by Nikki Wild
“Twenty six.”
“Wrong. How old are you?”
“Wait, wait, wait one sec—”
“—How old are you, Landon?” she interjects forcefully.
“Twenty eight?”
“How old are you, Landon?”
“Fuck, I don’t know?”
“Goddammit.” Lucy slaps her palm to the table. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Mia.”
“Where is she from?”
“Ohio.”
“Ohio?”
“I guess? I’m answering fast. I don’t—”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Forest green.” I smile. She seethes.
“What’d you wanna be when you grew up?”
“Uh…”
“Faster!”
“I don’t know.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.” That one comes out easier, automatically almost.
“What’s your club’s name?”
“Devil’s Dragons,” my mouth answers before my mind has even had a chance to think. Lucy pauses her interrogation. She raises an eyebrow to me and bites her lip. “You remember your club?”
I stand up to take a second.
“Landon, is that the club’s name?”
“Yeah, guess your aggressive methods work,” I say. “Lets take a break though because you’re giving me a fucking migraine.”
I collect my leather jacket, checking the pockets again for my wallet. I’ve got to get out of here. I look at the Devil’s Dragons emblem on my cut again and flip it over. There are some patches missing on the front of it too. Bits of my memory were clicking together. This was bad fucking news… There’s only a few ways out of a club. You either die, retire, or you go out in bad standings. You don’t lose your patch unless you’re out bad.
“What’s wrong?” Lucy asks, noticing my hesitation.
“Nothing sweetheart, just trying to remember,” I reply, my hand sweeping across something solid beneath the leather. I flip the jacket open and reach into the pocket, pulling out a small matchbook.
Big Sal’s, Jethrow, Northern California, it reads, with a small image of a naked woman.
“What’s that?”
“Matches from some bar. Y’ever heard of Jethrow?”
“Jethrow? You remember Jethrow?”
As soon as she says the words, an image appears in my mind; A slow fog of recognition rolling into my conscience. There’s a road with a few mom and pop stores, and the inside of a bar but there’s a lingering feeling that this memory is wrong. I feel uneasy.
“Landon?”
“I’m gonna need a minute,” I reply, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples. The pounding ache is killing me.
Lucy inspects her watch then collects her belongings. “Billie’s gonna be here soon. We should go back to my place. Relax on the way.”
I have to go with her. It’s my only option. When I’m at Lucy’s, I can sort out a ride to this bar and see if it jogs my memory…
6
Only when guests other than Billie arrive do I become aware of how much a pig-sty my place is. It represents my mental state— With clothing, art supplies, and various other miscellaneous items of a young woman strewn across the squeaky floorboards. I ask Landon to wait outside a minute while I do a quick walk through, kicking things out of the way.
But first, I make damn sure to hide a photograph of the both of us taken back in our junior year of high school that usually lies in my bedside drawer. I give myself a minute to trace a finger over a much younger, brighter us on the bleachers at a school rally. Landon is clean shaven, his hair is short and he’s smiling so wide his cheeks dimple. I’m wrapped tightly in his arms, with my dyed-black hair, scene makeup and lip piercing that’s creased into my duck-face pout. Tears clot my throat and I cough them back down. For now, I stash the sun-bleached photo into the vegetable drawer of my refrigerator under some wilting lettuce, assuming that’s a place Landon won’t peruse.
I carry on, opening my curtains and letting in some light. Why am I so embarrassed by my state of living? This is Landon. My Landon. He doesn’t need this place to be spotless… but I still feel an obligation to present myself well.
I peek at him through the window beside the front door. He exhales, holding his forehead in his hand. I can almost feel him thinking… Remembering… If I could just keep him here long enough, maybe he would remember me.
But do I really want that?
Nothing makes sense since he crashed into my life. His presence has shaken up the snow globe of my boring existence, unsettling the particles of my new life. I’m taking a big risk letting him stay here. For the first time since moving to Baddock, I have no control over my situation and my hands haven’t stopped sweating since his arrival.
The bathroom door opens. Babeen shows his flat, chubby face.
“What are you doing in there, silly kitty?”
I walk to close the door again then realize I haven’t taken my medicine today. Babeen revs a loud purr. “Yeah, yeah. I’m taking them.” I quickly fill up my palm with my prescriptions and move back to the main room. But when I walk in there with my palm cupped to my mouth, Landon is in my living room. The pills clog in my throat. I gag unbecomingly. It doesn’t help that he’s standing there watching me with an amused smirk. I wretch some more.
“Shit, are you okay?” He realizes I’m actually choking and runs to my aid. I can’t answer as the pills spill out of my mouth with a clatter into my kitchen sink. Bitter remnants tinge in my throat. I don’t want him to see me like this but it’s too late now.
“You trying to kill yourself?”
“I told you to wait outside.”
“It started raining. You want me to get you some water?”
“No, go away. Don’t look at me like this. Go make yourself at home. Feel free to kick the cat off the sofa.”
I remain hunched over the sink, keeping an eye on Landon as he approaches sleepy Babeen.
“Hey, little man. You’re a cute lump aren’t ya?” He scratches Babeen behind his ear causing his shiny head to press further into Landon’s palm.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
In the bathroom, I make my second attempt at swallowing some new pills. They go down successfully and I relax a little knowing their effects will kick in soon. They soften my paranoia and anxiety to a point of welcomed numbness I’ve missed since yesterday.
“Everything okay in there?” Landon knocks on the door.
“Yeah.”
But is it? What am I supposed to do now? My soulmate’s sitting out there on my sofa right now and he doesn’t even know it. What options do I have? I can’t leave with Landon back to Jethrow. That cesspit of crime and deadbeats. If he was still connected to Jethrow that meant he was still connected with his MC.
And Mac… The MC President…
Not only would I never step foot back in that place but anytime I think about leaving Baddock, I freak out. This is my safe zone. I don’t leave. I could Misery him, maybe? Lock him to my bed until he remembers how much he loves me…
“What are you doing, you idiot?” I hiss to myself in the mirror. “Quit remembering what was. He has somebody else.”
My fingers pull at the flaked mascara that has smudged around my eyes. There’s a part of me that wants to cry when I analyze how I look; Cry or scream. I want a release. “Maybe when he remembers, he’d leave her for you…But we can’t be together again, we promised…Lucy! Dammit! You are nothing to him anymore.”
I punch the mirror. It shatters into a cobweb-shaped crack. “Fuck!” I shout and shake my hand out. Luckily, there’s no blood.
“Lucy?!” Landon yells.
“I’m fine! Put the TV on or something!”
Warm, stinging tears stream instantly down my cheeks. I’ve successfully bullied myself into submission yet again, keeping myself from ascending from this purgatory. I’m not allowed hope or happiness
. I made that choice a long time ago.
“You can’t leave with him,” I keep whispering. “He doesn’t want you to go with him. He has a new life and you’re not part of it. The club won’t remember you. Jethrow doesn’t want you and you don’t want it. You don’t want to go back there, remember?” My psychotic babble continues as I run a bath to disguise my audible sobs. “You live with this pain…You chose this…You live with it…He’s not yours to have anymore…Just toughen up and let him go.”
7
Lucy’s bath has lasted an hour. I decided not to disturb her in case she yells at me again. I don’t wanna put pressure on her or make her feel any worse. I’m sure this whole situation has been rough for her. Not that I’ve done anything to make her stress out— She seems to bring that on herself. The girl seems tightly wound as they come, but I owe her some common decency.
In the time she’s been gone the cat has been shadowing me around the room. I need to know who this girl really is. Why does someone so sweet seem so compelled to help someone like me?
Before I can go rifling through her drawers, I find her paintings. There’s one resting on an easel in the corner. It’s a woman all hunched over, looking a bit rough. I knew she was talking herself down when she said she wasn’t that talented. Lucy’s got a gift, that’s for damn sure. The painting makes me feel something. It’s dark, layered with emotions far darker than I thought that pretty little butterfly could ever feel.
“What’s your mom’s deal then, huh buddy?” I say to the cat who replies with a mew. “Yeah, that so? She single then?” The cat glares at me. “Right, right, right. She’s yours, I get it, I get it.”
I keep perusing her stuff, making sure to put everything back in its place. The chick doesn’t have too many belongings; mostly clothing, some nature shit like leaves and acorns stuck to a cork board on a wall behind her painting. She’s got some sketches pinned up as well. Some of Billie, some of the redwoods and some of the cat.
“Quite the poser there, buddy,” I say and tousle his fur.
He jumps onto the table and knocks a notebook to the floor. I open it, seeing that it’s full of pressed flowers, journaling and sketches. I flick through a few more pages until my eyes land on something curious.
“What the fuck?”
There’s a word scratched into the page…
A familiar name…
LANDON.
The word’s been gone over and over again so many times that the page has become embossed.
The bathroom door opens and I slam the book shut.
“What are you doing?” Lucy appears, wrapped in a white bath towel, and dripping with water.
“Uh, I was…uh…Just, uh…” I bumble like a fuckin’ idiot. I’ve been caught. But when I think I’m gonna be received with a snarky tone, instead Lucy turns her attention to a closet at the other side of the room. Maybe she didn’t see me sleuthing after all. She lazily files through some half-empty hangers until she comes up with an outfit.
“Hungry?”
I shake my head. “You’ve done enough for me. You don’t have to feed me too.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I know. I’ll be alright, Lucy.”
My mind won’t let go of the name in the journal. My name…
Landon.
Her father? A friend? Her ex?
Maybe that explains it. This chick’s a psycho and she’s making me into this ex of hers. He must have really fucked this girl over. Maybe she was trying to make it right by taking me in like some lost puppy when she realized I was called Landon too.
I stop myself. The thought of some asshole treating this girl badly has my blood boiling. I turn back toward the easel in the corner, looking away as she dressed shamelessly in front of me.
“That’s a pretty dark painting,” I tell her. Lucy slips into a too-big I Heart California t-shirt. I watch it drop down over her body at the edge of my vision. I was starting to think this girl could make anything look good… “Who is she?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m still finding out.”
“She isn’t you?” I ask, turning just enough that I can watch her slip a pair of panties up over her hip.
“Can you quit staring and turn around for a second?” she asks, letting out a little laugh.
“Sorry,” I reply, looking back at the colors etched into the canvas.
“She isn’t me, Landon. She’s just a painting.”
I flinch as she says my name. Now it just seems so familiar coming from her lips. “She looks like you.”
“She’s definitely not me.”
The soft pitter-patter of her footsteps cue me to turn around again. She’s dressed in some old jeans so tight they should be illegal.
Eye-candy or not, I can’t shake this feeling that I need to tell her what I saw in the journal. I need to catch her off her guard so she’s honest with me about it.
I’m right there ready to say it but I stop myself. I can’t do it, not yet, in case she really is crazy. I need to be standing near an exit.
“I have work a little later. But help yourself to whatever. My refrigerator is empty so don’t go in there, but there’s some snacks and cereal in the cupboard. I’ll make sure to bring home something a little more substantial for you tonight.”
“Lucy,” I press.
“Shut up. I want to.”
She walks right up to me from the kitchen with an open palm and a glass of water. “Here, take these.”
I look down to see three white capsules in her hand. “What’s this?”
“Poison. So I can knock you out, chain you up and have my way with you. Take it.” My forced laugh must be telling because she leans back wearily. “Woah, wait. Do you really think I’d do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not poison, Landon,” she says shoving the water into my chest. “It’s milk thistle. Billie says it’s good for memory. And that’s an ibuprofen to help with the pain and swelling in your shoulder.”
I still hesitate. Since when did I become the poor victim in this situation? Where have my balls gone since meeting this girl? I don’t take her offerings.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just take them.”
“Thanks,” I reply, throwing the pills into my mouth and taking a drink.
“Anyway, who’s this guy?”
Lucy crouches down and lifts the fat cat into her arms. “This gentleman is Babeen. He’s the landlords’ cat. They live further up the hill. I think he likes me better though, don’t you, little prince?”
She looks back at me, assuming I’d continue the conversation but I can’t do it. I can’t hold this discovery in any longer. Something inside is screaming out that this is wrong. I shouldn’t be here. I need answers. My time is now…
“Who’s Landon?” I blurt out.
She backs off and places Babeen on the floor. “W—What?”
“Who is Landon, Lucy?”
“You are.”
“I know I am, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the real Landon, the one written in your sketch book over there.”
“You went through my things?”
“Don’t dodge the question. The cat knocked it off the shelf.”
“That’s fucking private!”
“I don’t give a damn now I’ve seen it. So who the fuck is this guy?”
“I…”
“It’s a simple fuckin’ question. Who is Landon?”
She’s hyperventilating.
“Lucy, relax and just answer me.”
“It’s nobody!”
“Nobody doesn’t get their name carved through twenty sheets of paper.”
“Who goes through someone’s journal like that?”
“It’s an art corner, it’s not exactly locked away in a dark closet. I just wanted to see some of your shit. You’re really talented. I just saw my name and… I’m not trying to freak you out.”
“Well, you damn well have.” Lucy shouts, retu
rning to the bathroom and slamming the door. I stood there in silence for ten more minutes before she finally emerged, her makeup doing a piss poor job of hiding the fact that she’d been crying.
“I’ll be back at ten.” She doesn’t give me even a look nor a chance to respond.
Whoever the fuck her Landon was, he definitely left this girl broken.
8
I wake up before Landon does. It’s raining again.
I arrived home last night, relieved to find Landon hadn’t run away. Instead, he passed out on the sofa bed, his leather jacket pulled over him with Babeen asleep on the arm rest. I don’t know if he went through more of my stuff and don’t care to find out.
I stay wrapped up warm beneath my comforter, watching Landon from my bed for a good half hour, trying to mentally process my new reality. He still sleeps the same, with a light purring from his throat. I reminisce about how much I wish he could be here in bed with me, comforting me but, strangely, he’s the thing I need comfort from right now.
I’m overindulging in his presence. I can’t keep watching him like some creep so I head to the kitchen to cook us up some breakfast. I remember Landon’s curious way of enjoying his eggs— Scrambled with caramelized onions and douses of Tabasco sauce. Hopefully he can still remember enjoying it that way or I’ve just wasted five eggs on him.
Though I’m attempting to be quiet, the pans still make the odd clattering noise. Landon stirs and outstretches his free arm.
I see his eyes open, fold my arms and stand beside the bed.
“Morning,” he says wearily. Babeen leaps off his torso.
“I’m sorry about yesterday… I shouldn’t have stormed off like that.” I walk back to the kitchen to get his serving of eggs then present them to him.
“We’ve both had a bad run these last couple of days. Don’t overthink it. I’m sorry too.”
“I made you apology eggs.”
“Apology eggs? You didn’t have to do that.”
“Again, I wanted to.”
He sits up and I take a space of mattress beside him so I can backtrack on why the name was in the journal. More almost-truths pour out of me. “I—I knew a Landon once.”
