by Coralee June
I started to write. I thought about all the relationships I’d fucked up. I thought about the distance I put between myself and others, my shitty fail-safe painted into a vibrant shade of self-preservation. I thought of how everything around me felt controlled. I pictured the illusion of safety I’d been wrapping myself up in. I wrote something that was probably total shit, but I drained all the things I wanted to say to all the people I’d run away from. There was no room for anger toward Hunter on the page. That would be for another day.
“Time’s up. Pencils down!” Mrs. Sellars said while cracking her aged knuckles. The loud pop startled a sleeping student in the front, making some of my classmates giggle. “Who wants to go first?”
No one raised their hand, and I certainly didn’t want to go. I watched as Mrs. Sellars scraped the bottom of the bowl as she walked between the rows of desks, daring anyone to avoid her request. The trick to not being called on was to not make eye contact. I made sure to stare at her glittery purple shoes instead of her determined face.
“How about you, Jeffrey?” she asked while nodding toward a kid to my right. I’d known Jeffrey for a while. Freshman year, he touched my boobs in the school parking lot and came in his jeans. I felt bad for the guy.
“M-me?” he asked.
“Yes. You.”
Jeffrey smoothed out his paper and cleared his throat. “This, uh, is called ‘Blow Jobs’.”
The class howled with laughter, but Mrs. Sellars was a seasoned pro. “Oh really?” she began, a snappy twinkle in her eye. “You know, I always tell you to write what you know. Are you sure you’re qualified on that subject matter, Mr. Moon?” The class laughed even louder as Jeffrey’s pale face turned a bright shade of red. Mrs. Sellars was fucking savage, and even I cracked a grin.
“Calm down, class,” Mrs. Sellars called out over the distracted class. It took a few threatening looks and a stomp of her foot, but everyone eventually quieted down.
“Fine, let’s skip the blow job, shall we? How about you, Miss Palmer? Read what you got, sweetie.”
A cold sweat broke out on my neck. What I’d written seemed too personal to read to the class. It didn’t feel like a public announcement, it felt like an exorcism.
“I’m not so sure…” I began.
My teacher slammed her palm down on her desk. “I want to hear your poem, dear. There’s no right or wrong way to do it. Unless you took the same route as Jeffrey over there.”
A few more snickers broke through her stern demand, and she eyed the culprits with a ruthless warning.
“Fine,” I replied. I’d been saying that word a lot today. I’m fine. I feel fine. I’ll be fucking fine.
“My poem is called ‘The Space Between Our Lips’.”
My eyes scanned the words on the paper, and with a sigh, I read my scrawled, worthless words:
The Space Between Our Lips
I built a home for myself on the small plot of land between our lips.
With a foundation of sand and walls of straw, one exhale could make me fall.
I plant flowers in the garden of your affections with dry soil and seeds out of season.
I don’t unpack my boxes. My belongings stay tucked away, ready to move at a moment’s notice. I sleep on an air mattress and wear the hoodie I stole from your dresser.
There’s a cement fence surrounding the property, with a lock on the gate.
I guard my house of straw like it’s diamonds mined from the cavernous hole in my chest. They say pressure breeds beauty, so I squeeze until the walls around my heart look like an engagement ring.
My yard keeps getting bigger and bigger. The space is now large enough to house a mansion with empty rooms and empty walls and empty promises to fill them all.
You stopped visiting me at the space between our lips. You stopped whispering prayers over my offering.
But I have a home.
But I have a home.
A sense of wonder and finality filled the room at my last word. One asshole at the front tittered, but Mrs. Sellars cut his humor with her knife-like gaze before turning her attention to me. “That was hauntingly lovely, Miss Palmer. Well done.”
She made her way around the classroom, and a few other students stumbled through their poems. One was about lunch, another was a terrifying serial killer poem that made me seriously question the sanity of the person writing it. I found myself interested in the thoughts of others. I’d always gobbled up souls like they were a genuine form of nourishment, and hearing their hearts bleed out on the page had my flighty passion project tendencies soaring into overdrive. Maybe I’d try my hand at poetry for a week or two.
The bell rang, and Joel hobbled out of the classroom like his ass was on fire, not even bothering to spare me a second glance. I wondered what he thought of my poem or if he was even smart enough to realize that he’d inspired it somewhat. “Miss Palmer, can I speak to you please?” Mrs. Sellars called out.
I slowly made my way to the front of the room as other students trickled out, gossiping and laughing as they made their way to their next class. “Yes?” I asked as she shuffled through papers on her desk.
“You’ve got some raw talent, girl. We need to work on your mechanics, and I would have changed some of your diction, but you evoke feelings, Roe. I really think this could be something.”
I politely smiled, soaking up her compliments like a sponge. “It was fun,” I replied noncommittally.
“There’s this contest called the National Star Poetry Scholarship. I think you should enter. You have to submit ten pieces, and with a little guidance, I think we could have a great portfolio to submit. You could win ten thousand dollars!”
The money would be nice, maybe enough to give me a fighting chance at running away, but I couldn’t do that. “I’m not so sure—”
“Roe. I love all of my students, but you are a giant pain in the ass, you know that?” Mrs. Sellars barked, startling me.
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t take yourself seriously at all. You don’t believe in yourself. You never apply yourself because you’re afraid of failure. I mean, hell, I guess if you don’t try, it doesn’t hurt when you lose, right?” she asked while waving her wrinkled hands in the air. “I’m tired of watching you wade through life in the shallow end. I want you to try this. Dive in for once in your life, child. I’ll help you swim.”
I wasn’t expecting to get a lecture today, but fuck, Mrs. Sellars could deliver. “Fine, I’ll try,” I replied like the lame troublesome teen she thought I was. I probably wouldn’t stick with it long enough to have ten poems, but I’d amuse my favorite teacher if it made her happy.
“Good. I want your next poem at the end of the week. I’ll provide some constructive feedback on the one you wrote today so you know how to craft it more strategically.”
She was throwing a lot at me, and I dreaded adding yet another responsibility on top of my overflowing pile. “O-okay,” I stuttered.
“Great. Go along now, dear.”
While walking out of the room, my phone pinged in my pocket, and I used my good hand to wrench it out of my skinny jeans. I didn’t recognize the number, but the moment I saw the message, I knew with complete certainty that Hunter sent it.
Unknown: Joel is a good listener. Nice poem, by the way.
My fingers shook, and I leaned against a locker as the bell rang, not caring that I’d be late to Biology with Mr. Vin.
Roe: What did you do to him?
Unknown: We just chatted.
Chatted? They just chatted? I felt incredulous and helpless. I saw the evidence of their little chat all over Joel’s bruised fucking face. I quickly typed out my response.
Roe: Stay the fuck out of my business.
I watched the chat bubbles flash across the screen, as if he were debating on what to say. My heart was pounding in my chest. I knew he was the reason Joel looked beat to hell and angry as fuck. I could strangle Hunter for hurting him. And nice poem? What the fuck did that
mean? Was he watching me through my phone?
I kept stalking down the hallway, my Converse squeaking across the tile with every step. I stopped at my locker just as another message came in.
Unknown: Your business is my business, pretty debt.
I stared at my phone in disbelief, trying to work out how he’d known everything. My eyes flickered to the small camera lens at the top of my phone. I moved my head closer and closer, like if I peered down it, Hunter’s manic smile would meet me on the other side.
Fucking bastard.
I opened my locker quickly, then used my injured hand to hold the device where the door shut. In a fit of rage, I slammed my locker on my phone again and again and again, watching the technology and Hunter’s presence crunch on impact. The hallway echoed with the loud bangs. My wounded arm ached from holding my phone there, but I didn’t care. I slammed until the screen cracked, until the power was cut off, and until it was nothing but splintered control on the floor.
“Miss Palmer!” a voice rang out, shocking me out of my haze. “What on earth are you doing?” I spun around, feeling like fire and smoke as Mr. Allen, the vice principal, strutted up to me. He was a slender man with a toupee and green eyes. The man’s personality was the equivalent of a mall cop but more annoying. “Is that your phone?” he asked in disbelief.
I looked down at the mess at my feet before replying to him. “Sorry,” I began. “There was a bug.”
He just gaped at me, but I felt a sense of relief.
I’d try my hand at this poetry thing and take my winnings if I could. I needed something to help me get away from Hunter and Mack, and this might be my ticket out of here.
HUNTER
She was sharp as sin, twisting her delicate features up into a vehement expression as she smashed her locker shut and destroyed her cellphone. Luckily, I was already ten steps ahead of her.
By the time she realized I had hacked her iPhone to listen in on demand, I was already following the security feeds at her school so I wouldn’t have a moment of interrupted viewing time. She looked so triumphant, so determined. She was irrational and yet somehow majestic.
I wanted to break her spirit.
That night, I left a new phone on her nightstand with a note:
Try not to destroy this one, Little Debt.
She left it in the box and shoved it in her dresser drawer, probably hoping that not touching it would preserve her idea of privacy. And because I was gracious, I let her think she had this little win and that I hadn’t found other ways of watching, even though my obsession with her seemed to grow even more.
Before, I’d periodically check on her throughout the day whenever I had a free moment. Now, it was like I couldn’t drag my gaze away from the window to her life. From the moment I woke until the moment I fell asleep, I glared at her, hating my addiction while compulsively needing to make sure she was safe. I counted smiles and watched the steady rise and fall of her chest. I listened as she worked on her homework. I watched as she spoke to her friend, as her mind wandered, and as her anger stirred. I told myself that the near-death experience had triggered my protective instincts. I was just watching because I had a debt to pay, nothing more.
But that wasn’t altogether true, and I sure as fuck wasn’t about to admit it now.
Frosty fall clung to the air and thrust dying leaves toward the ground. I woke up to the smell of rot and mold. My old cabin wasn’t much to brag about, but I didn’t need much. Most of my money went into savings or paying Mack and providing for Roe. I was conditioned at a young age not to require much, and I guess that simplicity overflowed into my adult life. I survived for ten years on a stained mattress with water and crackers. The more you had, the more you had to lose.
I breathed in. Death seemed to permeate the air and cling to the logs that made up my walls. The windows were foggy and clouded as a murky mist rolled through the woods outside my house. I’d been up for a couple of hours, staring at my phone and speculating over what Roe would spend her day doing. She was lying on her bed with a lollipop in her mouth, her feet swinging back and forth as her puckered lips wrapped around the bright red candy. I lazily watched as she scratched words onto a wrinkled sheet of lined paper. She was humming to herself as she worked, and occasionally, she’d look around, as if she could feel my tired, hungry eyes on her freckled cheeks.
My phone started ringing, and I quickly answered it, annoyed to have my one-sided staring contest interrupted. “What?”
Mack’s gruff laugh answered me. “Nice to talk to you too, sweetheart.”
I rolled my eyes at his sarcasm and let out an exhale. “What do you need?”
“Gavriel called me. He wants me to oversee a product delivery at the yard today. He let me off for the past two weeks since you went all caveman and broke my arm, but he doesn’t trust the new blood to make sure this shipment gets to where it needs to be. Especially with the Asphalt Devils still sniffing around.”
I let out a slow exhale. I was supposed to be finding a solution to the gang—and by solution, I meant killing their new leader, Rosemary Jones. I was not looking forward to killing a woman, but chivalry died within me a long time ago.
I’d seen a few of the Devils riding through town, but none of them had stayed for long, and none of them had messed with Roe. Apparently, killing six men with my bare hands sent a strong message. But that wasn’t enough for Gavriel Moretti. He wanted Rosemary killed yesterday, and every second I wasted letting that bitch breathe was a second Gavriel was growing increasingly annoyed with me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I just felt distracted. Not to mention, she was hard to find. All my leads had dried up, and I needed a little more time to figure out where I could hit her where it hurts. Even her girlfriend was in hiding. The Bullets had a reputation for taking care of the competition, and they weren’t fucking around. Especially when the competition was dealing in sex. Gavriel made it his personal mission to end traffickers, and the Asphalt Devils were dealing girls. I didn’t understand how Rosemary could sign on for something like that, but I guess she was like her father.
These idiots might know when to lie low, but they wouldn’t stay hidden forever. I just had to find and kill them before they got brave again.
“You sure you up for work, old man? I can go if you need to rest more,” I replied while standing and making my way over to the coffee pot and pouring myself another cup. Mack worked for Gavriel’s father and now Gavriel. He was in the family business, and the Bullets’ empire was how we met. I had a feeling, once Roe graduated, he’d retire, though. If Gavriel let him. Mack was good with numbers. He liked the dull work at the yard because he was a man that flourished in stable parameters and mundane activities. It was a common misconception that gangs were all violence and chaos. If we wanted our lucrative business to keep running, we had to keep inventory and records just like anyone else in corporate America. The only difference was our records didn’t get reported to the IRS. Gavriel was the fist, I was the gun, Mack was the paper pusher in the back, grinning at the idea of working with numbers. Don’t get me wrong. Mack was brutal when necessary—you didn’t grow up in a gang without getting your hands dirty. But he preferred to keep the peace.
“I’d be more up to it if I didn’t feel like a fucking truck hit me, but you and I both know that I have little say in these things. Besides, Gavriel doesn’t want his favorite pet overseeing product transfers and weighing bags of cocaine. I’m calling to let you know that Roe will be home alone tonight, so keep an eye on her. Though I’m guessing I didn’t really need to tell you that.”
I didn’t answer him. It was futile to admit what we both already knew. I’d been projecting my new level of infatuation on Mack, calling him to check on Roe, making sure he gave me hourly updates and asking how she was feeling. Mack was enjoying having me by the metaphorical balls, and I needed to shut down whatever weirdness that was going on within me so he didn’t get any crazy ideas. “I’ll monitor her, but I’ve got
plans tonight,” I replied while gripping the countertops.
“Plans, huh? You finally getting laid?” Mack teased. He knew damn well I wasn’t going out chasing pussy. If I wanted to get my dick wet, the opportunity usually presented itself, but that didn’t mean I was actively looking for a woman eager to tame and maim me. I liked sex, I just didn’t like the women that refused to leave the next morning.
In my line of work, you could never be too careful. Strange women staying over and wanting to know your life story over breakfast were an annoying problem. And not to sound like a pretentious dick, but I was talented in bed. Most women wanted a repeat performance once they realized I knew my way around a clit.
“You’re one to talk. It’s been, what, ten years since you’ve even seen a pussy?” I retorted with a snicker.
“I look at you every day, don’t I?” he chuckled. Bastard was always fucking with me.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
Our laughter died down for a moment, and we both stayed on the phone in awkward silence for a beat or two before Mack spoke again. “Roe has completely shut me out. It sucks, man. She’s like my kid. I don’t know how I will ever get her to trust me again.”
I felt bad for Mack, but he knew when signing up that this was a risk. I encouraged his attachment to her because I knew that love was a good motivator for protecting someone, but he was a fool for thinking it would last forever.
“You knew it would eventually come out,” I replied.
“Can you talk to her? Just make her see I’m not the bad guy here.”
