Greetings from Sugartown

by Carmen Jenner

  “You see me on the street and you had better fucking run the other way, sweetheart, because I will not hesitate to put you to ground right alongside this fucker. We clear?”

  She cries, but nods her head vigorously. I release her and step away, giving her the room to slide into the car. She starts the engine, throws it in reverse and flees the laneway as fast as her wheels will drive her.

  I stare at the shadowy cane until long after the car is gone.

  “Sure hope you’re right about her, Moose.”

  “I am.”

  “Come help me with the body.”

  We work as fast as possible. Our warm breath hits the freezing air and creates smoke clouds, the only sign of life out here in the darkness. On an embankment surrounding the cane field we dig a trench big enough to fit the body in with an abandoned fence paling. It takes us forever, and afterwards we’re dirty and our hands are rubbed raw.

  Kick tosses the body in, and pulls a flask from inside his jacket. He pours it over the corpse. I light the cane we’d laid on top. It’s just fuel to the fire, but the saccharine scent turns my stomach so I step back to watch the body burn. I watch the amber flames dance on Kick’s impassive face. I stare at a guy who was more than just a club brother to me—he was a friend, a confidant, a partner in crime, family. I try to find that kid again in his vacant blue eyes, but the flames lick higher, and the ash and smoke sting my eyes until I have to look away.

  It’s funny how so much can change while everything else stays the same. I’ve wanted this punk dead since the night he raped Ana. I’d come so close before. I thought I’d never forgive myself for not going through with it. In a way, I guess I never have. I thought I’d changed, thought I’d become the man she deserved. But tonight, Kick showed me how quickly that man was forgotten, and how easily my demons could resurface.

  And I’ll never forgive him for it.

  A PAIR of warm arms surrounds me, pulling me from restless dreams. “You’re home.”

  “Sorry.” Elijah presses a kiss to my neck, and squeezes my waist as he settles in behind me. His hair is wet and he smells like soap and leather. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “S’okay,” I murmur. “Did you guys have fun?”

  For a long time he doesn’t answer, and just when I think he might’ve fallen asleep, he whispers, “What do you love about me, baby girl?”

  “You mean besides the fact that you give great head, and propose marriage during anal sex?” I know we haven’t discussed the ring yet, and it’s probably way too soon to be making jokes, but when he doesn’t respond I turn in his arms. I can’t see so much as feel his distress. I cup his large face in my small hands. “Hey, what’s going on with you?”

  “I need you to promise me that no matter how bad it gets, no matter how dark my demons are, you’ll never walk away.”

  “I promise.”

  “Swear it.” The desperation in his voice is killing me. We’ve had our fair share of fights, and we’ve endured a lot more ups and downs than most couples. I’m no stranger to any of his moods, but these rare bouts of panic frighten me more than his fury ever could.

  “I can handle your demons, Elijah.” I shower his face in kisses, attempting to heal the hurt with every press of my lips against his skin, though I have no idea what it means. I just want to erase the pain from his voice, from his heart. “I’ll take them and wrap them in light, and then I’ll give them back to you, because you need them to make you whole, and without them you wouldn’t be the man I fell in love with.”

  “You shouldn’t love me. Not for what I’m about to ask you to do.”

  That gives me pause. My hand falters on his hair. My heart lurches, and my breath catches painfully in my throat. “What are you about to ask me to do?”

  “Lie for me,” he whispers. The hairs on my neck stand on end, and my blood feels as though it’s been replaced by ice. “I can’t tell you why. Please don’t ask me to.”

  I don’t have to ask. I know already, and I suspect subconsciously that I knew from the second he began speaking. Tears sting my eyes and spill over, coursing down my cheeks unchecked. I suck in a sharp breath. I know the answer, but I need to hear it from his mouth. I need to know with one hundred per cent certainty that he’s dead.

  “Scott?” I whisper. My voice cracks over the name. I have so much hate, so much pain and sorrow and anguish crowding my heart. I hate him for what he did to me. I hate what the rape did to my family, what it did to us. I hate the hurt it caused Elijah, and the fact that he had to be the one to do something about it. Most of all, I hate that I feel a sense of loss at not being there to watch him get what he deserved.

  “He’s dead.”

  I inhale. Hot tears stream down my cheeks. A part of me wants to know every little detail; did he scream? Did he cry? Did the sick son-of-a-bitch beg for his life? Did he feel even one iota of the pain he has caused me? My voice trembles as I ask, “How did you do it?”

  Without meeting my gaze, he murmurs, “The less you know, the better.”

  Elijah rolls on top of me, cradling my head between his hands, his forearms pushing into the mattress. He kisses the tracks the tears make down my face. “I love you. I don’t deserve you, I never have, especially not now.”

  “Don’t say that—” I interrupt, but he quietens me with the press of his lips against mine.

  “I tried, baby girl. I tried to lock it all up tight, to push it down and hide it, but I can’t. I wanna be the man you deserve, but I’m not him. I’m broken. Toxic. I’ll always be shit, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

  “Hey …” Elijah bows his head, and I place my hands on either side of his face and force his gaze up to meet mine. “You are none of those things. You’re good. You have the biggest heart out of anyone I know, and you love with every part of it. Sammy is a different kid because of you. Dad is different, Holly, Jack … I’m different. Yes, we’ve been dragged through a lot of shit, and some of that has been your fault, but you’re the one who pulls us safely through the other side. You’re the one who takes the darkness away, not the one who creates it.”

  He laughs, but there is no humour in it.

  “Ask me again,” I whisper, pressing light kisses to his neck.

  “No.” Elijah shakes his head. “Not now.”

  “Fine, then I’ll ask you.”

  “Ana,” he warns, but he sounds weary, without his usual fight.

  “Elijah Cade …” I stop, shake my head, and use the name he gave me so long ago that he probably thinks I’ve forgotten it. “Ethan Carr, you’re my reason for waking each morning. I love your goodness, but I love the darkness in you, too. It makes me know that I’ll always be safe within your hands, that our babies would always be safe, and I can’t imagine ever waking up and not having it be your face that I want to see hogging the pillow.”

  He laughs at that. It’s small and sad, but it’s a laugh all the same.

  “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Whether we have forty years or forty seconds, I want to spend every one with you. Marry me?”

  His lips crashing down upon mine are the only answer I receive, but they’re the only one I need.

  ONE WEEK after we burned and buried Scott’s body, we fall back into the same rhythm of work, home and drinks. Everything is exactly the same, and yet everything is different.

  The police were banging down my door within forty-eight hours of Scott going missing. I accompanied them to the station for questioning. Ana gave me an airtight alibi. She didn’t even flinch. It was unnerving.

  I know that it’s coming, and I know it could all blow up in my face. Maybe a part of me wants it to in order to alleviate my guilt. It hasn’t yet, and with each day that passes I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  The cops had nothing on me. We burned our clothes, they haven’t found a body, and Nicole looks as if she’s still running scared. A few days after the incident I pulled into the supermarket parking lot just
as she was tearing out of it, her car loaded up with belongings. None of us have seen her since. Obviously, she hasn’t talked … yet. Do I believe she never will? I don’t know. I guess we wait, and we cross that bridge when we come to it.

  For now, it seems like we got away with it. I can’t understand why I’m not happier. I’m glad that fucker is dead—the world’s a better place with one less rapist in it—but something has shifted with Kick. That night when we pulled into the drive I bailed him up against the side of the house and told him I wanted him gone. Every day I wake up expecting him to have split, and every day it looks like he’s no closer to leaving than the one before. He’s distant, the wisecracks are gone, and now he’s just brooding and temperamental.

  Except for tonight.

  Tonight he seems almost wired. He’s jumpy as fuck. The way he used to be before we’d be sent out on a club run. And though I’ve only seen him shooting back beers, his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. He’s twitchy, making me think that guns aren’t the only illegal shit he’s bringing into my house.

  Kick tosses back the remainder of his beer and yells to Ana in the kitchen, “Hey Belle, get your sweet arse in here. I wanna propose a toast.”

  I narrow my eyes on him. “What the fuck are we supposed to be toasting?”

  “She said yes, didn’t she?” He smiles like the Cheshire cat.

  “Actually, I said yes. She asked me, remember?”

  “So she did.” He smiles, but it doesn’t come close to being genuine.

  “I’m kinda in the middle of something here, guys. If I don’t get these in the oven they’ll be ruined,” Ana sings from the kitchen. Kick jumps up and flies in there like he’s fucking Superman. How the hell does he think he’s going to be able to help? I get up and amble in too, wondering why she doesn’t just ask me for a hand if she needs it.

  He removes a sheet of biscuits from the oven and replaces it with another from the bench. I grab one of the golden brown, scorching hot cookies and shovel it in my mouth, burning off all my tastebuds in the process. “Ow … fuck! Hot.”

  “Stop eating those,” Ana says, and goes back to rolling out more dough. There are at least sixty biscuits on the bench already.

  “You baking for the whole town, babe?”

  “They’re for Sammy’s rugby league. The mums are hosting a bake sale to raise funds for new uniforms. I have to ice one hundred of these before the morning. But I was thinking we could start branching out a bit more with the diner. I mean, we’re doing a better trade than ever, but surely everyone’s sick of pie by now?”

  I come up behind her, wrapping my hands around her tiny waist, and whispering in her ear, “I could eat your pie all day.”

  “Yes, well, right now my pie is feeling less like being eaten and more like she wants to bite your face off, because you’re crowding her workstation, and that makes her bring the premenstrual rain of rage.” I back away as if I’ve been burned, and reach for another footy-shaped biscuit. “I swear to God, Cade, if you touch another one of those I will break your pretty face.”

  I snatch my hand away and slink over to the other side of the room, where I’m safe from Bakezilla. Pulling a beer from the fridge, I readjust Mr Happy, who has decided that being chewed to death by an angry, rabid vagina isn’t such a bad way to go. Huh. I can kinda see the appeal.

  “What can we do?” Kick asks. He’s such a fucking suck up.

  “You can roll out this dough while I start in on another batch?”

  “You got it, lady.”

  “Thank you, Daniel.” Ana sends a pointed look my way. Yeah, I’m kinda shit at this husband thing already, and we’re not even married yet. I swig back a sip of beer and cringe at the way it glides over my filmy tastebuds, the flavour completely gone. Fucking awesome fiancée’s baking.

  Once Kick’s done being my future wife’s bitch, and the next batch is in the oven, he grabs Ana’s hand and leads her to the table. He shoves her down in an empty seat beside me. “Sit,” he says and wanders off, returning with a bottle of Blue from the liquor cabinet and two glasses. He pours two decent-sized drinks and slides them towards us, and then he rummages around in the fridge for another beer. “I want to propose a toast to my closest friends.”

  I place my hand palm up on the table in front of Ana. She laces her fingers with mine and squeezes. The rock I spent a small fortune on digs into my skin. I grip back, a little harder.

  “Ana, I’ve seen the ways you’ve changed Moose, here. He’s a different man from the one I used to know. For one, he was never this much of a pussy.” He winks. I watch him closely and sip my whiskey. I can’t taste a fucking thing, but I relish the smoothness as it glides down my throat anyway. “And I know he’s a lazy arsehole, and let’s face it, he’s got a pretty ugly mug on him, but if you can love him in spite of all those things, I’m happy for you both, and I hope it lasts.”

  “Thanks, Daniel,” Ana says, and clinks her glass with his beer, and then she taps it against mine. I swallow the rest of my whiskey all at once, and slam the glass down on the table.

  “You hope it lasts? What the hell kinda toast is that?”

  “I mean I hope she doesn’t get tired of your sorry arse. But on the off chance that she ever does, Ana, baby, when you’re ready to play with the big boys—and I do mean big—” He gives her a crooked grin that makes me want to rearrange his face. “—you know where to find me.”

  Ana laughs like that’s the most endearing shit anyone’s ever said to her. She sips her drink and winces as it burns its way down. Jesus, who turns their nose up at a two-hundred dollar bottle of whiskey? She’s been spoiled with that crappy lolly-water she drinks.

  “You are so looking to get your arse kicked, pencil dick.”

  “Dude we’ve been over this. You couldn’t kick my arse.” He swallows a mouthful of beer and sets the bottle back on the table. His eyes are cold, impassive, reminding me of the way he looked staring into the flames of Scott’s burning body. “Maybe back then, but not now.”

  “Well, as nice as this pathetic display of boyish machismo is, if you’re going to mud wrestle for the title of The Most Extreme Penis, can you do it outside? I have cookies to ice.” Ana stands and stumbles a little. I shoot up out of my chair, and place my hands on her shoulders to steady her.

  “You okay?”

  She blinks furiously, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, I guess I just stood up too quick.” She pecks me on the cheek, glides over to the bench, and prompts, “Though, another drink might get these cookies decorated a little faster.”

  I refill our glasses, noticing that Kick is awfully quiet as he studies us. “Say one more thing about me being pussy whipped and I’ll scalp that emo head of yours,” I warn. I’m only half-kidding. “Your roots are showing, by the way.”

  He throws his hands up to ward me off and goes back to skinning his beer bottle, pulling the label from the glass in one even piece. I sit down in the chair opposite him and toss back another shot of whiskey. I must have burned the fuck outta my tongue, because it’s starting to feel a little thick in my mouth.

  Ana throws down the piping bag she’s holding, and turns abruptly. “My hands are shaky as hell. You know what? I couldn’t be bothered doing this crap now.” Kick and I both laugh at her. “I’m serious. I’ve spent all damn day on these fucking cookies, and I am exhausted. I’m done.”

  “Okay. Does that mean we can eat them now?”

  “No. I’ll just take them the way they are. The bake sale mums can suck it.”

  She grabs the whiskey off the table and walks towards the lounge room, turning to face us when she realises we aren’t following. “Are you guys coming?”

  “Yep.” I jump out of my chair and wrap my arms around her waist, shuffling us through the archway to the lounge room.

  “Let’s get drunk.”

  “Kinda thought you were already there, babe,” I say and earn myself a smack to the chest. Why do I always go after the violent ones?

/>   “I am not nearly drunk enough,” Ana says, sliding out of my grip. She walks over to the iPod dock and hits play. “Big Empty” by the Stone Temple Pilots comes blasting out, and she sways her fuckable body in time with the slow, carnal melody. I flop down in the armchair, torn between wanting Ana to come sit on me, and wanting to watch her as she gyrates around our lounge room.

  “Come dance with me,” Ana beckons, softly, seductively, ignoring Kick, who’s sitting in the armchair playing with his phone.

  “I don’t dance, baby girl. You know that.”

  She pouts. “Boo, you suck, Cade.”

  I shrug, feeling the weight of the day settle on me now that I’m sitting down comfortably, and no longer in the hard-backed chair under the fluorescent kitchen lights.

  Ana stretches her hands out to Kick. “Daniel, come dance with me.”

  He looks up from his phone, his expression wary. “Uh, thanks, but I have no desire to get my head kicked in by your boy, here.”

  “He’s not going to kick your head in,” she complains.

  “Yes, he is,” I murmur, but I can’t even be arsed to finish the threat, much less follow through with it. “Who the fuck are you texting, man? You don’t know anyone in Sugartown but Kristine. And if she’s buying into your bullshit again, I’m gonna go over there and kick her arse.”

  “Leave him alone. I think it’s sweet,” Ana scolds, slurring her words, and setting down the drink she’s been dancing with. The songs shifts to something even slower, one of those love songs that isn’t really a love song at all. Some lilting, whiny voice wails about seeing his lover marry another man. ‘Cause he’s not a stalker. Ana immediately slows her pace and beckons to me. “Now get over here, and dance with me. I love this song.”

  I just smile and shake my head, sinking further down into the couch. I’d really rather watch than stumble all over her and crush her pretty little feet with my two cinder blocks.

  “Fine, then. Daniel will have to be your replacement,” Ana teases, extending her arms out to Kick again, who tosses his phone on the coffee table and allows her to pull him onto her makeshift dance floor. She tugs him into an embrace. He looks awkward as fuck as he holds her, as if he’s afraid to get too close. Smart man.