by Max Henry
I watch the path Hooch cuts through the field with keen interest, noting how he avoids the simple lines and takes instead the harder route. We dip into an old creek bed, and weave through felled trees left to rot. He’s doing his best to get them stuck.
The headlights are farther behind, what looks to be twice the distance by the time the bright lights of the highway come into view.
“Watch this.” Hooch shunts the shifter down a gear and grips the steering wheel with white-knuckled tenacity as we hit the embankment that leads up to the highway.
The suspension dips out as all four of us fly forward with the impact. Grass sprays off the grill, and mud flings out in a rooster tail off the front tires. Lights whip past our raised hood, zipping by at lightning speed compared to how slow we climb the steep, slightly muddy, slope. By some miracle of God, the dirt-coated tires keep traction and bite into the hill as we climb to join the open-road traffic. I come fucking close to shutting my eyes as we near the speeding cars and trucks and crest the top of the rise. Elena buries her face in my side and hums in nervous protest.
Hooch manages to pull the truck around in the breakdown lane and get us up to speed to merge with the traffic in next to no time, and with fuck-all effort. Our new friends’ headlights fade into the distance as they sit stuck, not even halfway up the embankment. Shadowy figures step out of the front doors, clearly arguing with each other, judging by the arms that fly and jerky movements as they become mere dots on the horizon.
Hooch leans back in his seat, his grin a mile wide and his elbow slung casually out the window. “You can thank me later.”
“For what? Damn near killing me?” Elena yells as she swings her arm awkwardly in the confinement of the cabin to clip him around the ear. “I’ve pushed my luck far enough for one night, thank you.”
“Hey,” he cries out, fending her off with a crooked elbow while he ducks toward the door. “You want me to fuckin’ drop you back there to find your own way out, just say the word, precious. I’ll turn this fuckin’ truck right around.”
I manage to wrangle one of Elena’s flying wrists in my hand and pull her back toward me as the fight gives out and she starts to shake. The corners of her mouth turn down and she stares aimlessly out the window at the back of the vehicles in front of us, yet she doesn’t cry. Not a single tear. Not even a glimmer of moisture to be seen in her eyes.
She’s hurting, but instead of letting go of her fear and breaking down, instead of showing weakness, she’s expelling the pent up emotions through anger. It seems to be a fallback of hers—one I’m determined to change.
“Not too far to go,” I reassure her and wrap my arms tighter around her bare shoulders.
Her skin is surprisingly warm; all I can put it down to is her recent outburst at Hooch that’s heated her up. I glance over top of her head as she shivers like a leaf in the fall wind and lock eyes with Hooch. He offers a wan smile and shrugs before focusing back on the road ahead.
“Take the exit after this one,” I tell him, staring out at the broken taillight on the sedan in front of us. “It’s a shortcut that keeps us off the main roads.”
Hooch nods and reaches across to turn the radio up a little. The heavy drum beat and slow melodies of southern rock fill the cab. The singer wails about a life on the road without the comforts of home. Fitting. I close my eyes to the tune and listen to the man’s husky voice as Elena’s shakes level out beside me. Her arm snakes around my middle, and her small hand clutches painfully tightly into my waist. I tip my chin down, taking in her tired, washed out expression as she stares up at me and swallows hard. The vinyl seat creaks beneath her as she pushes up and presses her soft lips against the side of my face, dotting a gentle kiss beside my ear.
“Thank you,” she whispers before sliding back down to nestle into my side.
I bring my left hand up and stroke the hair from her face in a slow rhythm. She doesn’t need to thank me. If it weren’t for my skewed priorities, she wouldn’t have needed to be rescued. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I’m sorry I did this to you.”
Her face turns up to mine and she sighs as a frown pulls her eyebrows together. “Can we talk about this later? I’m . . . tired.”
“Sure.” I nod once and stare out the side window at the cars that shrink as we pull away from them and take the off-ramp.
For all I know, this could be the last moment of peace and serenity we get for a while. Carlos isn’t going to give up just because his henchmen got themselves stuck in the mud. He’s not going to lie down and let her get away, even if he didn’t give a fuck for Elena’s wellbeing while he had her in his care. That’s not the point.
I’ve taken something that’s his, and he’s not the kind of guy to suffer that sort of disrespect lightly.
NINETEEN
Elena
The truck has stopped, the space around me quiet save for the low murmur of men’s voices. I stretch out my protesting limbs as I open my eyes and look around. My head is on the seat where King had been, last I remember. Somewhere along the line I’ve fallen asleep, and rather than wake me, it seems King’s decided to let me snooze while they do whatever they are now.
This is it; life with King starts right here, in this moment. All that struggle, the hell I went through, it’ll all be forgiven when I dip my paint roller in the color we choose for the baby’s room. We’ll get a house somewhere, find a place where nobody knows our names, and start again the right way.
My hands throb with a dull burn as I unclench my fists and wince at the taut skin stretching out. He never saw the worst of my injuries, the skin torn and inflamed from when I tore my palms on the window frame. Using my elbows to give my hands respite, I push up and peer out the window at King and the others.
Hooch, who I remember seeing in the bookshop that day, stands to the left, King beside him with his arms folded high on his chest and his feet wide. An older man sits on the porch steps, his face level with King’s as he talks morosely about something. None of them have noticed I’m awake, and I take the rare moment to observe King as he is when I’m not around.
The conversation frustrates him—I can pick it from the telltale way he runs a hand over his chin and tugs at the end of his beard, something I’ve seen him do many a time. He rocks back on his heels every so often when Hooch talks. The set of King’s shoulders is tight, the muscles in his arms flexed from the clinch he has them in.
I swing my legs around, facing the group, and edge the door open. Conversation dies, and three heads turn my way. The attention washes heat across my skin, and I duck my chin to try and deflect some of the pressure my shame brings. The driveway is dirt flecked with stone, and I stare down at the ground, making patterns between the pebbles to avoid having to look up again. Everywhere I go I bring trouble with me, and right now I feel like the bearer of bad news.
King’s boots come into view beneath my feet on the running board. “Baby, you okay?”
“What are you all talking about?” I ask. It’s me; I know it’s me. I just want to hear how he says it.
King bends his knees and the denim pulls tight over his thighs as he squats in front of me, his hands clasped before him. I let my gaze drift over his body, taking in the swell of his shoulders and size of his biceps that peek out from beneath a T-shirt pulled taut in all the right places. Time apart has been good to him; he looks healthy, as though he’s kept busy with me gone.
“What’s goin’ through that head of yours?” His rough fingers cup my chin, gently coaxing my face up enough so I’m forced to look into those green eyes I love so much.
“I was thinking about what the future will be like now,” I admit. “How we might work as a family.” I rub my stomach absently, only realizing when he reaches out to still my hand.
“Look good?”
I smile, giving his hand a squeeze. “I think so.”
“Why do you look unhappy then?”
Damn it. “What if I’m not worth it?” I ask. “What if we go through
all of this and it puts an irreparable divide between us?”
“Why the hell would it do that?” King cocks his head to the side, his frown strangely endearing when my heart feels as though it’s being pulled in opposite directions by the beasts of my conscience.
“Where are we?” I look over his head at where Hooch now smokes a cigarette while the man on the step watches our interaction.
“My parents’ house.”
I snap my gaze back to King’s. “Why bring me here? Why would you put them in danger?”
He closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest as he sighs. “Nobody knows about them at the club. They’re off the radar, and as far as I could get you without worryin’ if the person could be trusted to keep you safe.”
“You can keep me safe,” I say, confused. Why would he need somebody else to look after me? “Are you leaving?” After all this, after what we’ve done to be together, he wants to go?
Not strong enough to see his response, I focus on my hands in my lap, turning them over to look at my palms. Why would he go through all this effort just to push me away again? Maybe he doesn’t love me any more? Maybe he never did? Could it be that he’s simply done this because of our baby? Is he only keeping me safe to keep his child out of harm? Used again.
“Show me those.” His large hands engulf mine, his grip strong on the tips of my fingers.
I try to curl them in, to cover what I’ve done for fear that if we change the subject now we’ll never discuss this again. I need to know what he’s thinking, why he wants to cut and run when I need him more than ever, but he persists and pulls back on my fingers to expose the red and angry flesh.
“Fuck, Elena.” Still with my hands in his, he turns and shouts over his shoulder, “Dad, can you ask Mom to grab the first-aid kit?”
I relent and let him fuss, taking in every detail I can of this man before me. Warm memories flood in as I run my eyes over his sharp jawline, the crook of his nose from where it’s been broken, and the way his wayward hair falls over his forehead to tickle around his eyes so that he’s forced to huff a breath out of the side of his mouth to move it.
He’s a beautiful, conflicted mess—one that I created.
Who would he be if it weren’t for me? Happy? Sated with a family to a woman who didn’t carry this much wrath everywhere like a ball and chain?
“Come on, baby. Let’s get these hands sorted and then we can talk, huh?” He turns back to face me, and I push the pain that blooms behind my ribcage back into my heart.
“I’m sorry I put us through all this,” I whisper.
King leans his forehead to mine and moves his hands to cup my face. The warm gusts of his breath tickle my lips with notes of bourbon and cigarette smoke. It’s been a long day for the both of us, and we’ve only just begun.
“Nothing worth having is ever easy to get, Elena.” He presses my cheeks lightly with his hands, as though to emphasize his point. “The more I have to fight to keep you, the more I realize how precious what I have is.”
My tears hit his skin and run in a stream between his forefinger and thumb. What can I say to that? That if death by Carlos’s hand is what my life has in store for me, then why should I taint his future with the same tarred brush?
I let him help me down from the truck and up the steps into the large house. Flower boxes are dotted along the porch, a faded swing seat at the far end. Wind chimes sing gently as the light evening air tickles them. This house is a home. It’s a place filled with memories, with love, and quite clearly, understanding. The man I now know as his father gives me a friendly smile and curt nod as we pass by, and Hooch simply watches with eyes that hold a million unanswered questions.
I can’t blame him. I’d be wondering if this woman I’d just risked life and limb for was worth the effort, too.
“Where you want us, Mom?” King hollers through the belly of the house.
“Kitchen table,” drifts a voice from the far left. “Just trying to find my swabbing alcohol.”
Framed cross-stitches hang either side of the large arch that connects the sitting room with the dining room. I twist my head to look at one—a family tree—and suck a sharp breath in when I read the name of another child, Garret, and the date of birth and death, so near to each other. King’s never spoken of him, and if at all possible, I feel even more as though I’m intruding on the closeness of this family.
I’m bringing fear and death to the doorstep of people who’ve obviously experienced enough for one lifetime. How selfish can I be?
An attractive blonde woman with her hair pulled into a messy chignon rushes around the corner as King lowers me into a seat. I brace myself on the table and watch with interest as she embraces him tightly and whispers something in his ear, a small brown bottle clutched in her hand. Several other first aid items are already laid out on the table, and I fidget with a pair of tweezers, spinning them under my finger.
King holds what I assume to be his mother back at arm’s length, his hands on her shoulders, and smiles before he mouths thank you.
I’m the weed among the beautiful blooms. The love between mother and son is so heavy I feel as though if I were to step closer it would physically impede me. I don’t belong. The thought echoes in my head relentlessly, morphing into an anxiety-ridden mantra.
“Where’s the damage?” King’s mom asks. She pulls out a chair across the corner of the table from me and settles in, putting on a pair of reading glasses.
I place both hands on the table, palms up. “I did it when I pulled myself up on a window frame.”
His mom sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth and tips her head to one side with sympathy in her gaze. “Oh, honey.”
I sit in silence and watch as she picks up a damp washcloth and gently sweeps the remainder of the dried blood off my palms. King leaves the room, seemingly satisfied with the job his mom does, and returns out front. His mother shares the same green eyes as him, her expression soft and with a natural calm that I recognize in King also. They’re a lot alike.
“How far along are you?” she asks.
I start. My hand jerks in her grasp. “Uh, I think this is week seventeen.” I’m not entirely sure how I feel about the fact she so obviously knows, or what it says about how much King shares with her. What else does she know about me? What does she think of the circumstances that have brought me to be here, now, in her home?
“You’ll feel kicks soon,” she replies, her eyes alive. “Special time indeed.”
I can’t hide my smile. “I know. I’m looking forward to it.”
She sets the washcloth aside and picks up a cotton swab, unscrews the cap of the brown bottle, and with the swab over the top, tips it to apply some of what’s inside. “Looking at your hands and at the faded bruises on your arms that I know wouldn’t have come from my boy, I’m going to guess you had it rough. Am I right?”
I nod, unable to say a thing for fear of losing my slim hold on civility.
“Should we get you examined then?” Her gaze falls to my stomach. “Check everything is as it should be?”
“I haven’t bled,” I assure her.
“Don’t always do until it’s too late.”
Even so, if the damage is done, it’s done. I should take the offer, find a doctor to check me out, but a part of me wants to remain ignorant and believe that I’ve come out of this relatively unscathed.
“I know a lady,” she continues. “Play bingo with her on Sundays. She was the local midwife for a while.” She glances up when I don’t respond. “What’s the matter, honey?”
“I’m scared.”
“That something might be wrong?”
I nod and bite my lip as the alcohol on her swab stings the raw flesh. “I’m not the lucky type.”
“Only one way to know for sure.” She pats my hands dry with a clean towel and then sits back. “I’ll leave them uncovered, let the skin dry out. You’ll probably find they heal faster that way. As bad as it looks, you’ve just to
rn the top layers back; it’s not deep.”
I look at the clean, pink skin and sigh. “Thank you.”
“Any time, love.”
There’s a strange serenity in watching her pack the items away, an odd ease being in a house that’s doesn’t harbor a new threat around every corner. If this is what a “normal” family life is, I want in. I want that: the calm, the love, and the peace. I want it with King.
His mom crosses path with King as he walks inside again, making a beeline across the room to where I’m still seated. I rub the good skin around my wounds, and sigh.
“When do you leave?”
He stills, clearly affronted that I’d ask. “You understand, don’t you?”
“I know why you would, but I’m not sure I understand.” I lift my gaze to find his piercing eyes asking, pleading. “How long?”
“I don’t know.”
How long is a piece of string? It could take weeks before they find the opportune moment to strike against Carlos . . . assuming that’s what he’s doing. “You’ll make sure he’s unable to bother me again, right?”
The flinch is slight, but it’s there. “I’ll try.”
“You’re not telling me something. What’s really going on?”
A laden breath escapes his lips as he jerks a chair out from under the table and swings it around to straddle it, leaning his thick forearms on the back. “There’s a lot going on at our club at the moment, not all of it to do with Carlos. I can’t tell you what, and because of that I can’t explain why it’s important.” He hesitates and drops his forehead to his arms.
It pains me to see the battle inside of him, but what can I do? He made it damn clear to me that the rules are the rules. If he can’t say, then he can’t. But where does that leave me? I want to understand, I want to believe that there’s something greater than us at the moment, but I can’t. Not knowing makes the justification hollow. There’s no conviction to what he says when I haven’t got a clue what he values as more important than us.
