Faking It

by Holly Hart

  “Get off me, you faggot,” Vince screams. Lenny: the shorter, but bulkier, more muscular, man, climbs on top of him like a bucking bronco rider. There’s nothing Vince can do, not from the floor. Lenny overpowers him with superior strength, leaning down and picking Vince’s torso up from the floor.

  He starts to squeeze, compressing Vince’s whole body in his arms. The Morello caporegime is choking now, eyes bulging, fingers scrabbling against Lenny’s popping, corded muscles.

  “Fuck …” I whisper. I can barely believe it: my plan’s working, but now I’ve only got a small window to get the hell out of here. Whoever wins this fight, their blood will be fired up. That will mean bad things for me. Awful things.

  I tug at the handcuff on my right wrist, pulling until its jagged metal teeth bite into my wrist and leave a white line behind. The chain rattles and jerks a couple of inches towards me; for a second I almost believe that it might break loose.

  “Come on, come on …”

  But it’s not that easy. It never is.

  I throw a quick glimpse at the men tussling like rutting stags for the right to own my body. Vince’s eyes are bulging out of his body and Lenny … Well, the less said about Lenny’s face, the better.

  “Fuckin’ die already,” Lenny grunts. Spittle flies out of his mouth and lands on Vince’s soon-to-be corpse.

  Neither of them is a patch on Declan, not even close. Even after everything that’s happened between us, I only want my Irishman’s lips to be the ones kissing mine at night.

  Right now, he’s all that’s on my mind. That means something: something powerful. It’s going to take something powerful to get me out of this mess.

  “Anyone can become an escapologist…” A voice says, echoing out from the depths of my memory, “if they are willing to break their thumb, that is.”

  “Oh Christ,” I whisper under my breath. “You’re really going to have to do it …”

  On the floor next to me, Vince’s struggle has been reduced to a quiet chorus of jerking wheezes. It’s clear that he doesn’t have long left. And yet …

  The fingers of his right hand blindly roam the dusty floorboards beside him for a weapon. He tosses aside an old McDonald’s happy meal toy, passes through small piles of trash, until his hand closes around an empty wine bottle.

  I watch it happen in horror. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. It’s not that I want Lenny to survive; I don’t. It’s just that at least with him, I have a chance.

  Vince smashes the bottle against Lenny’s skull, and it connects with a painful thud, knocking the pockmarked man backward. He brings it down again, using the last reserves of his energy, and it smashes against Lenny’s forehead, knocking him out cold.

  I redouble my efforts with my thumb, trying to snap it so that I can break my way out of my captivity. My body tries to stop me, nearly blinding me with pain.

  But it’s Vince who stops me dead.

  Through his wheezing, his bloodied face, his smashed head, and his cracked ribs, he starts to lift himself up. His voice is ragged, but black with anger.

  “You’re next, bitch.”

  I watch, struck still with horror as he begins to recover his strength. It’s slow, and that makes it worse. I have to watch every individual cut and scrape on his face well with blood, while his chest stops heaving as his lungs finally, agonizingly start pumping enough oxygen into his veins.

  Then I see his naked cock, because his jeans are still around his ankles, begin to swell.

  “Please, don’t …” I whimper. I don’t want to say it. I just know that I don’t want the last thing I see before I die to be Vince’s demonic face, covered in blood.

  There’s a thud outside. I glance at the front door, and my eyes make it there only a second before the door handle explodes in a spray of splinters and shards of wood.

  It’s Declan.

  At least, I think it is. This is either real, or just a mirage conjured by my brain to hide me from the horror of reality.

  “Get the feck away from her,” Declan growls.

  “You want to start a war, boy?” Vince says mockingly, dragging himself slowly, bloodily to his feet. “Do you think I give a fuck about you? She’s –”

  The pistol in Declan’s hand barks once. A short jet of flame escapes the barrel.

  “You –” Vince says, looking down at his crotch as the horror begins to dawn on his face.

  “Shot your tiny little cock off. It was a tricky shot, but I never miss,” Declan says without a hint of humor on his face. “Even with a target that small.”

  Declan’s trigger finger twitches twice more, and Vince collapses to the floor, his knees reduced to scraps of flesh and bone. I don’t take my eyes off any of it. This feels like an initiation into my new life. The old Casey would have closed her eyes and hid from the horror. I’m not her anymore.

  “Puss, puss, what have they done to you?” Declan moans, rushing towards me. He sets his pistol down on the table with a heavy, metallic thud. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “Are you – is this?”

  “Real? I’m here, Casey. I’m never letting you go again.”

  “Safe word,” I mumble through dry, chapped lips. I can’t bring myself to trust that any of this is real. If it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, and I wake up still stuck in this horror … I’d rather die. “Tell me the –”

  “Lipstick, the safe word is lipstick!” Declan says hurriedly, kissing me on the forehead. “I’m here, Casey. It’s me.”

  “Lenny…” I croak. Exhaustion is overcoming me. My muscles feel drained of energy, and my eyelids are beginning to flicker shut.

  Declan looks at me with confusion written on his face.

  “The keys…”

  Declan retrieves the handcuff keys from Lenny’s belt, and quickly unlocks my wrists. I hear a moan, but I ignore it.

  I shouldn’t have –

  “She’s mine!” Lenny roars. My head jerks to the side and sees Lenny charging towards Declan.

  “No, no …” I moan. I have gotten this close. I cannot let salvation slip through my fingers: not now.

  So I don’t. My hands scrabble for the gun Declan left by my side. I hope like hell the safety is off, because I don’t have the first clue of what to do if it isn’t. I push myself up, ignoring the bite of cold air on my back as I do, and lift the heavy weapon up with trembling hands.

  “Declan!” I shout with a hoarse throat, “duck.”

  The gun barks twice, and Lenny’s chest explodes. He looks at me with dark, hateful, accusing eyes while a patch of red spreads across his chest.

  The whole world goes silent. I feel like I’m viewing it from behind a sheet of inch-thick glass, not living it. Lenny slumps to his knees in slow motion, and Declan rises slowly. He looks horrified.

  “Puss…”

  25

  Casey

  I’m leaning against Declan’s truck, wrapped in a warm woolen blanket he pulled from the trunk. I’m not happy, I’m not sad – I’m numb. Lenny and Vince ripped me from the slow lane at one hundred miles per hour, and I’m not sure how long it’ll take to recover.

  Declan stomps around the abandoned house, sloshing gasoline – from the plastic gas can – on anything that’ll burn. I can tell he’s burning up inside. He’s angry that he couldn’t protect me, but he shouldn’t be. It wasn’t his fault: at least, no more than it was mine.

  “Stay back,” he grunts, tossing the can into the house and pulling the destroyed front door closed.

  “Can I do it?” I ask. I hold out my hand for the book of matches, so that it’s not really a question. Declan hands them over without complaint.

  “Vince is still inside,” he says. I already know this, and for a second, I don’t understand why Dec’s saying it, but then it clicks. Declan’s telling me that Vince might be alive, or he might be dead, but that he’s happy to do the honors. He’s trying to save me from the chance of doubling up on my quota of the day’s guilt.


  “Trust me,” I say. My voice is quiet, but firm. “I won’t lose a night’s sleep over taking that man off the face of the earth. He deserves it.”

  “Then…” Declan says, taking my hands in his. “Let me share it with you.”

  I answer the question in his eyes with a shy nod.

  Declan takes my hand as I watch, plucks a match from the book and strikes it. The tip catches like a wildfire in the middle of the day’s heat. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” I whisper.

  “Then let it burn,” he growls.

  Together, we touch the match against the rest of the book. The tiny inferno hisses to life in our hands, and together we toss it against the house. It takes a second for the fire to catch. When it does, it lights with a gentle “whumph”, and blasts an intense ray of heat against my face. The air fills with the smell of burning gasoline, and I salve my spirit with the scent. Some small part of me wonders whether I should feel guilty, but the flames wash away that thought.

  Declan reaches over and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his body. I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder, and let the heat from the burning house warm me through.

  Glass shatters, floorboards pop and distend as long-dried resin hisses and seethes amidst the flames. It feels cathartic; like the fire is washing away my guilt, my pain, and even whatever small barrier is left between me and Declan. There are still words that need to be said and tears that need to be spilled, but the fire has opened the door between us.

  We just need to step through it.

  We stay like that for God knows how long, until Declan shakes me back to life.

  “Come on,” he whispers, as the faintest sound of sirens begins to pollute the quiet night air. “It’s time to go.”

  I nod.

  “Take me home…”, I say softly.

  26

  Declan

  I get Casey back to my place, but I can’t help but feel that the fire inside her has died. She’s walking like a zombie: eyes glassy, and body directionless, if it wasn’t for my arm. I can only hope that there’s a spark of her former personality left in there, somewhere, smoldering, and ready to be coaxed back into life.

  But if the fire has gone out inside Casey, it’s burning twice as hot inside me.

  The difference is my fire is kindled by guilt, and its fire is ripping through me. Every time I look at her, I see my failure to keep her safe reflected in her green eyes. She will never say it, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting. Hell: it burns. I know that if I hadn’t played Casey like I did, then maybe I would have been there for her. Maybe, she would never have been taken.

  “Can I do anything for you?” I ask. I feel helpless. Words aren’t my forte, they never have been. I’m a man of action. But action is not going to solve this problem.

  Words might help, but I don’t know how to choose which ones to say. I’m stuck. If I choose the wrong ones, then maybe this is all over. I need to get them right.

  “A bath,” she replies.

  I run it, and Casey slumps against the bath tub, wordless, and staring off into space. She closes her eyes, as if comforted by the white noise of the water tumbling and bubbling into the tub, and her breath slows.

  “It’s ready…” I whisper, but she doesn’t respond. I peel off the filthy clothes from her body, tugging where pooled blood and mud has stuck the cloth to her skin like glue. Casey doesn’t respond to any of it. I figure she’s in shock.

  “Let’s get you warm, baby,” I say – and I freeze the second the word comes out of my mouth. Baby: Casey’s got me second-guessing myself. I was never like this before she stumbled into my life, and I worry that if she leaves me for good, I’ll be left like this, always doubting myself, always weak.

  But she doesn’t react. Hell, she doesn’t say a word.

  I lift her gently in my arms, and lower her into the steaming water. I see Casey’s face wince in the reflection in the mirror, but other than that she doesn’t make a sound as the hot water envelops her muscles. The first layer of mud and dirt and blood washes away into the water, turning it into a murky soup. God, she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen – even like this.

  I keep the water flowing to wash the filth away, and as I wash her, layer after layer soaks off her skin.

  I grab the shampoo and soap up her hair. It’s the good stuff. I got it all ordered when I thought things were going good. Silky Smooth or some shit like that. Hell if I know. I usually just rustle a bar of soap up between my palms, run my fingers through my hair, and it’s never done mine any harm. But that’s sure as hell not good enough for Casey.

  I dip Casey’s head back into the water, washing the twigs and muck from her hair. I caress the silky red strands, almost trying to wash every hair one by one. Casey’s nipples stand on end as she lays back into the tub, just breaking the surface of the water. My eyes drift over them, drinking in her entire body, but it’s not sexual, this, now.

  “Okay, Casey, you’re done…” I say. My voice bounces off the bathroom walls, barely audible over the sound of the still-flowing water. She’s been clean for ages, but I didn’t want to break the spell. After what I did, this might be my last chance to be close to her.

  “Get in with me,” Casey whispers.

  I freeze, and gulp. I feel like a teenage boy again. “Are you sure?”

  She nods.

  I pull off my T-shirt. It’s speckled with blood, and the water just got clean. I don’t bother taking off my jeans. I sink into the tub, and Casey relaxes back against my body. She doesn’t say a word.

  But still, the guilt eats me up inside.

  “Declan, stop.”

  Casey grabs my arm, and I kill the hair dryer. Even with the power off, it takes a couple of seconds for the sound of the heated air rushing through to die away.

  This is it. I know this is it: the end.

  “Casey, please: I need to tell you something. It’s –”

  “Me too.”

  I fall silent, a sense of foreboding growing and churning in my stomach like a storm out at sea. I look down at her, all swaddled in a giant white bath robe, and she looks so innocent. How can I possibly deserve a girl like her?

  “That whole time, when I thought I was going to die … or worse –”

  “Casey –”

  She barrels on. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your face was what carried me through everything; and the memory of your voice, the touch of your stubble on my cheek…” She breaks off, her throat all choked up.

  It leaves me feeling worse than when she started. How the hell can she feel like that, after everything I did to her? It sounds like she holds a higher opinion of me than I do, but how can that be right? After all, I’m the one who has to live with what I’ve done.

  “Sure, I saved you: physically.” I say, staring down at the floor with guilt. “But I toyed with you mentally: it’s true. The first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. But …” I swallow. My throat’s dry. “That’s not the only reason. You know it’s not. Vince was fucking the woman who stole my kid, and I wanted to get my own back. It was only after, that I realized how goddamn special you are. I don’t deserve you, Casey Samuels. Not one bit. But I’ll make things right. I’ll give you as much cash as you need, set you up in any town you want. You need to get out of Boston, and to get a thousand miles away from me, and everything I’ve done to you.”

  I close my eyes so that I don’t have to see the rage I know must be bubbling on her face.

  But she laughs. It’s a peal of pure, clear laughter – like the sound of tinkling chimes in the wind.

  I sit back, confused, and my head thumps against the headboard.

  “Why –?”

  “I was pissed, Declan: pissed!” Then she laughs again. “But the more I thought about it, you know what I realized?”

  I shake my head silently. I’m beginning to feel the first golden rays of hope floating dow
n like a rope ladder, but I don’t want to cling to them unless I’m too early, and they’re just gossamer strands, and I plunge.

  “I figured that if I want to run with wolves, I best be prepared to tumble sometimes. So do you know what I learned?”

  Casey twists her head, looking up at me with fire surfing her green eyes like a burning oil spill.

  “What?” I croak.

  “Sometimes it’s the falling down that makes getting back up…”

  She pulled herself upward and towards me, and the bathrobe comes loose around her waist.

  "… that much sweeter.”

  Casey kisses me softly: just a peck on my lips at first; but it’s enough to silence any angst-ridden response my brain might have tried to conjure up. Then she pushes her lips against mine, and it’s more insistent, and her hands dance across my body. Her hair is still hot from the dryer and it hangs across my bare chest like a warm towel.

  I push her away: just for a second. “You are so goddamn special, you know that, Casey?”

  She shrugs, but presses herself against me again. It seems like there is a need inside her, driving her; a fire, maybe, that she’s trying to put out. The bath robe that has been covering her, falls away and reveals a sea of, pale, freckled skin. My cock swells with blood, and it’s all I can do to push her away once again.

  She looks up at me with surprise in her eyes. “What is it?”

  “I need to tell you something, Puss.”

  She cocks her head.

  “I need you to know that I –. That the whole time those assholes had you, I was sick with worry. When I thought you might die …” I close my eyes, reliving the pain. Somehow it feels even worse, now that I’ve got Casey in my hands, and on my skin. It shows me how fragile life really is; how it can change in a moment.

  “It doesn’t matter. I love you, Casey: I love you; I love you; I love you.”

  I look down at her, searching for those eyes that make me want to dive right in.