to hell with the penalties, just move that shit now. I'll pay her back.

  The secret to the perfect job is to keep it easy. Very predictable.

  I've thought about this job all the way down the mountain. And I might not know him all that well, but if he's a hacker he's into two things. The thrill of penetrating security firewalls and money.

  Rook's got a nice little stash of money right now. Only fifty grand or so, but still. If you could steal fifty grand in an afternoon and be guaranteed to get away with it, you would.

  And he will.

  Men who hit women are also easy to read, I know this from the very first job Spence, Ford and I pulled just before Mardee died. Those assholes think their women are property. This Jon guy sees Rook as something he owns.

  In my opinion this is the perfect combination. Half money-lusting hacker, half misogynist woman-beater.

  Because that makes him vulnerable to money and sex.

  Two things I can most definitely dangle in front of him, then twist it arou
nd so bad, he'll never know what hit him.

  This is what we used to do.

  Your first impression of Spencer should be dumb. There's just no way around that, in high school he always looked the part of the big dumb jock. And now that he's all tatted up, he's just switched over to being the big dumb biker.

  Your first impression of Ford should be well-dressed asshole, but maybe a little on the weak side. Not buff like Spence, but lean and fast. He plays that part well. Snooty, rich, privileged, soft hands, soft words, living off his name and his family's wealth.

  Your first impression of me should be honest, trustworthy guy. Good-looking, charming, happy, and eager to help and please. A rule-follower who wants to forget where he came from.

  Your first impressions would be dead-ass wrong in all three cases.

  Because Spencer is a certifiable genius, Ford is as ruthless as they come, and I'm an accomplished liar.

  Together we pulled off a series of con jobs in college that netted us tens of millions of dollars—in secret, untraceable bank accounts, of course.

  And I have a plan for this Jon guy.

  Oh, yes, I think to myself as I twirl the pink daisy by its stem between my fingers.

  I most certainly do have a motherfucking plan for this guy.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - ROOK

  I wake suddenly, the rush of my earlier panic attack making me sit straight up before I realize where I am. The dying sunlight from outside filters through the sheer curtains but it's dusky inside as well. Ronin is sitting across the living room from me. I smile at him, trying my hardest not to cry as the words come out. "You came."

  He gets up and walks over to the couch, then sits down and sets my head in his lap. "Of course I came, Gidget. I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you." He drags a piece of hair off my forehead and then tucks it behind my ear with a little pink daisy.

  My hand goes to the flower and I am overwhelmed with how much he means to me. "I'm sorry," I choke out between half-hidden sobs.