by S. Massery
My hand stills on the door knob.
“He was asking about you. Seemed to think I might know something more about your whereabouts.” She laughs. “Poor old man. He loves you, even if it will kill him.”
I yank open the door and step onto the porch, and her muttered words float toward me.
“Even if it will kill me.”
I smile.
Bitterwood is a small New York town. It has virtually nothing going for it unless you’re looking for quiet and boredom. There’s the school and library-slash-post office, a coffee shop, and a small grocery store. Oh, and a church that half the town goes to on Sundays. The next town over, Ashleigh, is where the action happens. It’s where the courthouse is located, and where I moved once my time was up with Hadley’s family as a teen.
I get a coffee and then make the short drive to Ashleigh’s hospital. Arthur Wallace is affectionately referred to as the judge by every person in the county, minus his new wife. He’s awake, and he frowns at me as I walk into the room.
“What are you doing here, boy?”
I roll my eyes. “You were attacked. You think I’m not going to show up?”
He scoffs. His face is swollen. Bruises cover his body. His leg is in a cast, elevated. I tamp down the fury that wants to roar out of me as I take inventory of his injuries.
“Who did this to you?” I ask. I pull a chair closer to the bed and drop into it, leaning forward.
He just shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“You know everyone.”
“I didn’t see their faces.”
“You didn’t see their faces as they were—” I shake my head. “Come on, Judge. Give me something.”
“I give you something, and they’re going to face a fate far worse than me, eh?”
“That’s not what I said.” I sit back in the chair, crossing my arms. “When are they letting you out of here?”
He ignores my question and rolls his eyes. “You think I don’t know you come back here every so often? Warn people away from the Weatherly girl and make sure the guys I put away don’t try and come after me?”
That stings a bit. What am I supposed to do, deny it?
“I’ve been helping,” I say. It sounds defensive, even to my own ears. “Just tell me what happened, would you?”
“Like you didn’t already read the police reports,” he snorts.
Grumpy ass. I shake my head. “I didn’t violate your privacy. I wouldn’t do that.”
He softens, and I can see him starting to relent.
“Just a name,” I mutter. “They can’t get away with it.”
“Ray,” he says. “He runs with some drug dealers—Allen and those guys—off of South Main Street. Someone else was with him. Big guy, tattoos.” He looks at the tattoo peeking out of my shirtsleeve. “Not artsy like that. Rough.”
“Like a prison tattoo?” I ignore the artsy comment. It’s a scorpion, done with good detail, by a professional artist.
“Sure,” he says. “You know those guys that come into my courthouse. Some are absolutely covered with tattoos. This guy’s arm was like that.”
“Okay,” I say. “What else?”
He grunts. “That’s all you need to know.”
I stand up, brushing my hands down my jeans. “I’ll take care of it,” I promise. “Where’s the wife?”
When I moved in with the judge, he and his first wife had just split. He and I learned to coexist pretty easily, but after I moved out, he found himself a new wife. I’d only seen her from a distance, but she looked nice. Sweet. In a way, she reminded me of Hadley.
“Working,” he mutters. “She slept in that chair all damn night, and now she has a twelve-hour shift at the lab.”
I nod, trying to be sympathetic.
“Hadley stopped by,” he says. She’s suddenly Hadley and not that Weatherly girl. Interesting turn of events. “Have you seen her?”
I nod.
“Poor girl,” he mutters.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
He glares at me. “I’d tell you, but you weren’t around to witness the destruction. And you won’t be around to pick up the pieces, either.”
I glare back. “That’s none of your business, Judge. I’ll stop back tonight.”
He grunts at my back as I walk out of the hospital room.
My next stop is finding Ray and his tattooed friend. With the vague description and location from the judge, I roll up and down the streets until I spot a man walking down the sidewalk. Ugly tattoos crawl up and down his arms. He has a beard that needs trimming, and a scowl that could use some adjusting.
I have to consciously unclench my hands.
He pushes the gate open into the yard of a falling down white house and disappears inside without knocking. I’d bet money that he’s the guy the judge didn’t know. Whether he’s new to town or he’s managed to stay under the radar, I can’t tell yet.
I watch the house for almost an hour, but no one comes in or out. A neighbor’s dog barks incessantly as people walk up and down the sidewalk. No one approaches me, though, and after a while, I drive away.
No use wasting the whole day.
I find Hadley at the library in Bitterwood. She’s browsing the shelves, pulling books out at random. She’s visible through the window, and I contemplate ruining her peace and quiet by joining her. Her stack of books apparently complete, she heads across the library, around the corner. Out of view.
Well, it makes my decision easier, at any rate.
I climb out of my car and stride through the library’s front doors. The librarian barely glances up at me, and I find my way through the stacks until I get to the small reading section toward the back of the room.
We used to do our homework here.
She’s in a large chair facing the window, legs tucked up under her, and one of the books is open on her lap.
I peer at it over her shoulder—her book looks like a romance—before I settle into the chair next to hers.
She jolts when I grab one of the books from her pile and flip it open.
“What are you doing here?”
I shrug. “I don’t have anything better to do,” I say, although that’s far from the truth. I could be with the judge. Instead, I’m here. Soaking up whatever warmth she’ll give me.
She smiles, but it slips off of her face too quickly. “Got it.”
“What are you reading?”
“An adventure novel,” she says, proving that I have no idea about books. “The girl is an assassin, but she’s secretly something else, too.”
I point to the pages. “You’re only a few chapters in,” I say. “How do you know?”
“This is one of my favorites.” She brushes her hand along the page. “I’ve read it a million times.”
“Interesting.”
“Are you going to talk to me the whole time?” she asks. “I just need to prepare. Mentally.”
I chuckle. “Prepare for what?”
“Conversation. Lack of reading.” She shrugs. “Up to you.”
I sigh. “Nope, I’ll just…” I motion to the book.
She smiles. “You’ll like that one. It’s got some good…” Her cheeks turn red, and she clears her throat. “Anyway.”
I close the book and grin at her. “It’s got some good what?”
“Griffin.”
“Come on, Hadley.”
“Sex,” she mutters.
I laugh. “You like reading about sex? What about experiencing the real thing?”
She snorts. “Yeah, right. With who?”
Me, I almost say. For the longest time, I kept Hadley in the off-limits category. I never understood my desire to protect her, but I whole-heartedly leaned into it. I missed her when I was away, and I still miss her when I’m right beside her. It’s like I can’t breathe properly unless I’m touching her.
Last night was the first breath of fresh air I’ve had in way too long.
“Come on, Hadley,” I repeat.
“When’s the last time you had an adventure?”
“I don’t know,” she says. She sets her book down on top of the pile and twists toward me. “You were supposed to take me far away from this place once upon a time. We talked about that when we were younger. What happened to that?”
I remember. And then life just got too fucking dangerous to keep coming back for her.
“Maybe the stars are aligning,” I say.
She stands. “I have to go.”
“Okay,” I say, standing as well. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“No.” She fidgets in place, then starts walking toward the door. I follow her, jumping ahead to hold the door open.
I grab her arm, pulling her back toward me. “I didn’t ask you if you were okay,” I say. “With the guy breaking into your place… Are you okay?”
She exhales. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
I left him bloody in the middle of the woods with a promise of worse if he came anywhere near Hadley again. He was babbling nonsense by the end—something about ghosts. I chucked his keys into the woods and jogged away, going straight back to Hadley’s apartment.
It wasn’t the first time I’d done that—I just hope it was the last.
I touch her shoulder. “I know you’ll be fine. But if you’re ever not fine, you can tell me.”
“Thanks, Griff.” She smiles. “I’ll… I guess I shouldn’t say I’ll see you later, huh? I never know with you.”
No words come to mind. I can’t comfort her. Instead, I nod and step back, letting her climb into her car. I stand there as she pulls out of the library parking lot and turns away from the center of Bitterwood and her apartment, toward Ashleigh.
What are you up to, Hadley?
It’s dark by the time I climb out of my car and I retrieve a baseball bat from the trunk. It’s not really my go-to weapon, but I find some sort of perverse justice in using it. My fingers flex on the smooth wood as I cross the street.
The house that I scoped out earlier is falling apart. The front lawn is mostly weeds and scattered beer cans. I hop the waist-high chain-link fence, ignoring the dog that immediately starts barking from the yard next door.
The front door practically falls inward under my foot, and unexpected satisfaction races through me. There’s been rage coiling in my stomach ever since I heard of the judge’s attack. I kept it tightly bound, but it’s been festering. I stewed on it on the plane. I let it twist through my body when I walked out of the judge’s hospital room with their names in my mind.
I stalk through the empty living room, ignoring broken beer bottles, threadbare furniture, the drugs left on the coffee table, and make my way into the kitchen. Distantly, the sound of screaming rings in my ears. I’m in the zone and no one can stop me.
Besides, in this type of neighborhood, no one answers screams.
“Where are they?” I ask the woman in the kitchen. She falls to her knees, pleading, and I wait until her eyes tick toward the basement door. “Leave,” I order.
She scrambles away from me and into the backyard.
My whole body burns fever-hot as I open the door and walk down the steps.
Three men are bent over a table, counting bills amid stacks of drugs. One is the bearded man I clocked earlier. I don’t recognize the other two—they could be Ray and Allen, or they could be complete strangers.
“Hey,” one of the two unknowns calls when he sees me. He looks like a bulldog—short and squat, packed with muscles. “Who the fuck are you?”
I cock my head. They might not know me yet—but they will. I hold the bat at my side, and I can tell they’re not used to threats. Their eyes stay on my face, while mine jump around. I spot the sawed off shotgun on the table near a small television. The two knives next to the drugs. A hand gun tucked into the front of the bearded guy’s pants—a stupid move for a stupid thug. That’s a quick way to lose your nuts.
“Which one of you is Ray?”
The tall lanky guy steps forward. “Who’s asking?”
I take it to mean that he’s Ray. “You attack Judge Wallace?”
The man with the gun spits. “You a fucking cop? Coming in here with your stupid fucking—”
I laugh. Anger is hard to control. I’ve learned that the hard way over the years, watching Jackson Skye lose his damn mind every time anger gets the best of him. I’m the opposite: I never lose control. So I laugh and tap my finger against my thigh, counting to ten in my head.
“He’s a goddamn psycho,” one of the others mutters.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I look around the rest of the basement, almost dismayed that it’s such a shithole. It would’ve made more of an impact to destroy something solid, something these dicks worked hard for—but this will have to do. “You may be right about God damning me—but I’m not out of my mind.”
“Alright, asshole, it’s time for you to go.”
The bulldog steps forward, snatching one of the knives from the table. It’s child’s play, how the scene lays itself out in slow motion. I flip the bat in my hand, drawing their eyes, and smash his wrist as he comes at me. He grunts, the knife clattering to the ground.
He still staggers toward me. Pain erupts in my fist when it meets his jaw, and there’s a good crack that comes with it. His face or my knuckle—I’m not sure which broke. I use the tip of the bat to shove him away from me and spin around, swinging it in a wide arc. It catches the second guy in the throat.
He gurgles as he falls. He grabs onto the bat and tugs, knocking me off-balance. I go down on one knee and let go of the bat, letting the downed man have it. Chances are, his windpipe crushed under the force of that hit. His gurgled breath practically confirms it.
The last man reaches for the gun in his waistband.
Inexplicably, Hadley flashes in front of my face.
I didn’t come here to kill anyone, but I pick up the knife and throw it before the bearded man can get his gun fully out. It sinks into his shoulder, killing the nerves to his arm. The gun clatters to the ground.
I rise and step forward, catching the man and lowering him to the ground.
“This won’t kill you,” I promise him. I tap on the hilt of the knife, and he exhales sharply. A string of swears pours out of him as I twist the knife deeper. “Quiet.”
He grunts. His eyes roll back in his head before he focuses back on me. I know how much pain the body can typically handle. I know how much force it would take to bring someone to the edge of consciousness, and what I would have to do to get them to pass out.
There are things about the human body that I’ve been trying to unlearn, but so far, I’ve been unsuccessful. I hate to admit that I enjoy these sorts of visits. My blood sings.
The man is pale. Blood seeps out of his shoulder, and I imagine the damage I’ve already done. There’s no guilt, no hesitation. I didn’t come here for answers—I came to send a message. I wrap my fingers around the hilt and yank the blade out.
“This is a nice knife,” I say, wiping it on his shirt. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep it.”
I head for the stairs as a woman rushes down them. I push past her, not ready to hurt someone who probably just got caught up in the wrong crowd. It isn’t the same woman from earlier—this one looks like she’s ten years younger. I make it to the front door before she starts screaming.
I toss the bat into the trunk and fold myself into the car, taking off down the road. The last thing I need is someone firing that shotgun at me. The thought of that makes me smile. Zach had borrowed a shotgun from Jackson a few years ago, and he only just returned it—in the middle of a gunfight, no less.
That reminds me: it’s been too long since I’ve talked to my friends. I dial Zach’s cell phone and force my muscles to relax as I drive back toward the hospital. If Dalton were here, he’d be itching for a joint. That’s his way of unwinding. Zach likes to punch shit.
Me? Well, driving works.
The six of us try to reunite every few months, and Sa
lt Lake City has seemed to work out well for us in the past. The apartment above the warehouse is big enough to fit all of us with room to spare for our issues. The last time we were there, Jackson and Delia were escaping her family.
“Yo, yo, yo,” Zach answers. “Long time no talk. What’s up?”
“Just acting as a friendly neighborhood vigilante,” I say. “I’m stateside.”
He coughs. “The fuck? For how long?”
“Til tomorrow.”
“Rewind to the vigilante shit. What exactly did you do?”
“I beat up some thugs.” I keep it purposefully vague. “Now I’m going to babysit an old dude in a hospital bed.”
“You really know how to party,” Zach says. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. I can’t catch a break. Between Jackson calling me at four a.m. and you calling in the middle of the night…”
“You enjoy it,” I laugh. “Everyone calls you like you’re the mother hen.”
“Truth. We all know Jackson calls Mason first, though.”
I turn onto the hospital’s road. It’s lit, which is a vast difference from the rest of the town. We’re far enough from true civilization that street lights aren’t really a thing around here.
“You’re always my first call.” I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine. Operation Stake Out is about to begin. “The mobsters are letting you go?”
He snorts. “They don’t have a choice. I gave them someone else—a guy down in New Orleans who’s been trying to break into the scene. He and I met a few months ago.”
“Fresh meat? That’s not like you.”
I can almost see his shrug. “What can I say? I liked the guy.”
“Did you have Mason snoop?”
“He’s how I found him. Anyway, the guy’s like Mr. Clean. Just the way Argentina likes them. He’s got connections over in Belgium. And he’s a pilot.”
I perk up. “You made a friend with a pilot? And you’ve been keeping him to yourself?”
“Name’s Reece Sinclair.”
“So he’s relocating to Chicago?”
“If the pay is good enough. Maybe he’ll just become my personal chauffeur, like your guy. Smith.”
It’s my turn to snort. “Knowing you, you’re still getting a cut of whatever he makes. Why mess with that?”
