by Amy Love
We’re back outside before I even notice my feet hitting the concrete and the truck being turned on. Liam tosses me the keys as he says, “Get in. Drive. Don’t slow down.” I don’t understand the last part. Why wouldn’t I slow down? Why would I need to speed? Were we in some kind of danger that I haven’t picked up on? My heart begins to beat steadily against my chest, and I seriously contemplate if this is what a stress induced heart attack feels like.
My hands are still shaking as I turn the key in the ignition and back out of the parking spot Liam’s got us in. I weave in and out of a few rows of motorcycles, lined like a black and chrome wall to keep those who don’t belong out. Thank God my dad made me practice my driving skills for over two years before he first let me drive this thing. “Ice cream trucks and sharp turns don’t exactly mix, Alana.”
Suddenly, I realize just how much I do want to see my dad, Liam or not. Once we’re past the gated fence, I ask him as uncaring as possible, “Why did you say we were going to the hospital, Liam?”
“Because we are.” He leans back all the way in the seat, his black boots resting on the black leather dash as they scuff up the hard cleaning job I did just last weekend. I knew my father would have wanted me to keep this place as perfect as possible while he was out of commission. Pride in your truck is pride in your business. My heart breaks again. I really, really need to see him.
“Okay. I get that we are seeing him, but why? What the hell does he have to do with anything that’s going on tonight or with me? I don’t want to rope him into this. When he wakes up, I don’t want him to know what I did to keep him in that hospital room.” I lay it all out there like a blocked dam ready to spill over. Liam wasn’t exactly the guy you wanted to open up to, but there have been moments now where I feel oddly compelled to spill.
“Don’t worry, Alana. No one is going to mess with your dad. But I need your truck, you, and me to be in specific places to cover my tracks. If they know I went to headquarters with you, they will get suspicious that you’re involved. And then your dad has a problem. This is how we protect you. We make it look like you’re with me and I’m with you, and that this is natural. A boyfriend would go see his girlfriend's dad in the hospital, right?”
“Wait a minute. Fake relationship? We’ve moved into a fake relationship status?” I state, unsure of how I am really feeling about this.
“You want to write about me in your blog, you’re going to want to write about me doing boyfriend things. Again, we’re laying some foundation here, making some cover stories. The boys are going to want to know that they are protecting you for good reason and cops or whoever may come after me will want to think you knew nothing about what was going on in the back of your truck.”
Liam says it so matter-of-factly as if this was his plan all along. I wonder how he manages to bullshit so easily and quickly. I was never great at thinking on my feet like this. I could barely get through a test unless I studied four or five hours the night before. And don’t even try me on putting on presentations or giving an impromptu speech for some of my grad classes. I think even my most well-meaning professors have totally given up on making that happen. I am completely helpless.
“Come on, Alana,” he says, suddenly reaching over to tug on a strand of hair tucked behind my ear. The small pain makes me turn straight towards him as he stares into my eyes. “This will be easy. Just play along. Do what I tell you to do, and don’t ask so many questions. That’s how you got yourself into this in the first place.”
Yeah. I asked a question about what the hell his guys were doing to my ice cream truck, and now I am a member of some diamond smuggling ring. Questions, as he says, are what are getting me into trouble. I am vowing to just roll with it. There was nothing more I could do at this point but to trust that Liam knew exactly what he was doing and that he was willing to protect me. All those other pieces of fear and doubt could be put into writing.
St. Luke’s Hospital in Las Vegas is only a few minutes from the warehouse district where Liam’s headquarters are located. As he commanded me earlier, I don’t slow down. In fact, I think I blew through a few red lights during that momentary stare down. Just another way that he’s forcing me to break the law. I have to get this together.
After I park the ice cream truck in the lone area where it will fit, Liam runs out the passenger side and pulls open the door. Like some deranged black knight in shiny leather, he offers me his hand as I scoot myself out of the driver’s seat. I take it, giggling to myself, but he doesn’t let go when I’m on my feet. He holds on tightly as we enter the hospital’s gold and crimson waiting room and past the blue-clad security guards with their large nightsticks and buzzing walkie-talkies. One of the men, an overweight man in his late fifties, nods his head at me as we pass. There’s not a person to tell me that visiting hours are through or that I need to come back tomorrow. I’ve spent quite a few nights here, and I’ve become a regular to even the lowest security guard on the totem pole. And for Liam, that’s even better news. His steps even seem to become impossibly lighter.
We enter the elevators, our hands still clasped and our arms rubbing up against one another. Neither of us looks at the other, we just stare at our reflection in the elevator’s bronze closed doors. We look the part of boyfriend-girlfriend. He, with his concerned and wary looks over the top of my head, and me with my slight smile and tired eyes -- we could be just about any couple visiting a parent or a friend.
My dad’s room on the fifth floor is always quiet. I noticed it on the first day he was brought here. The nurses seemed less panicked, more patient. It certainly wasn’t like the Intensive Care Unit where they were constantly running from one room to another to address a strange beep or that occasional horrifying sound of someone flatlining.
This is the floor, and these are the rooms where people come to die. They didn’t tell me this, of course. I had to figure it out on my own. I started seeing the word “hospice” appear on forms I had to sign, and sweet caregivers with friendly hands popped their heads in more than the nurses to offer me some coffee or a moment to sit with my dad while I grabbed a sandwich or went off to class.
My dad isn’t dying, though. At least, that’s what Dr. Underwell keeps reassuring me each and every day I ask. “He’s hanging in there,” he tells me, sometimes placing a hand on my shoulder. “We don’t know what tomorrow will bring. So we just have to wait.”
And I wait. And wait. And wait. I wait in the quiet by myself hoping beyond hope that the monitors connected to him will do something other than ticking the seconds and heartbeats that go by. Tonight, at least, I am waiting with someone beside me, someone who doesn’t really understand the whole “hospice quiet” situation. Liam looks around, puzzled, at the lack of interest being paid to us by anyone in this wing.
“Are you sure you’re in the good hospital? Shouldn’t those nurses be doing… I don’t know, something?” I reach up for the crook of his arm, patting it gently. Again, I’m not sure why I have this urge, but I do. It’s something a girlfriend would do to a clueless boyfriend, and I need to play this part.
I bring him into room 302, not bothering to knock. It’s not like anyone would answer anyways. Dad’s room is completely dark. The nurses usually turn off the lamps above his bed around nine p.m. One of them joked that he would need rest as well even if that were all he did. Nothing has changed today either except that his small frame is slightly propped up on one side by a few bed wedges. He looks completely natural this way as if he’s rolled over himself.
Liam lets go of my hand and takes a seat in one of the two chairs next to my dad’s bed. He actually looks interested, examining the setup of wires and tubes, the ice pitcher with a few unused clear plastic glasses set up, and the notes from the nurses from the day shift explaining what protocols they took today. Not much was written on my dad’s schedule. In the big yellow circle on the white whiteboard that says, GOALS my mind writes, WAKE UP! I then blink, and it’s as blank as it was the day they brough
t him in here.
Liam clears his throat loudly, admitting, “I’m not great at this stuff. Hospitals… I don’t know. I never can do them. It must suck to be in here all the time.”
“Yeah. It really does. It gets boring. Sometimes I watch TV or study to pass the time. Sometimes I talk to him, but I’m awkward at doing that.”
“Shouldn’t you introduce me to him?” He gestures as I sit next to Liam. “I mean, that wouldn’t be awkward at all…”
I lean myself into him, playfully pushing him with my shoulder. But he doesn’t budge. His glare remains on me until I take a deep breath and slowly say, “Hey, Dad. There’s someone here I want you to meet. This is Liam Murphy. He owns The Emerald Pub, and he’s a boxer. You’d probably not approve.”
“It’s nice to meet you…?”
I realize that I have yet to tell him my dad’s name. It’s such an unimportant point that strangely seems pressing when Liam is staring you down. “His name is...” I gulp, holding back some tears that feel as if they have congregated in the middle of my throat. “His name is Charlie. Charlie Bloom.”
He doesn’t look away from me as he says proudly, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bloom. Your daughter is a strangely amazing person. I think you’d be proud of her if you knew what she did tonight.”
I let out something that’s a half-cry, half-laugh. It pours out of me with all the other stress from the day, and there is nothing that I can do to stop it. Hearing someone call my dad “Mr. Bloom” other than the nurses is just too much. Add that on top of what I did do to get us here tonight, and I can’t control any part of my body anymore. I fall to pieces right here in this metal folding chair some nurse was kind enough to bring into the bare hospital room.
The top of Liam’s forehead creases as he turns his knees towards my chair. An arm wraps around the back and rests up against the top of my arm and shoulder. His other hand finds mine, resting upon my knees. Those long, large fingers wrap in between mine, engulfing my hand in his palm. It takes a long moment before I am ready to look up at him, but when I do, I see something softer in him that I have yet to see all night. It’s a glow, a warmth; an opening that transforms him from the guy who basically kidnapped me, to the guy who is sitting here holding my hand, silently telling me that it is going to be alright.
And I believe him. As crazy as it is, I believe this terrible, horrifying man. And maybe I am still in a haze when he says the oddest thing. “Alana,” he whispers as he fingers run over my knuckles, “I think that there’s something happening between us. I don’t want to leave you alone.”
CHAPTER 12
I wake up later that night covered in sweat. My apartment seems like it’s gone from the autumn chill to a summer heat wave. I throw the black silk sheets off, my comforter already on the floor, as I sit up with my head held high.
The night of a fight is always like this. It’s why I usually don’t even bother trying to sleep. My dreams are usually filled with me going over jab combinations and sequences I have drilled to death with my coach and trainer. The ring becomes this enclosed cage where I am fighting this monster with the face of my father as people around me scream and cheer for him. I am alone, smacking at the darkness with my gloves up. I duck and run from a force that knocks me down each and every time it swings. There is never a bell to stop the rounds -- only the sound of my alarm clock going off, breaking me free from the nightmare that never seems to end.
Tonight’s dream started like that. There I stood in the center of the ring as the crowd begun to chant someone else’s name. A black hooded figure steps into the opposite side of the ring, followed by an entire team of people and officials. They fade into the background as he takes off his robe with his back towards me. I try to call out someone’s name, but I can’t seem to get the syllables out of my mouth before the fight has begun. He moves too fast for me to catch the light. He’s a blur of power and force that I can’t seem to get an inch on.
Just as I am about to give up, to fall to the mat and wait for my alarm to just let me escape, there’s something else there -- someone else. There’s a moment of reprieve from my beating, just long enough for the world to feel as if it stops. The ground around me spins so that nothing looks the same. I can focus on only one person in the crowd. She’s sitting third row, dead center. Her blonde hair flows like a river from the top of her head, the light casting long shadows over her made up face and ruby lips. Her hands are crossed over her chest as she looks at me, almost disappointed.
“What are you doing?” Alana asks, her voice is as real as the moment she dropped me back off at the restaurant. “Why are you letting him win? Don’t you know that we have work to do?” She sounds impatient, almost tired.
I ask her back, barely whispering, “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here!” I am being brought back to the dream world where I almost always end up dead, the crowd cheering for it with each and every punch of my mystery opponent. If he didn’t finish the job, they would. And here was Alana sitting dead center among them, the queen of those who remain faceless.
“You brought me here, Liam. This is your fault. Now find a way to win. Find our way out of this.” Her figure fades, blending into the black and gray crowd. Her technicolor drips and bleeds onto the floor of the ring. All I can hear is her repeat, “Find a way out of this.”
In a panic, I turn around, my arms flying fast in the air. I make contact with something. It’s rock hard, a bit of a mountain in my way. The beast crumbles into pebbles onto the ground. Little round bits of flesh roll into a small pile at my feet as I stand there, clutching my hands in awe. Never have I defeated him before. I spin back to look for Alana, to show her that I did it. But she’s gone. The perfect likeness of her leaves a hole in the space of people shouting their boo’s at me. I do the only thing I can do -- I scream.
I scream so long and so hard that I manage to wake myself up. My studio apartment sits silently, bathed in a sunny glow. Despite the blackout curtains, the light manages to seep in through the corners and the patches where the window is still exposed. I grab my phone on the bedside table to check the time. Eleven a.m. It’s way too early for me to be up on match day, but I know that I won’t get back to sleep. And even if I did that dream would follow.
The time isn’t the only thing that catches my eye. There’s a text from an unfamiliar number:
Can I get two tickets for tonight instead of just one? If I’m going to watch you beat the shit out of someone, I at least want to bring around a friend who might enjoy the gore.
It’s Alana. After last night at the hospital, we rode back in silence. She never replied to me when I stupidly said my confession. I don’t blame her, though. What could you say to a guy like me when he points out that there’s more than just a business transaction happening or when he says that he doesn’t want to leave you? You don’t say anything. You change the subject. You show him the flowers some stranger brought for your dad. You point out the coffee machine in the hallway and tell him the name of the security guard you both ran into earlier. You say just about anything to avoid the elephant in the room.
I chalk it all up to the strange events of last night. Bringing a girl around to the club is a big fucking deal. So is robbing your arch rival of his prized diamond collection while also hoarding away a ruby stash enough to get you out of this damn town. Then seeing her dad like that… I just wasn’t me. That’s all there is to say about it. I just wasn’t the same Liam Murphy, president of The Possessed, known killer, and prized fighter that everyone else knew me as.
Still, I spend the rest of the day tracing through the events of yesterday. Even on my warm up run around the MGM Grand Arena with music blaring through my headset, I can hear her voice, the frightened shrieks as I place the gun to her head and tell her to drive. As I sign autographs, I see her watching me with that little boy outside the ice cream truck. When girls wrap me in huge hugs, their tits pressed firmly into me, I feel her warm skin clinging to my neck with the smell
of her orgasm wafting through my nostrils.
When I see her in the flesh, it’s almost a relief. These constant visions weren’t exactly helping me concentrate. Now that she was here, I could get her out of my head and focus on the fight to come.
She stands behind The Possessed security guard I had hired for the event tonight. Her head peaks around the corner of his large arm with this wide yet out of place smile. “Can you tell him that we’re with you?” she asks slyly, pointing at him as she rolls her eyes dramatically. I shoo him away quickly as he retreats back to his post outside the dressing room. I grab her hand and yank her towards me as she tumbles towards the bench in those ridiculous wedge shoes she’s wearing.
This isn’t exactly like the girl in the ice cream truck from last night with the scuffed up sneakers and messy hair. She’s looking sleeker, sexier, and more dolled up. The red dress she’s wearing clings to all the right curves of her body as if it’s been painted on her. The dark eyeliner gives her those cat eyes that only make her pearly blue eyes sparkle brighter. And those red lips. Those haven’t changed at all -- if anything, they’re plumper and more ready to be taken to places she can only imagine. I wonder if she thought about my cock when she painted that on. Last night, I had to practically scrub her lip marks from around the base of my shaft….
