Winter Miracle

by Teagan Kade

  “Used to?” Dawn queries.

  I pick up the dog again. “It’s a long story.”

  An older gentleman with bushy sideburns claps me on the shoulder. “How is it, Maximus?”

  I cringe inside at my full name. I hold the hot dog up. “You still make the best dogs in town, Marty.”

  Marty winks at Dawn. “It’s all in the buns. Ain’t that right, honey?”

  She smiles back. “It’s delicious, thanks.”

  “Any time.”

  Marty takes a seat beside me. “You been keeping yourself out of trouble, son?”

  My nostrils flare. “I’m trying my best, but you know how it is.”

  Marty nods with understanding and throws a dish cloth over his shoulder. “Yeah, I do.”

  “How’s the gym?” I ask.

  “The Block?” says Marty. “Shit show. It’s full of cashed-up MMA jerk-offs thinking that by training out here in the badlands they’ll somehow become harder. Throw them into the middle of Birch Street and see how they fare then, I say.”

  “I need burgers, Marty!” comes a shout from the kitchen.

  Marty directs his attention to Dawn again. “My better half. I’d introduce you, but she’s the jealous type.” He takes my shoulder. “Good to see you, son. Tell Saul I said hi.”

  “Will do.”

  I press the last of the dog into my mouth. This place is bringing back too many memories, memories I’ve tried hard to suppress only to go digging them back up now.

  “Eat in the car,” I tell Dawn. “We’ve got to get back, rest up.”

  “Where are we going?” she asks, her lips still begging to be licked clean. “A motel?”

  “My place.”

  *

  The sun’s setting. This was Pop’s favorite time to train, ‘the magic hour,’ he used to call it.

  Dawn attempts to make conversation again. “This is a nice car.”

  I’ve heard Dad’s Lincoln called many things, but never nice. “It’s a shitbox,” I tell her.

  “So why drive it around?”

  I shrug. “Nostalgia, I guess. It was my father’s.”

  “He raised you?”

  I nod. “My birth mother wanted nothing to do with me, so Pops took over, just me and him.”

  “That must have been hard.” If she thinks this Dr. Phil routine is going to work, she’s shit out of luck, but I answer her questions regardless.

  “It was,” I say, hitting the turn signal to make a left. “There were no silver spoons where we grew up. What about you? You’re from Kansas, right?”

  She nods, hands folded in her lap. “I think they stopped making silver spoons out there too.”

  “Your family was poor?”

  “It was just Mom and me, like you and your dad.”

  “You never knew your father.”

  “No, I did, but I kind of wish I never had.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “That bad. He took off when I was eight, left Mom with a pile of debt.”

  I stretch in the seat. “Seems to be a recurring them with men in your life.” I know I’ve taken it too far when she doesn’t reply, instead staring aimlessly out the window. “I’m sorry.”

  She turns back. “No, you’re right. It’s my own stupid fault for getting involved with a guy like Rick in the first place.”

  “We’ll put it right. Don’t worry.”

  “A gangster just laid down an ultimatum, people have guns, and they’re fighting, and you’re telling me not to worry?”

  She has a point. “It’s business,” I say, reverting back to my go-to line.

  “Pure and simple, right?” she finishes.

  “That’s right.”

  She points to the scar above my eye. “How did you get that scar?”

  I finger it. “This? Junkie with a switchblade cut me when I tried to steal his stash.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I ran into a tree when I was seven.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “I am.”

  She laughs. “Wow, you really need to work on your delivery.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when I decide to become a comedian.”

  “If I were you,” she says. “I’d stick to your day job.”

  But she’s smiling. I’m glad for it. I want to see that smile over and over again, her beneath me, her hands clawing at the sheets.

  Dream on.

  “What brought you to New York,” I ask. “It’s a long way from Kansas.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. I headed down to the local mall, picked up these really cute red shoes...”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Are you? Because a second ago there it looked like there might be a funny bone buried under all that…” she pauses. “Tough stuff.”

  “Tough stuff? If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it.”

  “Take whatever you want,” she quips, realizing what she’s said. “I didn’t mean… you know… with the… you and me.”

  It’s dark, but I can see she’s blushing like a priest at a pegging convention. “I understand completely.”

  I can’t help but smile as I drive on.

  “What about you?” she says. “What brought you to New York?”

  “Stupidity,” I reply, leaving it at that.

  “Fair enough. You really don’t like to talk, do you?”

  “I prefer to work alone. This is… unusual.”

  She crosses her arms, her cleavage bunching between them. “You can say that again.”

  I make another turn, the last slice of the sun dipping away, the world suddenly colder for it.

  Dawn nods at my shoulder. “Are you going to let me look at that when we get to your place?”

  “Why, are you a nurse?”

  “Cape Cod, I’m just trying to help.”

  Cape Cod? There’s something oddly endearing about someone who swears using potato chip brands.

  I pull into a parking space and cut the ignition. “We’re here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  DAWN

  Max closes the door and motions to the sofa. “Make yourself at home.”

  I’ve been to my share of bachelor pads, but this one’s barer than most. The beer bottles and girly posters are absent. What remains is for utility only—the TV, the sofa, the kitchen counter clean save for a juicer and toaster. The only personal touch I can see is a giant boxing bag hanging in the corner that looks like it’s seen its fair share of blows, duct-taped back to life countless times over.

  Sucks to be you, Mr. Punching Bag.

  Max disappears down the hall, returning with a first-aid kit, placing it down before me before he pulls away his shirt. I do my best to disguise the sharp intake of breath from my mouth as I take in his body. He’s the finest male specimen I’ve ever seen.

  He turns, showing me his shoulder. “Well, Doctor?”

  I sit and pat the couch beside me. “Take a seat.”

  The cut’s not deep at all and most of the bleeding stopped on the way here. I clean it and apply an adhesive dressing.

  Max doesn’t move, not even when I apply the alcohol.

  When I’m done, he stands. “Drink?”

  I rarely drink, which is why I find it curious I reply in the affirmative. He hasn’t put a shirt on and it’s taking a hell of a lot of willpower to cast my eyes in a different direction. I need a distraction.

  Max busies himself making drinks while I stand and walk around. “Have you been here long?” I ask.

  “Five years,” he replies.

  Five years and not a single photo, potted plant, or porno? “It’s very…” I’m struggling to find the appropriate adjective. “Clean.”

  He walks over with two tumblers filled with amber, the same striking color as his eyes. “I told you. I don’t like things messy.”

  My mind wanders as I take the tumbler, warmth blooming across my chest. I bet you like one thing messy…

  He points through a doorway. “The
bathroom’s down the end of the hall there. The pressure’s terrible, but I make do. Towels are in the cupboard. You can sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He laughs, taking a swig, tongue moving in his mouth. “Trust me, I’ve slept on worse.”

  Was he homeless at some point? I wonder, trying to piece together his backstory—the down-and-out kid picked up by the boxing coach, the father figure. Rocky come to life.

  I look at the glass.

  “Whiskey,” he fills. “You do like whiskey, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” I lie, taking a sip. My alcoholic beverages are limited to fruity cocktails most school kids would scoff at. The instant burn of the whiskey sends me into an instant sputter-cough.

  Max can’t help but snigger. He’s actually got a great smile—real billboard material. “Easy now. The idea’s to sip it slowly, not treat it like a Spring Break shot.”

  I hold my chest. “It burns.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  I put the tumbler down, clearing my throat. “What do you think our chances of finding Rick are?”

  Max holds the glass up, looking at me through the whiskey. “Good. Guys like your boy only get so far before something catches up with them, and I intend for that something to be my fist.”

  I lower my head before looking up at him, leaning forward. “I wanted to thank you.”

  He takes another sip. “For what? Taking you hostage?”

  “For saving me from…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say.

  “A beating? It probably would have been easier that way.”

  “But they’d still come after me, right? For the money?”

  He sits back into the sofa. “I’m afraid so. I’ve worked for Saul for a long time. He’s not the type to let this kind of thing go.”

  “I figured. I didn’t sign anything, you know.”

  “Lover Boy forged your signature.”

  “I think so.”

  He places the tumbler down on the bench. “It doesn’t matter to Saul. This is only going to end for you once that debt is paid, and trust me, you don’t want to be the one paying it off.”

  “Why do you do it?” I query.

  “This job?” He lifts his shoulders. “Fuck knows. I’m big, I can fight—it seemed like a natural fit.”

  “But you’re working for a criminal.”

  He rocks forward. “I am a criminal. Besides, we’re all working for criminals in one way or another. I’m just doing it out in the open.”

  “You can’t honestly believe that?”

  “With no degree, no high-school diploma? An ex-con? What do you think I should do? Flip burgers at Wendy’s?”

  I don’t miss the convict part.

  He holds up his hands, the knuckles still broken from earlier. “These hands were born to break things, to cause pain. It’s just the way things are.”

  “Do you have any family?” I ask, cautious.

  He picks up his tumbler and sits on the couch beside me, holding it with both hands between his legs, nodding down into it. “No.”

  “But you had a family growing up, right? Parents?”

  “I had Pops. Now, he was a boxer, a fighter to the end right up until the cancer took him.”

  I’ve gone too far. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on.”

  I look around. “Clearly.”

  I notice something on the coffee table, a folder. I reach forward.

  “Wai—” but I’ve already opened it.

  There are sketches inside, designs. They’re for tattoos, and they’re good. I recognize the tribal design off his arm. “You drew these?”

  He sits back and I get the impression he’s embarrassed. “Yeah.”

  I leaf through them. “These are good. I mean, they’re really good.”

  I wasn’t expecting this giant hulking mass of muscle to be creative, but it seems like ‘Maximus’ here is full of surprises.

  He takes the folder from my hands, closing it and placing it underneath the table. “Do you want to call your friend? I don’t mind.”

  Poor Noel. I shake my head. “No, you’re right. The less she knows, the better.”

  I reach for my tumbler but knock it off the table. We reach for it at the same time, his hand hot on mine, rough and waxy—broken.

  It stays there as my eyes lift to his, our breathing occupying the same space while the whiskey seeps into the carpet, the woody smell of it rising.

  I want to kiss him. Why, I have no idea. There’s no logic in it, but I feel it all the same, the hot pull urging me to move towards him, open my mouth.

  We break apart.

  The moment is lost, his hand leaving mine.

  “Sorry,” I stammer.

  He takes the tumbler and stands, heading to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it. It was cheap stuff, anyhow.”

  “What do I have to do to get the good stuff?” I joke, realizing with horror it sounds like the world’s worst pick-up line.

  He laughs. “I have a feeling it would be wasted on a fragile thing like you.”

  “I’m not fragile.”

  He eyes me from the kitchen, head titled to the side. “Let’s see, Dorothy. Have you ever been in a fight?”

  Damn him. “Sure.”

  “A real fight, with skin and bones and blood so fresh you can taste the iron in it?”

  “Does Facebook count?”

  He laughs again. It’s refreshing to know there’s a human being inside that hard body.

  I can’t deny he’s attractive in a brawny, save-the-damsel kind of way, but he should realize I’m no damsel, contrary to recent events. I’ve had my share of hard times too.

  It’s insane. Maybe the emotion is getting to me, but I want to be with this man. I want to see what those hands can do.

  Do you really think that’s wise, Dawn? He’s a criminal. He didn’t exactly deny it.

  Bad boys are not my thing. I’ve always wanted a prim, proper Yale type with impeccable fashion sense to take home to Mom. I didn’t exactly picture Mr. Right looking like Dwayne Johnson. Max is the polar opposite of my fantasy, so why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him, that dirty mouth of his doing dirty things between my legs?

  You’re not thinking straight. This is an unusual situation. You’re bound to be skittish.

  Skittish? I’m horny—pure and simple, as Max would say.

  After he’s cleaned the carpet, wonderfully close to my legs—so easy to run a hand between them—he stands and announces he’s taking a shower.

  I keep my mouth shut, even if my body is screaming out to join him.

  Stockholm syndrome, Dawn. It’ll pass.

  I nod and sit there quietly listening to the shower turn on, the door swinging open, all the while picturing his naked body, what his cock would look like unveiled, the heft and size of his shaft, if I could even take it.

  Dawn! Get with the freakin’ program!

  I consider my options. I have to admit, they are few. I could leave right now. He didn’t lock the door, but I’m not familiar with this neighborhood. It doesn’t exactly strike me as the set of Friends, what with the bars on the windows and the potential drug dealer we passed in the stairwell.

  Max took his cell into the bathroom, so that’s out, not that it would do me any good either. If this was a movie, going to the cops was always the worst idea.

  This isn’t a movie. This is your life.

  The urge to flee builds again until I remind myself that, for the time being, I’m safest here with Max, a man I barely know. But that’s the thing, I do know people. I always have. Mom says it’s one of my superpowers, the way I can measure someone up in seconds, and I see good in Max. It might be buried for the moment, but it’s there. If I can appeal to that, I’ll stay alive.

  There’s a loud gunshot. I hear feet pounding up the stairwell beyond the front door. A sudden and all-enveloping fear grips me. “Ma
x!” I shout, but there’s no answer.

  I picture men in black coming up the stairs, guns in hand, guys from the butcher shop or worse.

  “Max!” I call again, but the shower continues to run.

  You have to warn him.

  I stand up and run for the bathroom.

  I knock on the door, but it’s not locked, swinging open to reveal Max, completely naked, stepping from the shower.

  He sees me but makes no attempt to cover up.

  My eyes shift to his crotch. Try as I might I can’t pull them away from… that.

  Holy big penis, Batman.

  I thought his fighting skills were impressive, but the weapon between his legs looks just as concussion-worthy.

  He reaches for a towel, droplets of water spilling down cut arms and legs. “Is everything okay or did you just want to see me naked?”

  Eyes up, Dawn.

  “Ah, I heard a gunshot, outside, people in the hall,” I splutter, and I swear my legs are actually shaking.

  He wraps the towel around his waist. I note he hasn’t got just a six-pack. No, he’s got the whole damn case. He wraps the towel around himself casually, cinching it off at the side. “It’ll be Lenny going out on a booze run. That shit-box of his is always backfiring, and the footsteps in the hall? Kids from upstairs most likely, playing around on the stairs. I keep telling them they should get some air, play outside, fly a fucking kite, but you know kids these days.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I can say. I stand there feeling incredibly foolish.

  And then it happens.

  I lose it.

  I start to ball, tears running hot and free down my face. I stand there blubbering and lost, no idea where this sudden outburst has come from. I’m a second away from peeing myself, all bodily functions lost.

  “Hey, hey.”

  He comes forward and wraps his arms around me, pressing my head against his wet chest, his heart thumping hard against my ear. “Christ. It’s just kids.”

  “I’m. Just. So. Scared,” I cry, and I don’t know what’s more embarrassing—telling myself I’m strong and turning into a human ocean at a car backfiring, or bursting in on Max naked and going all magnet eyes on his twig and berries.

  He holds me away, and there’s a moment, barely a second or two, where we stand there staring at each other.