Bluebird

by Stella James

  I chuck the towel into the basket in the corner and pull on a pair of black boxers and a pair of jeans. I walk into the small kitchen of my studio apartment and take half the dirty bills from the wad sitting on the counter. I stick it them in the safe under the kitchen sink and pocket the rest. My phone vibrates and I glance down to see a message from Zavier.

  Z: You’re on for tomorrow night. Club at 9. Be ready to break something.

  I don’t bother replying and he doesn’t expect me to. I never do. He knows I’ll be there, like I have been every single time he’s summoned me since I got out. The day I strolled through the gates of that shitty county prison, I was expecting a long walk to the nearest bar so I could figure my shit out. Instead, I found a shiny black Escalade and a job.

  “Free at last,” he drawls with a distinct southern accent, arms crossed as he leans against the rear door.

  “I don’t think you’re looking for me,” I say, looking between the guy in the expensive black suit and the brick shithouse standing beside him.

  “You’re exactly who I’m looking for. Let’s go,” he jerks his head towards the idling SUV.

  “Look, man, I don’t know who the fuck you think I am but I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”

  “Logan, get the fuck in before my patience runs dry,” he says, dusting an invisible speck of dirt from his black pants. “It’s sweltering out here.”

  The burly dude standing beside him, clearly armed, opens the rear door. I look to my left, at the long gravel road leading to nowhere and decide to say fuck it. I walk over and let myself into the other side just as the door closes behind him.

  He takes off his sunglasses and glances at me as the driver backs up and pulls away from the prison gates. “I’m hurt you don’t remember me,” he says. “I still can’t breathe properly, you know.”

  I take a closer look and realize that he is in fact, familiar to me. His dark hair is shorter and he’s clean shaven, and obviously wearing shit that costs a hell of a lot more than a state issued orange jumpsuit.

  “So what? You plan on getting some payback for a broken nose, after what? Five years?” I snort.

  “Oh Logan, so much to learn,” he chides. “I told you I’d look out for you, didn’t I?”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means, friend, that perhaps you should wonder why your stay at the lovely Miracle County Prison was so peaceful.”

  “So I break your face with a metal tray and you decide to go big brother on me? That’s fucked up.”

  “You reminded me of someone,” he muses. “Call me nostalgic.”

  “And what does that mean now, you want a thank you?”

  “I’m afraid that a thank you won’t quite cut it,” he expresses calmly. “It wasn’t cheap to keep you in one piece you know, especially when in the company of such vile men.”

  He pauses and lets the implication of his words sink in before he continues. “You’re going to work for me.”

  “The fuck I am.”

  “Temper, temper Logan. Although I do like that fire, I’m going to need you to channel it properly if this is going to work out.”

  “And what exactly do you want me to do? I’m an ex-con with a GED,” I point out, eyeing up his suit.

  “Oh, but you’ve got passion, and you’ve obviously taken care of yourself,” he says, trailing his eyes down my body.

  “Stop the fucking car, this ain’t happening.”

  “Calm down, I’m not interested in that,” he says, glancing pointedly at my crotch.

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  “Fortune, Logan. Nothing is free and it’s time to pay the piper,” he grins. “You’ll be compensated, of course, and very generously. But you won’t quit, and you won’t turn down the work I provide you with. Your time belongs to me.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until it doesn’t.”

  That was the day I signed my foreseeable future over to Zavier Kane. He gave me a job doing security at his nightclub to keep the state off my back. Off the books, I beat the shit out of whatever asshole is dumb enough to borrow money from him and not pay it back in time. Zavier is a loan shark and owns the most successful nightclub in the city of Fortune. He’s a bastard. He’s greedy. But if you asked him, he’d simply tell you that he’s a business man.

  Six months and I still don’t know much about him besides what I hear from everyone else. The only child of a mostly white-collar criminal and his southern belle wife, he took over the family business in the city after his father died of a heart attack. He was twenty-four. He sent his mother back to Georgia soon after and still makes sure she’s taken care of. And now, fifteen years later, he’s one of the most feared men in the city. And one of the richest. When I first met him that day in the prison dining hall, he was doing a three month stint. One of his men got sloppy and Zavier got caught taking the fall because of a technicality. Apparently, no one has seen that guy since the night Zavier got out.

  I asked him once why he bothered with me at all. Why he didn’t just have one of his thugs kill me or beat the shit out of me to return the favour.

  “Because Logan, I’m a business man. And you had the look of someone who’s got nothing to lose. Why would I have had you killed when I can use you for something else?”

  I haven’t bothered to ask how long I’m meant to fulfill this debt I apparently owe him, because it doesn’t matter. He pays well, I’m good at what I do and I got nowhere else to be. In prison, I was forced to take anger management classes. But that shit is pointless. Why do you think you’re so angry Logan? As if I have the answer to that. I’ve never known why I am the way that I am.

  The rush of knocking some son of a bitch to the ground is the only therapy I need, and when Zavier’s got nothing for me, I hit up the warehouse. I fight and I win. And I no longer pretend that I’m someone I’m not.

  I’m not better than anyone, or anything. I’m not better than where I came from. That delusion belongs to an eighteen year old boy, not me.

  *

  I park my truck in the lot behind the club and head for the back door. Between working for Zavier and the payouts from the warehouse, I have more than enough to live off of. As soon as I could afford it, I paid cash for my black Chev without a second thought. I hit the button and lock it behind me, the beep of the horn a warning to any of the scum hanging around in the back alley that they better keep their greedy fucking hands to themselves.

  I knock on the door and when it opens I see Levi, another one of Zavier’s guys. We bump fists and I head down the dark hallway, the thumping sound of some top forty shit pounding against the walls. I take the stairs and when I get to the office door, Lou, the club manager and Zavier’s second in command, is standing beside it. As far as l know, Lou’s been around since Zavier took over. The staff in the club comes and goes but Zavier’s personal crew hardly ever changes. Lou shakes his head slightly, letting me know that I’ll be waiting until he’s done wrapping up whatever business he’s got going on at the moment. I lean against the opposite wall and check my phone. I’m five minutes early.

  At nine sharp, the door opens and one of the waitresses from downstairs steps through. Her pink lip stick is smeared and a smirk rests on her face as she passes me, Lou right behind her.

  “Hi Logan,” she purrs.

  I give her a nod since I don’t know her name, they all look the same to me. I turn my focus to the office door which remains open. I close it behind me, the smell of sex and perfume suffocating me. Zavier stands in front of the large window at the back of the room, staring down at the club.

  “You don’t happen to know that girl’s name, do you?” he asks, buttoning up his crisp white shirt.

  “Isn’t that your job?”

  “She had the sweetest tasting lips,” he recalls, ignoring me.

  This is not an unusual occurrence, Zavier fucking some hopeful girl who works downstairs and then forgetting her name while she begins pl
anning the wedding in her head. And yet he’s never been sued for sexual harassment, probably because any girl working here knows better.

  “You really should sample the stock, Logan,” he proposes. “I bet there’s more than one doe eyed female downstairs who would love to get her hands on a tattooed, tortured soul such as yourself.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “So you continue to tell me,” he sighs. “At least have a drink.” He pours the whiskey into a glass tumbler and slides it across his desk while I take a seat in one of the leather chairs sitting across from him.

  He turns from the window and sits down in his own chair, throwing back his drink in one expert swig. I drink mine down in one gulp as well, it burns all the way down my throat but I welcome another when he reaches for the expensive bottle.

  “What do we got tonight?” I ask, sipping this time.

  “Same old dog and pony show,” he says, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Lenny’s in the basement. He owes eight grand from the races and two for rent.”

  “Got it and just holding out, or what?”

  “He’s got it. Bought himself a shiny new Camaro last week,” he tells me. “Smack him around a little and threaten to break his arm, he’ll cry like a little girl and either give you the cash or give you the keys, I don’t care which.”

  “That it?”

  “For now,” he says, still not opening his eyes. I set the empty glass on the desk and stand, heading for the door.

  “Logan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do try to cheer up, you’re starting to depress me,” he says. I slam the door behind me and hear him chuckling on the other side.

  When I get back to the main floor, I take the service elevator down to the basement. It’s dark and damp and reeks like mold. I take a right, the flickering bulbs along the wall lighting the way. I reach the door, hearing Lenny’s whining voice on the other side. This mother fucker is never gonna learn. I open the door and step through, his eyes widening as he watches me from the chair he’s currently cuffed to.

  “Logan, you gotta talk to him. I’m broke,” he pleads. “How can I pay a loan when I don’t have the money?”

  I glance at Trevor, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowing in on Lenny and the spit flying from his mouth.

  “Hey man, he give you anything?”

  “Not yet, brother,” he smirks. “We haven’t gotten very far though.”

  Trevor is the only one in Zavier’s crew who’s close to my age. He’s the one who told me about the warehouse. He was born and raised in Fortune and acted as my appointed babysitter until I learned how shit works around here. I don’t know if working for Zavier is a choice or an obligation for him and I’ve never asked. I’ve stopped wondering which side of the spectrum I fall into. Choice or obligation? Does it matter? I’m here either way.

  “You want me to stick around?” Trevor asks.

  “Nah, I got this,” I say.

  He grins and begins to whistle as he walks through the door and closes it behind him. Trevor doesn’t deal with past due collections unless we’re short-handed, Zavier usually has him on scheduled pick-ups.

  I crack my knuckles, the scent of sweat and desperation heavy in the air. Within five minutes, I have Lenny begging me to take the keys to his brand new Camaro.

  *

  After I deliver the keys to Lou, Zavier apparently gone for the night, I walk Lenny to the back door and toss him into the alley. I close the door before he can whine about how he’s supposed to get home. Not my problem.

  I head back into the club and spot Trevor sitting up at the bar. I take the empty seat beside him and without asking, a beer and a white towel filled with ice appear in front of me. I nod my thank you to one of the regular bartenders and take a long sip.

  “Cash or car keys?” Trevor asks.

  “Keys.”

  “Nice,” he clinks his bottle to mine. “Are we getting ripped tonight or what?” he asks.

  “I’m out after this,” I say, holding up my beer.

  “Suit yourself man,” he says, standing and heading towards what looks like a bachelorette party.

  I notice one of the waitresses at the end of the bar, her tits spilling out over her tight black dress, her hair just long enough to grip in my fist. I shake off the urge. I spent my first two months out of prison on a bender with nameless, faceless women passing one after another. It didn’t matter how different they looked or smelled or spoke. I saw Prairie in each and every one of them and it fucking gutted me. It hasn’t been until recently that I’ve been able to shut down that part of my mind and enjoy the feel of a warm body beneath me without feeling like the breath is being sucked from my lungs.

  Regardless, I wouldn’t fuck around with any of the girls here. I haven’t spent the last six months living like a monk, but I also don’t shit where I eat. I have nothing to offer anyone other than one night and no promises. I finish my beer and head for the back door, away from the noise and the people.

  As I pull out of the now crowded parking lot, I let myself wonder where she is. Is she happy? Is she with someone who can give her all the things that I couldn’t? When I’m in the mood to torture myself, I think about the last time I saw her. She was standing in that damn courtroom watching my ass get carted off to jail, yet she still told me she loved me. I can still see her face, her green eyes shining with tears that she refused to let fall.

  But my memories of Prairie belong to a different person, in a different time. The boy I used to be is gone. The boy who tried so damn hard to be something more, something better.

  I open the door to my apartment and kick off my boots, peeling off my shirt next. I stand at the bathroom sink and splash cold water on my face. Wiping it away, I let my eyes wander down to the flash of blue tattooed on my chest. Both of my arms, right down to and including my hands, are covered in full ink. But all that fades away in my reflection compared to the tattoo etched into my skin above my heart. A reminder to myself that for a short time in this life, I belonged to someone and she belonged to me. No matter how certain I am that I’ll never see her again and all that’s left are fading memories of a future that I thought I could have, I won’t ever forget her.

  My bluebird.

  Chapter 13

  Prairie

  “I was eighteen, nearing the end of my freshman year in college,” I begin. “I was on a scholarship and I worked my ass off all year,” I add with a small laugh. “One Friday night, I was on my way to the library when two men pulled me into a back alley.”

  I take a minute to gather my thoughts and look around the room at the mostly familiar faces. Women, men, survivors of rape and sexual abuse. Out of habit, I reach up to my neck and feel for the charm that rests against my skin, beneath my shirt. My fingertips feel the outline and I breathe a little easier.

  “They took turns,” I tell them. “They stole my virginity that night, on the damp, cold ground of that same back alley. Behind a dumpster. As soon as they were done with me they took off. I phoned the police and waited on the street corner. I was in shock. It was like it didn’t really happen to me, it was like I just watched a movie,” I say. “The two officers that came took me to the hospital, took my statement and arranged for a rape kit. I never told anyone. Not my roommate, not my mom…no one knew. The men who raped me were never caught.”

  I clear my throat and swallow the ever-present lump that lingers in my throat whenever I share my story, no matter how far past it I think I am.

  “I moved to Fortune a little over four years ago. I had to start over and say goodbye to my old life, to the old me. Because I wasn’t the same girl I was before the assault, and I probably never will be. I found this group three years ago,” I say, looking at Holly. “And that’s when I was finally able to begin to heal. For the longest time after I was attacked, I was convinced that if I ever talked about it, it would just make it worse. That I would be giving some kind of power and control to the men who did thi
s to me, who took something from me that I can never get back,” I explain. “But I was wrong. Sharing my story with you makes me stronger, because it reminds me that I survived.”

  I exhale a breath and pull my shoulders back. “I still have bad days. Sometimes I have nightmares. I haven’t been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than a date or two and a simple kiss goodnight in the last four and a half years. There are days when the memories of that night hit me like a freight train and I feel ashamed, dirty, and used up all over again. But regardless of my struggles, I am getting better,” I say. “My name is Prairie Bennett, and I’m a survivor of sexual assault.”

  Holly stands and begins to clap as I take my seat. “Thank you, Prairie,” she says. “Would anyone else like to share tonight?”

  For the next hour, I listen as some of my fellow group members share their stories. Some retelling the same series of events that brought them here in the first place, and some simply talking about the steps they’ve taken forward in their healing and even the steps that have taken then backwards. There’s no judgement, no magical cure. Just the option to share your story with people who know what it feels like to be in your shoes. When the meeting is over, everyone breaks off and begins to casually visit, sipping on coffee and tea. I pour myself a cup of hot water and drop in a tea bag when Holly comes to stand beside me. She gives me a light pat on the shoulder.

  “How’s work going?” she asks.

  “Good,” I say.

  “And the gym, you’re still going?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good girl,” she says. “I’m going to check in with Bryce. Don’t disappear, I’ll give you a lift home.”