Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane)

by June Hydra

“And you accuse me of flattery.” I peck his cheek.

  We weave through the boxes stacked in the living room and set ourselves up for another veg session on the couch. Lately, with money being rare, and an onslaught of work, we’re finding that doing “nothing” is just what we need. A wind down from the constant excitements and monotonies of our jobs.

  Bishop holds the remote control in a loose fist. “Reality shows or learning stuff?”

  “Reality,” I say. “I want to cry and laugh at the same time.”

  He happens on a show detailing diamond studded dudes and big breasted ladies. I have to admit, being a borderline B-cup, I would love to have myself a pair of larger breasts. Not for Bishop or anybody else, but for myself, so that when I look in the mirror I see the inner beast of a woman reflected on the outside.

  “You look fine,” Bishop says.

  “Stop that.”

  He grabs at my nose. “I can read you better and better every day.”

  We flip through the multitude of reality shows. These days any and every channel possesses a minimum of one. The channel can be devoted to science or history and still have nothing but hours of reality programming designed to stoke the inner voyeur in all of us.

  An hour or two passes. We fall asleep and wake up, touching each other’s faces gently in the interim between dreams, wedding bells and death tolls.

  In one dream, I’m traveling all over the world with Bishop. Nobody can stop us. We’re a tour de force with zero hampering us, not money, not circumstances, not family. We have everything. The most fleeting whims materialize whenever. Our thoughts blend together, and we think in unison. We’re connected and in love.

  And then when my parents surface in my mind, an immense happiness drugs my system. Nothing is better than knowing how far you’ve come, spiting those who’d say you’d never go.

  The bells chime again, and I awaken to realize the bells are not from my dreams but from the front door. Bishop groans. He sits upright and clutches me tight.

  The chiming echoes throughout the house. One ring, two rings, three, four, five. It’s an incessant buzz rivaling the TV’s, though more pleasurable than the badly acted and badly scripted local sushi joint ads.

  “I’ll get it,” Bishop says. “Stay put.”

  The doorbell chimes. It chimes thrice in a row, making the Bishop’s house vibrate with mighty aural measures. I sit up on the couch, watching Bishop move into the hallway leading to the door. I sit back down. The T.V. plays. Reality show contestants flex their muscles while causing drama in some bar—it’s the usual fare. Brainless but entertaining, relaxing and sleep-inducing.

  Bishop doesn’t return couch-side for twenty minutes. Commercials run on about a new cleaning product for the toilet. The contestants don’t return either—the show has ended. My eyes have some crust nestled in the ducts. I get up from the couch and round the hallway corner, looking for Bishop, wiping my eyes too from the nastiness.

  There’s no one at the door. It’s locked tight as if never opened. An impenetrable shadow slants from the upstairs. Night fell while I slept and my boyfriend is not here anymore.

  I search the walls for guidance, walking into the darkness. The light switches are like comfortable speed bumps detailing how far I’ve gone. Each one shocks the surroundings in a blast of light, and I press onward, until I hit the door and look outside.

  Nobody’s outside either. The ground wavers gently, grasses swaying in the summer’s breeze. Rain drums the concrete in torrents, massive sheets of unrelenting water. The sunlight has drained from the sky, not a shaft in sight.

  In the midst of the rain and breezes and swaying grass idles a black SUV. Neither Bishop nor I own a black SUV. Its coat is a peculiar shade, like gleaming obsidian, volcanic glass reflecting the furious storm.

  “Violet.”

  I instinctively jerk my head to the side, though I don’t want to completely see what’s behind me. Every hair on my skin stands at attention. My gut contracts.

  There are men standing on the stairwell. Three men, one of them Bishop, two of them hoisting him by the armpits.

  I make a full pivot and face the monsters imprisoning Bishop. They wear ski masks and black hoodies, black sweatpants, stand like shapeless figures.

  “The money,” one says. “Get the cunt to find some.” His partner drops Bishop and walks down. I back against the door.

  “Bitch,” the man says. “She’s beautiful,” he says, turning around to the other.

  “Could loose some weight.”

  The two share a chuckle, and the man pushes me away. I plead with my eyes for the other to keep Bishop safe, though they couldn’t care less.

  “You’re a chunky one.” My assailant gropes my waist. Out of instinct, I resist, making a fist and swatting his hand away. He gropes harder, and I step aside. “You can’t go far from me,” he says, pulling out a pistol. The metal glints in the light.

  We’re done, aren’t we?

  “The dick you suck owes us a large sum of money. Lots. Years worth in losses. Can you show me where that might be, beautiful?”

  “The—” I make my voice stutter as best I can “—the garage. He keeps money in the garage.”

  “Beautiful, you are beautiful. Take me, will you?”

  As we walk, the man’s voice becomes a prominent entity, like a devil on my shoulder, speaking unfiltered.

  Beautiful, keep going.

  You’re gorgeous.

  Enough to be a porn star! Go on cunt. Show us. Show me.

  I glance at the man over my shoulder. The ski mask and black clothes renders determining who he is an impossibility. But the voice. The swaying tilt in his gait. Even the way he holds the pistol, tilted towards my jugular, as if imitating a gangster he saw in a documentary.

  “Spade,” I say.

  “Yes, my love?”

  “I have a restraining order against you.”

  “And yet, I’m here. Keep walking, okay?”

  “You’re not supposed to be anywhere near me.”

  “Call the police. It’s fine. Then we can spill all sorts of stories to them. Like how this place has housed illegal gambling activity. That would be a hoot.”

  “How do you even know him?”

  “Small city. Small town. My partner’s played many nights here. I played once. Was okay. There are other better ones.”

  “You’re so gross,” I say. My hand trembles on the garage doorknob. The lies haunt me. There’s no money to be had here, just empty gasoline cans and the nauseating remnants of exhaust fumes.

  I remain calm. Situations can be worked out if you have the right luck and awareness.

  “I don’t know exactly where he kept it. You’ll have to wait.”

  Spade presses the barrel to my nape. The cold steel burns my skin. “Hurry. I might shoot out of boredom.”

  I riffle through metal drawers, upturning Bishop’s shop tools. Wrenches clang against screwdrivers. He has five sets of nails and two hammers. A mallet. If only I could swing and land a blow, smash skull.

  “Hurry up. We’re late for somewhere else.”

  “How did you even find me?”

  “I’m the type of guy who you needed a restraining order. You don’t think I know how to stalk?”

  Spade’s breath smells like nicotine and mint. He chews gum furiously while indicating to my breasts what exactly he means to do with a brush of his index finger down my cleavage. I’d given him second chances before. Who doesn’t deserve second wind? I did. He did. Now never again.

  “Stop.” I swat his hand away. “Go ahead. You won’t have a fun time trying anything.”

  “Really? I liked the struggle the first time.”

  Spade thrusts fists at my face, but I duck in time for him to only smash drywall. I spring forward, brushing past his knees. A thousand scenarios replay though my mind as I leap for safety. Him grabbing me by the hair. Him taking me by the waist. Him overpowering me completely, utterly, without mercy.

  Him
firing and killing me outright.

  I spin around and lean myself against the ground, kicking overhead. My foot drives right into his crotch, and I jam my heel there, packing in his balls and hoping to bust open one. He staggers backwards unto the metal drawers, and then tries to angle the pistol, but the crotch pain debilitates him completely. I smash my foot against his elbow, causing him to cast the pistol aside. I grab it before he can.

  Holding the pistol to his face, I make my threat. “Get out of here, Spade. Leave me and my boyfriend alone.”

  Spade struggles to regain footing. He reels from the blows to his manhood. I press the pistol’s steel right to his nape like he did to mine, and I walk him out of the garage.

  Would I pull the trigger? Would I kill Spade? The questions stew and boil over. He assaulted me. He sexually assaulted me. And he hurt Bishop. My fingers want to pull so badly.

  “Make sure you tell your friend to get out,” I say.

  “Okay, beautiful.”

  “I am a bad bitch. You knew that. You screwed the wrong girl over.”

  Spade darts for the front door. I chase him through the mudroom and then the kitchen and then the hallway. A roar of footsteps patters, complimenting the pitter outside. I keep the pistol aimed at him.

  “Run, you bitch!”

  Spade runs. He stops not even for his friend. He runs straight out the door, balls crumpled between his legs.

  His friend creeps down the stairwell. I stay hidden around the hallway bend, peering out at the wall’s edge, enough to glimpse his subtle movements. He has Bishop wrapped around in a chokehold.

  “Get out,” the intruder says.

  “I’m armed.”

  “You’re a big bluffing bitch.”

  “You saw your friend run. Now you do the same or else I’ll shoot.”

  “A girl couldn’t.”

  “A woman can.”

  The man edges closer to the door. His grip on Bishop loosens.

  “A woman can!”

  My voice thunders through the box maze. I am the lightning. I am the storm, the hurricane come to destroy and save.

  The man drops Bishop. He steps backwards over the threshold, glancing to the left and right for threats. I keep the pistol firmly at hand. And when the man steps past the threshold, he runs.

  He runs like Spade did, balls between his legs, confidence drained.

  The black SUV screeches away. I watch the wheels turn in the slickness of the rain water.

  Bishop picks himself up. He touches his throat tenderly. When I come close, he rebuffs me.

  “Are you okay?” I say.

  “I am.” His throat barely makes intelligible sounds. “I’m fine.”

  “You need to see somebody.”

  “No. Can’t.”

  “What were they talking about? Bishop, the guy—”

  “I know. Why have to move.”

  Now I understand the lead up. The moving out. He needed a location change to run himself.

  “What do you want me to do? I can’t just stand here anymore. You’re injured.”

  “I’m not,” he says. “I’m talking better already.”

  “You’ve got to explain. Now.”

  “I will. Now. Everything.”

  CHAPTER 28

  We drive far from Bishop’s house in his car. If there others lurking, then we definitely aren’t going to sit and be shot. I listen to him tell his story, the whys and hows.

  Bishop met Spade several years ago while entrenched in the gambling business. They would meet in houses, random houses, girls’ houses. They would gamble together with a large clique of men and women who loved games and loved money. Paycheck to paycheck was the lifestyle. There were quite a few addicts in the mix, ones who’d blow their cash instantly. These were the types Bishop preyed on for sustenance. Like a mosquito, he knew which victim to draw from. The victims to seduce.

  Eventually, the lifestyle wore down on him.

  “I got tired, I did. They weren’t my crowd anymore. But see, it’s like drinking or doing drugs. When you stop, all your “friends” stop seeing you. Then I needed money to upkeep the house. Before I quit, I had the thing, and so paying up every month was getting difficult. Even though I was only renting, it was still hard. Then I met you…”

  He trails off.

  “Are you saying that I led to this?”

  “Not directly. But I met you and over time, my situation changed again. Just like you, I couldn’t quit the gambling ring immediately. The money flow had to continue, regardless of morals. So I kept doing it part-time. When I finally didn’t need to rely on the income anymore, I was in a bad place.” Bishop rubs his cheeks with his fingers. I spruce up his hair, massaging his scalp, returning the favor. “I’d just hosted a game here. A small one. Very small. Only one. It was Spade and maybe three others. They lost everything, their entire cash flow for the night. Savings. Thousands. It wasn’t fun to watch them squirm and later complain about it, but that’s what they went on to do.

  “I told them there wasn’t anything I could do, that they lost. They had to just suck it up and take the losses and go. But you know people. People don’t do what you want them to do all the time.”

  “So they came back for retribution.”

  “They knew I was closing shop. These communities are tight. I’m sure you know what it’s like in the cheating world. It must be the same.”

  It’s not when Educate has become a dominant source for students, but rubbing in your success when someone’s down isn’t the most appropriate stress-relief tactic.

  “But,” Bishop says, “there’s really nothing you can do. When word spreads, it spreads like crazy. I tried telling them off. I’d even worked overtime to pay them back. And I thought it worked. I hadn’t heard from them in literally months. They took the last of my cash payments and left. I’d actually paid them more than what they were looking for.”

  “Were they violent before?”

  “That’s the curious part. They weren’t violent at all. They were perfectly normal dudes that carried normal conversations. They were never aggressive. I make it sound like it was some sort of mafia style ring, but it was amicable. Parties were held. People got drunk. Smoked weed. It was chill, it was relaxing, no fears. That was the manta of the underground. Nobody snitches, nobody bitches, just play and have fun, hey, maybe you’ll make an extra dollar tonight, maybe you won’t, but it’s up to you to spend your money wisely.”

  Now that’s more in line with Educate. Nobody tells anybody anything and complaining is highly frowned upon. I can relate to the mentality.

  “It’s clearly a dangerous lifestyle,” I say. “Bottom line: this isn’t something I want to be involved in.”

  “I know that. It’s not fair to either of us. I’m not a part of any of this at all. I left this lifestyle for you, Violet. To move out wasn’t just a ploy for safety. It was the final chapter in my life.”

  “I understand. It’s just I wish you’d told me. Anything.”

  “I can’t read minds. They were plotting behind my back. Besides, leaving the gambling ring was a slow transition remember? You don’t just disappear. You have to have fade. If I was rich I could’ve but I’m not. I’m just a guy.” Bishop thumps the wheel with his fists and speeds up to forty miles an hour. “I’m pissed as hell at them for pulling that shit.”

  “We’re safe now. Let’s think rationally for a moment. Let’s be calm, okay?”

  “I couldn’t even save you. What kind of guy am I?”

  “You’re my guy. You were caught in a bad position. It could’ve been me on the stairs and you in the garage. How it went down is how it went down.”

  “I’m glad you’re so progressive.”

  I put an elbow against the passenger window, frowning. So he’s distraught but more so about his manhood than anything. “This isn’t the time for arguing, Bishop. We should be calling the police.”

  “N—”

  “Yeah, I know, no. The answer is no, we c
an’t. Your crony told me. He’s right. If you were caught for gambling, you’d be in hot water.”

  “Wouldn’t you? With your test banks? Isn’t that illegal too?”

  “It’s borderline. It’s not exactly criminal. Or at least nobody’s been prosecuted. You can’t shut down that stuff online anyway. The information is too free now.” I relax my face, forcing myself to smile. Research suggests that your mood improves based on body language alone. And I need clarity now, not a sense of panic. “They won’t come back, right?”

  “Who knows. I just have to move out now.”

  “Did you have a place lined up?”

  “I did, but now I’m freaked out about moving there. What if they’ve been planning this robbery for a long time now?”

  Plus, Spade found me, despite the restraining order. He even touched. I clench my finger around an imaginary trigger.

  “I should’ve gotten him.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. It’s done.”

  “You’ve got to talk.”

  “Later. Not now.”

  “I told you my side. Did he lay a finger on you?”

  I wave off the comment. So many have laid their fingers on me, the idea of being angry is a flippant thought. There’s no time to simmer to outrage. Feeling outrage doesn’t do anything.

  All I know is that I would’ve pulled the trigger if I had the chance to again. No emotions, no feelings. Just a pluck of metal releasing shock into the air, pinning the bastard boy down.

  “We can call the police if you’re hurt. I’m willing to do that for you.”

  “If anything, you need to stay safer than me. You’re ring is bigger than mine, it seems. You’re neck has a tighter noose. So you stay safe and let me deal with what I’ve got to do.”

  Bishop slows to an easy twenty-seven. His cheeks sweat as if producing rain. “This entire thing was a bad idea. It’s like I’ve ended up exactly where my parents thought I would. All to get away from them.”

  “We have the same feelings. Don’t worry.”

  “It’s a mess.”

  “We’ll make it.” I pump my hand on his shoulder and steady his arm. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

  “You’re so calm about this all.”