Kept By the Loan Shark

by Roxie Rivera

  “And he hasn’t come back since he left last night?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t call or text or anything?” She picked up my phone as if to check for herself.

  “No.”

  “Asshole,” she muttered. “Do you want me to go find him and drag him back here? Because I will. I may have to get Danny to help because Hagen is such a giant, but I’ll get him in here if you want him.”

  “No, if he needs time, I should let him have it.”

  “What about what you need?”

  Her question broke the dam holding back my tears. Even though it made my head pound to cry, I couldn’t stop. I sobbed as Taylor hugged me close and soothingly rubbed my back. What I needed and wanted was Hagen.

  And I seemed to have pushed him away, maybe for good.

  Chapter Nine

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take my bed?” Taylor asked for the fifth time since moving me into her apartment earlier that day.

  “I’m sure.” Gesturing to the chair recliner where I planned to sleep, I explained, “I feel better when I’m upright. It’s how I slept in the hospital.”

  “Okay,” she said uncertainly. “But, if you change your mind, just wake me up, and we’ll switch.”

  “Sure,” I agreed, knowing she wouldn’t rest unless I promised.

  “And if you get sick, just yell.”

  “I will.”

  “And if you need anything—a glass of water or a snack or medicine—just yell.”

  “Taylor,” I laughed, “go to sleep. I’ll be fine.”

  She clearly didn’t believe me and reluctantly left the living room. When she was at her bedroom door, she called out, “I’m leaving my door open so I can hear you if you need help!”

  I snorted. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Grateful to have such a good friend, I switched off the lamp in the corner and settled into the recliner. After eight days in the hospital, it was an absolute relief to be able to sit in a dark, cool place without the constant beep of machines in the background or well-meaning nurses waking me when they came into the room to check my IV or give me medicine. I sunk back into the plush chair and exhaled slow, deep breaths, letting the exhaustion I felt overwhelm me and drag me closer to sleep.

  But the nagging, painful replay of Hagen walking out on me, leaving me alone in the hospital to never return, wouldn’t let me rest. My injured brain seemed intent on torturing me with the memory of his broad shoulders disappearing through the door. No phone calls. Not even a text. He had just left. He had ended everything without another word.

  Not wanting to cry again, knowing it would give me a headache and make me nauseated, I managed to breathe through the gut-wrenching emotional pain and turn my thoughts toward other things. Because I had ended my lease, I had no place to go. Kyle had packed up my place for me and stored my things at his until I could find somewhere else. He had offered, again, to let me move into his second bedroom, but I couldn’t stand the sight of the complex. I didn’t want to live somewhere that would force me to relive the memory of being beaten every time I walked out into the parking lot.

  Staying with Taylor was the best solution for now. She had a lead on a sublet that another grad student needed was advertising. It was within my price range, close to campus and a block’s walk from the METRO Red Line that ran toward Rice. If I could snag it, I could move in and get settled by the end of the week. Hopefully.

  And then I could start the grueling process of moving on.

  Moving on from my injury. Moving on from the failure of my relationship. Moving on toward the future that awaited me in California or Massachusetts.

  I slept better that night in Taylor’s living room than I had since my injury. Feeling well-rested, I woke up before Taylor and folded my blanket and tucked it under the pillow. I made sure the space I was borrowing was tidy before carefully making my way to the bathroom. I tried to be as quiet as possible while Taylor snoozed in her bedroom. I had already put my clothes for the day and my toiletries in her bathroom the night prior so I wouldn’t have to make much noise.

  After I showered and got dressed, I emerged from the bathroom to find her sitting up in bed, staring at her phone. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” she said, smiling at me. “You know,” she stretched her arms overhead and yawned, “I think we should egg his house. Like toilet paper, eggs, shaving cream—the whole shebang. Just fuck his place right up.”

  The idea of working out my anger toward Hagen with a little juvenile vandalism held some appeal. Still, there was a chance that he might come back and make things right so I said, “Let’s table that for now.”

  She pouted. “Fine.”

  “Can you help brush out my hair?” It felt silly to have to ask for help doing something I had been able to handle since I was a child. “My arms are still weak, and I can’t feel the wound very well. It’s numb all around it, and I don’t want to accidentally grab the stitches.”

  “Dude,” she said and held out her hand for the comb and brush I carried, “get over here and let me help you.”

  I settled onto the bed in front of her, and she began to gently comb through my tangled and matted hair. The blood, bandages and electrode gel used to monitor my brain had made an absolute mess of my hair. Taylor had helped me wash it the night before they discharged me, but we didn’t dare try to comb it without plenty of conditioner on hand.

  “Good call leaving in the conditioner,” she said while tugging the comb through the ends of my hair. “There’s a mat closer to your stitches that I’m going to leave alone. I don’t want to pull and make you bleed.”

  “I guess we should go to Target and find a few hats for me to wear out in public,” I said, trying to make light of the situation.

  “Not a bad idea,” she agreed, working her way through the next section of hair. “Do you want me to check your phone for messages from Hagen?”

  Since I couldn’t focus on any kind of screen without getting dizzy and wanting to hurl, Taylor had been the one to send a few messages to Hagen for me. One had been to see when he was coming back to the hospital the day following our argument. The other had been to let him know I was being discharged. The final one had been to let him know I was staying at Taylor’s place for now. None had been answered or even read.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you want me to send him another message for you? Or maybe call?”

  “No,” I said eventually. “I’ve reached out multiple times. It’s his turn.”

  She moved the comb through another section of my hair. “How long are you going to wait before you decide it’s really over?”

  “A few more days, I guess,” I replied uncertainly. “But I think we both know it’s done.”

  She paused combing to squeeze my shoulder. “I never thought he would do you like this. I always thought he was an old-school sort of gentleman, you know?”

  “I know,” I murmured quietly.

  She worked on the snarls near the back of my head for a few minutes. “Do you think he was responsible for Travis’s death?”

  “No,” I said after a while. “I think Hagen did fight him earlier in the day, but something else must have happened to Travis after that.”

  “Someone else,” she corrected. “God only knows how many enemies he had.”

  “Hagen, too.”

  “You think someone tried to frame Hagen for Travis’s murder?”

  “It’s possible, right? I mean, his business is all legitimate now, but it wasn’t always. He still has friends who aren’t exactly the city’s most upstanding citizens.”

  I didn’t name the men I was thinking of—Besian Beciraj or that scary ass Russian Kostya. I had only met the Russian once and that was frankly enough. Besian, however, I had seen a few times at Hagen’s place. The two were old friends and enjoyed playing cards together.

  “I could see someone trying to frame him,” she agreed, “but I don’t even want to imagine what sort of crazy asshol
e would do that.” She tugged the comb through the last of a snarl. “Do you think it’s someone you know?”

  “I hope not.” I shuddered at the thought that someone was creeping around, waiting to hurt me or Hagen again.

  “Do you want me to…,” she trailed off as if she wasn’t quite sure how to finish it. “Do you want me to go to Hagen’s place and pick up your things?”

  The thought of Taylor going to the house that was supposed to be my new home and boxing up my belongings made my eyes burn. A ball of emotion clogged my throat, and I had to swallow down the thick pain of it, refusing to cry again. “No. Not…not yet.”

  “Okay.” She set aside the comb and picked up the brush. As she drew the bristles through my detangled hair, she asked, “What’s on the schedule for today?”

  Glad for the change of subject, I said, “Neurosurgeon follow-up appointment at ten, meeting the new neurologist at eleven and then my occupational therapy intake appointment at one.”

  “You’ll like Danny’s clinic.” Her older brother was the occupational therapist who had agreed to take me on as a client. He worked in a clinic not far from the university and on the same METRO line that I would be using. “He can be a hard ass, but he’s only tough because he wants his clients to get better.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “If he’s really mean to you, tell me and I’ll thump him the next time I see him,” she promised.

  I laughed. “Okay.”

  “I think if we pull this into a loose, messy bun, no one will be able to see the wound.” She gently wound my hair up and held it in place with her hand. “Or I could braid it to one side?”

  “Let’s leave it down until my appointment with the neurologist. He’s probably going to want poke around over there.”

  “Ugh,” she huffed dramatically. “I’ll have to leave the room if they’re going to clip these stitches. I literally barfed all over my mom when I had to have stitches clipped out of my arm when I was eleven.”

  “Your poor mom!”

  “Eh, she’s a nurse. She’s been yakked on by hundreds of people.” Taylor finished brushing my hair. “Okay. You’re done. Now—scoot! I’m about to do the potty dance like a preschooler.”

  As she dashed off to the bathroom, I gathered up my brush and comb and walked over to the suitcase I had set up in the corner of her room. I found the pair of socks I wanted and made my way to the kitchen to take my morning medications. The low throb in the back of my head was starting to return, and I knew it would get worse as the day wore on and I moved around more. I had never been a particularly religious person, but God, if I didn’t pray the headaches would go away soon. They were exhausting and frustrating, and I didn’t know how many more days and weeks of this I could stand.

  “Cereal?” Taylor asked as she swept into the kitchen in her bathrobe with her wet hair wound up in a towel. “Or something heavier like eggs?”

  I made a face at the idea of eggs and gestured to the box of oatmeal on the counter. Kyle had taken all of the food I had packed into my car the night of my attack and made sure all of the pantry goods had been brought to Taylor’s place. The refrigerated and frozen things had all gone bad before he could get to them. “I’ll make some oatmeal.”

  “You eat your old lady gruel. I’m having a big ass bowl of Lucky Charms.”

  “You’ll be hungry in an hour,” I warned.

  “Which is exactly perfect because we’ll stop for breakfast tacos on the way to your first appointment,” she decided with a grin.

  I grabbed a packet of oatmeal from the box and some milk from the refrigerator. Taylor handed me a bowl and spoon, and I moved to the microwave to make my breakfast. As she walked around behind me, making her coffee and pouring out her giant serving of cereal, unbidden memories of Hagen sharing kitchen space with me—at his place and mine—flashed before my eyes. It had always felt so easy and simple with him, so naturally domestic and right.

  Would I ever hear his deep, soothing voice? Feel his strong hands on my body? Tremble under his talented mouth as he did wicked, dirty things to me in his bed?

  The resounding coldness of the answer to those questions settled low in my belly.

  No.

  Chapter Ten

  “Cassie, take a deep breath and try again,” Danny urged in his calm, encouraging way.

  I shot Taylor’s older brother an annoyed look as the timer on the game ticked away the remaining seconds. I hated Perfection. The stupid little shapes and the outrageously small spots where they fit were hard enough to figure out when I was in perfect health. Now, with my wonky vision and hand weakness on my left side, I was about to lose my shit trying to make the pieces fit.

  The timer dinged, and the game jumped, scattering the pieces I hadn’t managed to slide into place correctly. With a huff of frustration, I dropped back against the hard plastic chair and fought the impulse to sweep the whole damn thing off the table and onto the floor. “I really hate this part of our sessions.”

  “I know you do.” Danny made some notes on his iPad. “I know this is hard for you, but the work you’re doing is already showing improvements. Your scores are already climbing.”

  “Not fast enough,” I growled, glaring at my offending hand.

  “You can’t fix this overnight, Cassie. It’s going to take time. Weeks. Months,” he said, setting aside his tablet. “You will regain your hand strength and coordination.”

  “And my eye?”

  “That’s a question for your ophthalmologist,” he reasoned. “We’re doing the exercises she suggested. You’re patching your eye, right?”

  I nodded. “I look ridiculous wearing that thing.”

  “If you were one of my younger clients, I’d help you bedazzle it or turn it into a pirate patch,” he teased.

  “Taylor tried to convince me to let her go Pinterest crazy on it.”

  “That sounds like something my sister would suggest,” he replied with a smile. “There are other options for your eye. I’m sure the doctor talked to you about them.”

  I nodded again. “Glasses, Botox and surgery, but the thought of having a needle anywhere near my eyeball makes me want to hurl,” I admitted.

  “They give you the good drugs before they start working on your eyes,” Danny assured me. “I had Lasix done on my eyes a few years ago. I was zonked out of my gourd by the time they started the surgery.” He glanced at his watch. “I think we have time to run through some hand stretches before you leave.”

  Once the stretches were done, he handed out my homework for the weekend. It was more of the same—memory games, patching my good eye, mazes, puzzles, hand exercises and stretching. As I left his office, I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and zipped up my well-worn hoodie. The walk down to the METRO stop wasn’t far, and I slowly shrugged my shoulders to release the pent-up tension.

  I didn’t like failing. I didn’t like not being able to master something on the first or second try. Sitting through my therapy sessions was absolute torture. Being forced to acknowledge my new shortcomings was painful. Being forced to accept that my life might never be the same was terrifying.

  The friendships I had formed during my years at Rice were the only thing keeping me going these days. Taylor, Kunal and Kyle had stepped up in a huge way, ferrying me back and forth to appointments, helping me move into the little sublet and keeping me company in the evenings when I tended to get a bit maudlin. Classmates offered their notes or study sessions. My professors had all made any accommodations necessary to help me finish my degree.

  Kyle had helped me get established with a counselor at the center on campus where he volunteered. I hadn’t been keen on the idea at first. Taylor finally convinced me I was being ridiculous and pointed out that the university would be more likely to give me all the accommodations I needed with class and work if I was using the on-campus services. So far, it had been nice to have someone to talk to without judgment.

  While I appreciated the care and
concern of my friends, it was Hagen’s concern and care I yearned for more than anything. Taking my seat on the METRO, I fought the urge to pull out my phone, to cover my left eye and check my messages. It had been almost four weeks since he walked out on me, leaving me alone in the hospital after our argument. Four weeks—and not a single word.

  Not wanting to believe that he would end things so cruelly and coldly, I had been seized with the idea that he was in trouble. Had he been arrested for Travis’s murder? Was he being held without bail? Did he need help?

  I had checked all the news outlets and the daily arrest reports. I even called HPD and the Harris County Sheriff to make sure he wasn’t being held. He wasn’t. And, when the two officers who had visited me in the hospital followed up with me, I had asked them if they had any suspects in Travis’s death. They had mentioned clearing Hagen, and that was the moment I knew he had turned his back on me and given up on us.

  A few days later, Kyle had showed up at the door of my new apartment with a stack of boxes. They had been waiting on his doorstep and were labeled with my name in handwriting I would recognize anywhere. Apparently, not knowing where I was and not wanting to speak with me ever again, Hagen had boxed up all my things at his place and dumped them on Kyle’s welcome mat. It was the final nail in our relationship coffin.

  Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I played our last conversation on a loop in my head, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Looking back, I could understand how hurt Hagen must have been that I doubted him or thought him capable of murder. At the same time, he had lied to me about the bruises on his hands. What else was I supposed to think?

  It didn’t matter anymore, I supposed. It was done. Over. Finished. The promise of the future we had together had been blown up by ruined laundry, of all the stupid things. That one ridiculous event had caused a ripple effect of bad decisions that ended with Travis dead, Janine on the run, and me recovering from a brain injury. It was a total shit show.

  I tried to enjoy the cooler, dryer fall weather as I walked from my stop to the tiny studio I was renting. It was in an even older complex than the one I had been living in earlier, but it was filled with young families and graduate students. I had purged even more of my things after moving, donating, selling and trashing what I could to pare down to the necessities.