by Jamie Canosa
I tried to smile as he held the door for me, but I’m pretty sure it came across more as a grimace.
“And, Jade . . .” Simon called after me. “My number’s on the contact sheet in the employee handbook. If you need anything, call me.”
“Thanks, Simon, but I’m fine.”
“I mean it. If you need help with anything. Or . . . money—”
“I said I’m fine.” Did no one believe I was capable of taking care of myself?
“Okay.” He threw his hands up in surrender and took a step back.
The look on his face. I recognized that look. It was the ‘sorry I asked’ look. The same look everyone who had ever offered my mother help had after she shot them down.
Oh my God, I was turning into my mother.
Wrestling the bulky crutches into the backseat, I leaned against the roof to catch my breath. It wasn’t an easy task. And catch it did—right in the back of my throat. There, parked outside the deli was the big black beast of a machine only one person in town I knew drove. It was too dark to see if anyone was in it, but I knew it was him. The magnetic pull I felt tugging me in that direction was more than enough proof.
He was back. Caulder was home. I wanted nothing more than to go running into his arms and tell him that I could change. That I could be different. Better. But he hadn’t called. He hadn’t stopped by. Or checked in. He hadn’t even bothered to let me know he was back in town. Or that he was leaving in the first place.
I couldn’t go running into his arms because they were no longer open to me.
Flopping behind the wheel with all the poise of a fish out of water, I dug in my pocket for the keys. I needed to get the hell out of there. Now. But, of course, they were stuck. The stupid, freaking . . . I tried to straighten my good leg to free them and only ended up banging my injured ankle against the door.
“Dammit!” Dropping my forehead against the steering wheel, I drew in a deep breath to ease the pain. Not the pain in my foot. The one everywhere else. The one radiating from the gaping hole in my chest.
Tears fell into my lap as I surrendered to it, gasping for breath. My entire body shook, but it had nothing to do with the cold.
I tried.
Life kept going no matter what. And I tried to keep up. I really did. I ran and I ran and I ran. Hurdling every obstacle in my way. But I was tired. I was so damn tired of trying to keep up. Of hurdling one obstacle after another, only to find more in my path. And in the end, where did all of that running and jumping get me? Nowhere. My life was a freaking treadmill and it felt like someone kept upping the speed until I was running full sprint just trying not to fall on my face. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t keep it up anymore. I couldn’t catch my breath. Couldn’t see where I was going. Not that it was anywhere I hadn’t already been.
Realistically, I knew what my life looked like. My future. I was such a fool to think it could be anything more. To get my hopes up and actually believe Caulder could . . .
But, no. Scrubbing at my face with the sleeve of my uniform shirt, I straightened. I was done with flights of fancy. Naïve, childish dreams. I had real problems to deal with.
I was off the schedule for at least a week at work, but the bill collectors didn’t seem to care. The mailbox held a vast array of money-sucking goodies waiting for me when I got home. Everything from electric to rent was due. At least the cabinets were full. We’d have plenty of canned goods to barter with when we found ourselves homeless.
Mom and Michael weren’t home when I got upstairs, but I retreated to my room, nevertheless. It felt like the only safe place I had left. And wasn’t it a sight. The dark stain on the ceiling had grown from one tile to six and now matched the puddled stain on my carpet below. The walls were cracked and slanted, like the entire building was slowly shifting. One day it was going to collapse. Maybe I’d be sleeping in my bed when it happened. Maybe this would be my final resting place. Seemed fitting.
Throughout the years, I’d added what personal touches I could. Like the large mirror hanging above my dresser that I’d spotted at a garage sale and fallen in love with. It was cracked now—the victim of my mother’s drunken stumbling.
The dresser was a roadside pick-up with one missing foot and a drawer that always stuck. I hated the thing. But I’d decorated the top of it with small mementos. A ticket stub from a movie Kiernan took me to see. A picture he took of the two of us the night we went snow tubing. Our faces were bright red and my hair was a wild mess, but I’d never been happier. My high school diploma. The broken chain to the necklace Caulder had given me. I kept the charm in my pocket. Even if I couldn’t wear it, I wanted it near. And a stack of some of my most prized possessions—my notebooks—on top of which sat another picture of Kiernan and I. This one with the words Defying Reality scrawled across it and wrapped around the ten-thousand or so words that encompassed the stuff my dreams were made of. All of it collecting dust.
Trailing my fingers along the scratched surface, I touched the silver chain, lifting it and letting it sift through my fingers. Such a delicate thing. So easily broken. Just like me and Cal. We were broken. I thought we could put each other back together, but I was wrong.
I read somewhere once that it’s our beliefs that make us who we are. Not our genetics, or our circumstances, but what we believe that shapes our thoughts and actions. Caulder was right about that, too. My thoughts and actions would never change until my beliefs did.
I was becoming my mother because I believed what she told me to believe. It was her voice I heard above all others. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be her. I didn’t want her to determine what I believed. Or who I was.
But it was too late. I’d already let her in. Let her influence everything about me. And it had cost me everything.
Tentatively setting my foot on the floor, I sucked in a harsh breath. The throbbing pain intensified, but it wasn’t unbearable. Which, to me, said it wasn’t broken. Not exactly an x-ray quality diagnosis, but I was willing to go with it.
Snapping up the discarded jeans I’d been wearing the night I decided to take my swan dive, I jammed my hand in the pocket and dug around for the charm Caulder gave me, needing to feel that tiny connection. My fingers slid along the bottom seam of the pocket and poked through a large hole in the corner. Out of sheer desperation, I shoved my hand in the other pocket, already knowing what I would find. It wasn’t there.
My last source of comfort. The only remaining link I had to Cal. Severed.
I felt heavy all of a sudden, as though I’d gained a hundred pounds in an instant. Collapsing from the sheer weight onto my mattress.
How was it possible to lose something before you ever even realized you had it? I’d always assumed Caulder saw me as a responsibility. One more piece of baggage heaped on his already overburdened shoulders. A lingering sense of obligation. Maybe, on a good day, a friend. The thought that it could have been something else . . .
But not anymore. Whatever I was to him, I wasn’t his problem, anymore. I wasn’t anyone’s problem but my own. And come hell or high water, I was determined to find a way to solve it.
***
“Mom.” I sighed, watching her reach for the first drink of the day. The start to what would be another day lost. She was the only one I had left. The only one I’d ever really had. And I was watching her slip further and further away from me.
Michael was in the living room, sleeping soundly on the couch from what I could tell. Now was my chance if I was going to take it.
“Can we talk for a minute, please?”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” She popped the top and before I could think better of it, I snatched the can from her hand.
“It’ll only take a minute.” I had her undivided attention now. Not something I usually craved. “Are you hungry? I could make us some breakfast.”
“I’m thirsty.” Her gaze latched on to the can sweating in my palm and I bit back my frustration.
“Aren’t you sick of this?
Sick of living this way? I am. Or does that not matter to you? Did you even notice that I’ve been on crutches for the past week?” She glanced around like that was news to her, but the crutches were long gone. I’d tossed them in the back of my closet as soon as I could hobble around without falling over. I was walking almost normal now, the pain little more than a lingering soreness, but it wasn’t enough to convince Stewart to let me come back to work yet. “Do you even care that I fell down a flight of stairs and nearly froze to death in the lobby? Does anything matter to you anymore? Besides this?” I hefted the can, careful not to spill a drop should the end of days occur. “You were doing so good before Michael showed up. We were doing good. We were happy. Weren’t we? Does he make you happy? Because you don’t look happy. We can try again. We can tell Michael to go and give the meetings another chance. I’ll go with you. We can do it together. Please, Mom? For me?”
“Jade . . .” Mom leaned toward me, more clear eyed and coherent than I’d seen her in a while. Hope soared—until she reached past me and plucked the can from my fingers. “Give me my damn drink.”
“Mom, please—”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Your father needs our help. He has nowhere else to go, Jade. What kind of self-centered bitch tries to make her mother feel guilty for doing the right thing? How pathetic do you have to be to try to make yourself feel better by making others feel worse?”
The irony of that statement hit me hard, but it did nothing to dilute the guilt that ricocheted in on its heels.
She threw open the liquor cabinet and scowled at the two half empty bottles on the shelf. “I’m going to the store. I suggest you adjust your attitude or get the hell out of my sight before I get back.”
Taking a deep swallow, she discarded the can on the counter in exchange for her keys. Probably not the wisest series of events, but she’d only had a few sips, so I wasn’t worried about letting her drive.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was being selfish. Again. I didn’t know the first thing about Michael, but I was willing to sacrifice him in order to save my mother. No. To save me. What I wanted.
Self-centered bitch.
The sink was piled high with dirty dishes. Turning on the water, I filled a pot to soak and dug in the cabinet for a fresh sponge. Our faucet was installed sometime before safety regulations existed. Or maybe they just didn’t matter. Either way, the water reached a scalding temperature if left on for too long. I was certain that most of what passed for appliances around there had fallen off the back of a truck somewhere. The air conditioner hadn’t worked since before we moved in as far as I knew. And the oven went months refusing to heat between shoddy repair jobs. I’d been forced to MacGyver more than a few meals because of it.
All I found was an empty package where the sponges should have been. Perfect. Resigning myself to using a wad of paper towels, I spun around just to have the pot slapped from my hands and jumped to avoid the spray of hot water.
“What the—?”
Michael stood close enough that I could taste his foul breath as he panted in my face. I’d seen him fight with my mother a million times. Watched him yell and scream and break shit. But I’d never seen him look like that.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I . . .” He was too close for me to get around him, so I took a step back instead, gripping the counter when my back came up against it.
“Think you can open your big mouth and mess up my life?”
“No . . . I . . . I didn’t mean to—”
“Stupid, nosy bitch.” His hand snapped out and I tried to dodge him, but I had nowhere to run.
It wrapped around my arm, hauling me away from the sink and shoved me back a step. And another. And another. He directed my movements like a puppeteer across the room until my back slammed up against the wall and my head cracked on the door frame.
“Please . . .” I whimpered. “You’re hurting me.”
His fingers dug into my flesh, pinning my arm to the wall at an awkward angle beside my head.
“I’ve got a good thing going for me here. I swear to God, you mess that up and you’ll be sorry. You stay the hell out of my business and your stupid bitch mother’s.”
It hurt hearing him talk about my mother that way. “You don’t care about her, at all. You’re the worst thing that ever happened to her.”
“Funny.” A twisted smirk, curled his upper lip. “I’m willing to bet she’d say that was you.”
His words hurt worse than his ruthless grip. Mostly because I knew they were true. I struggled to free myself, but that only made him clamp down harder.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking that because I donated sperm and about twenty minutes of my time to your existence that I’ll let you stand between me and what I want.”
With one final crushing squeeze for good measure, he released me. My legs gave out and I sank to the floor, a trembling huddled mess.
“That’s more like it.” Michael sneered down at me and I felt sick.
That was where I belonged, according to him. According to my father. Cowering at his feet like a kicked puppy.
The moment he turned his back on me, I scurried from the kitchen as fast as I could, through the living room, and out the front door. I didn’t stop for anything. Not even my coat. I only had shoes on because I’d already been wearing them. I just needed to get the hell out of there.
I picked my way down the stairs, conscious of my footing, and out of the building where I slammed to a stop. Wheeling to the left, I threw myself through the laundry room door and slumped against the wall.
“Shit.”
DJ was standing on the sidewalk, pacing back and forth, obviously waiting for someone. That it was me was a possibility, but unlikely seeing as I hadn’t even known I was leaving home today until it happened.
The sound of a motorcycle sent my pulse from racing to a dead stop.
DJ pointed across the lot—to my building—and I felt my throat close up. Holy shit. This couldn’t be happening. He was telling the truth. Stryker really was looking for me.
And he was here.
Now.
Eighteen
Stryker moved with a confident stride that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing and would go straight through anyone standing in his way. DJ scurried to keep up with him and I scrambled back away from the window, crawling behind a row of dryers. Lint and dust coated my hands and knees and choked the air as their voices carried to me through the open door.
“She live alone?” I didn’t recognize the deep, raspy voice, but I had a pretty good idea who it belonged to.
“She lives with her mother, but that bitch won’t give you no trouble.” DJ, that back-stabbing weasel.
“Fine. Let’s do this.”
“Yeah, man. Let’s do it. Let’s teach that stupid bitch a lesson she won’t never forget . . .”
I took a deep steadying breath and then had to cover my mouth to muffle a coughing fit. What the hell was I going to do? At least Mom wasn’t home. Let Michael answer the door. They could have it out. I wouldn’t even care who won.
But then what? I couldn’t hide in the laundry room forever. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t go . . . anywhere.
Curled in a tight ball in the filth behind rusted out dryers with my head tucked against the arms wrapped around my knees, I’d never felt more alone. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call the police. What was I supposed to say? Yes, officer, I was making a delivery for a known drug dealer to a motorcycle club and now they think I called the police instead of making the delivery, which I didn’t do, but probably should have, and they want to make me pay for it, anyway? Yeah, because that wouldn’t add to my problems.
But I couldn’t deal with this on my own. I needed help. I needed . . .
The phone in my pocket dug into my hip. Squirming as little as possible to avoid making any unnecessary noise, I yanked it out and fiddled with the display. His number was right there in
front of me.
All I had to do was push one button.
All I could do was ask.
“Jade?”
My hands that had been shaking long before I dialed broke into full-on convulsions at the sound of his voice.
“Cal, I . . .” Christ, why was this so difficult? Because it meant so much. It meant everything. “I . . . I need your help.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Where are you?”
I could have cried. “In the laundry room outside my building. I don’t think they know where I am, but if they find me . . .”
“If who finds you?” Beneath his words I heard the slamming of a door and the rapid crunch of gravel.
“DJ. And that guy I saw getting arrested. The one I was supposed to deliver the box to. He thinks someone ratted him out to the police and DJ told him it was me.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“He looks really pissed, Cal.” Terror choked out my voice and I forced myself to swallow it back. I couldn’t lose it. Not now. I needed to hold it together. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Sit tight.” A burst of music nearly deafened me before he quickly snapped off the radio. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way. And whatever you do, do not hang up.”
“Okay.” I really wasn’t planning on doing any of those things, anyway.
The slap of heavy boots on concrete had my body flinching with each step as they drew closer. I hated hiding. I’d played manhunt one time as a child and I still remembered the fear of crouching behind that tree in the dark, psyching myself out for the moment the seeker caught me. The anticipation had been far worse than the actual event. This time, it wouldn’t be. I didn’t know what Stryker had planned, but I somehow doubted being tagged and sent to ‘jail’ would be my punishment.
“Dammit!” The sun glinted off cracked leather as Stryker’s fist collided with the laundry room door hard enough to crack the wood. He didn’t even flinch. “You told me the bitch was home. I don’t have time for this shit.”
I slapped my hand over the squeak he startled out of me.
