by Jessica Joy
“Bourbon, Double, Neat.”
“I got Jack. Close enough.” Man, I thought I was gonna like this guy.
“Yeah and a moped is a fuckin’ Harley. Whatever. Pour the drink, asshole.”
“My booze’ll get ya there, stop yer whinging,” he admonished as he pours the piss into a mostly clean glass.
I throw some bills on the bar, “Keep me wet ya prick,” he scoops up the cash and just nods, maybe HE isn’t so bad, just the shit ass booze.
I’m not sure how long I sit there; hard to keep track when the glass never really gets empty, but eventually I get up to take a piss and the room fishbowls around me. I can still stand, oh well, guess I can’t even get that right today. Standing means I can think, I can feel, I can remember; fuck that noise. Settling back into my seat I pick up my glass and shake it at ZZ the sailor, he grudgingly grabs a fresh bottle of swill; what the fuck is a Hawkeye and why is it on my booze? We have a thing now, I flip him off, he gives me swill, I swallow without tasting, he calls me an ass; it works for us.
We finish another round of our ritual and I’m staring down into my ice, wondering when the fuck the ice got in there, when some trailer park asshole with an honest-to-god greasy mullet walks up and starts yelling for ZZ Sailor to bring him and his buddies some Buds. Why the fucker had to come up right next to me, I don’t know. Why he felt the need to shout when ZZ Sailor was 8 feet away is lost to the ages. ZZ Sailor puts some bottles on the bar and Mullet yanks them away, hitting my glass and spilling my precious swill over my hand and onto the bar.
Staring at my now wet hand and almost empty glass, I switch it to my dry hand, shoot it down and set it on the bar. ZZ Sailor has disappeared, guess you can’t get that old in a place like this without knowing when something is going to go down. I stand up and grab Mullet by the back of his jacket, spinning him around and slamming him against the bar, dropping his bottles in the process, shooting Bud foam across the floor.
“The fuck?” Mullet asks, a little dazed.
I give a low chuckle and take a step to the side, blocking him in. “Thank you for that.”
“For what?”
“The excuse,” I grin. His head snaps back from the sudden impact with my fist. Grabbing his stained white shirt, I pop him in the nose like a speed bag a few times, feeling that satisfying crunch of breaking cartilage on the third hit. He comes to his senses with that sharp pain and throws a haymaker at my head which I easily sidestep. I stumble, shit, maybe that shit booze can get the job done. His fist connects with my gut and a sharp breath is knocked out of me.
Adrenaline surges, my vision clears, I can feel the heat of anger replacing the fuzziness of booze. My vision tunnels, red tinting the edges, the limp body blows he’s hitting me with seem nothing worse than a toddler’s attention. I step aside and throw a right into his gut, lifting him off the floor. As he doubles over, I slam my knee into his forehead, snapping him back upright for the left cross to the face, blood spatters my fist from his now demolished nose. I continue to press my advantage, body, face, body, body, face; each hit a little slower but more powerful.
He’s faltering now, throwing a weak punch which I easily cast aside, landing a kidney shot as he turns. Wait, why the fuck does Mullet have a camo shirt now? Huh, that’s not Mullet, it’s one of his low-rent buddies. Douche Number Two has a camo hoodie and a bright orange trucker hat. He spins, leaning into his wounded side but throws a few at my face as I retreat to figure out what the fuck is happening. Where the hell did he come from?
Fuck yes, more meat for the grinder.
I let go. Fists, knees, elbows, throws, anything and everything flows out of my desire to inflict pain to the level that is still simmering inside myself. I’m not sure how long I beat on the white trash twins, but if there was something to hit, I fucking hit it. I can tell by the ache in my side, and the stinging in my jaw, the blood on my tongue, that they’ve landed a few hits, still hurts less than today does. I have Mullet in a headlock, railing away at his bloody face when a surprise kick from behind takes out my knee making me stumble and lose hold of the greasy asshole. I whip around and rise to see Redneck Number Three coming at me. He apparently retreated after his cheap back shot and is now rushing me like a fucking linebacker, helmet first.
Really, trying to tackle in a goddamn bar fight?
I sidestep him like a matador and grab him by the back of his jersey.
Fuckin’ Packers? Really? Explains a lot.
I can’t help but roll my eyes as I use his momentum to throw him headfirst into the side of the bar. He crumples like the sack of cheese curds he is. My distraction has let Mullet collect himself. He fucking spits at me with his bloody mouth and my last nerve breaks. I chase his pussy ass as he scampers around the bar and through the now vacated cluster of chairs and tables. Douche Number Two attempts to intercept this macabre game of tag, but I land an uppercut to his jaw, laying him out. How is this little shit still standing? I’m pretty sure I can see a tooth on the floor.
Mullet charges me with all the grace of a fucking goose; I lift my knee and kick the motherfucker in the chest. He flies back, crashing into a table that shatters under his flabby ass body. He rolls to the side and slumps, finally out of it. As I turn, Douche Number Two throws a jab which I knock aside.
Stepping away, Douche Number Two realizes he’s the only one still standing and throws up his hands, “Fuck him, he slept with my sister anyway,” stating as he turns and walks out of the bar.
I shove my hands through my hair, pulling the longer strands on top back away from my face before I turn back to the bar. I motion to ZZ Sailor for another drink, stepping over Packer’s unconscious body and righting my stool. I walk up and brace my hands on the bar top watching the slow drip of blood pooling between them from an apparent cut on my cheek.
“Where’s my fuckin’ drink?” I shout when I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder. I growl, rolling my eyes as I turn to look see what dumb fuck has a death wish in this forgotten shit hole. The asshole whose hand is still on my shoulder is so stereotypically “shit kicker” I can’t help but let out a “HA” in the irony. The fucker is built like a linebacker complete with the shiny bald head, no neck, and a fake leather jacket stretched over the tree trunks he calls arms.
“Time to go,” No-neck says. He pulls me a step or two before I shrug out of his hold and toss a sucker punch to his jaw. Jesus, that’s like punching fuckin’ granite. I cock back for another swing, but a bear claw wraps around my bruised fist and squeezes. Joints groan as pain shoots up my wrist; I relax and let my arm go limp. As I turn to see who is behind me now, my eyes connect with Axel, the VP. He stares flatly at me, daring me to rev my engine in defiance. I glare back at him, knowing how I must look to him, bleeding face, bruised fists, ragged heaving breaths. I can feel the animal in me wanting to keep going, to stay in the fight ‘til oblivion comes. Part of me knows that I’m fighting ghosts, and you can’t kill those with fists.
Axel holds my gaze before he reaches forward and tags the back of my neck, pulling me to him as his other arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me toward him as I half-heartedly attempt to pull away.
“Hold son. Hold,” he murmurs over and over until I settle, resting my forehead against his shoulder, deep breaths heaving from my now adrenaline deprived body, the red leaking from my vision. “There ya go boy. The hurt’s a bitch; know you’re wishing it was you instead. This ain’t the way. Killing yourself, killing these fuckers ain’t the way. Take it, harness it, and channel it. Do the good that got wasted son, not the evil. We got you.”
He steers me away from the bar as he casually throws a roll of bills on the bar. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” is all he says to ZZ Sailor before he guides me out of the bar. As we get to the parking lot, I look toward my bike and see Axel’s truck parked next to it with a Prospect leaning against the side waiting for us.
“Don’t even think about getting on that bike Brother. Remy’ll take care of it,” Axel says a
s he drops his arm from my shoulders. I fish my keys from my pocket and toss them to Remy, dropping my eyes. I can’t face the judgment I know I’ll find in his gaze. I make my way to the passenger side of the truck and climb in, just soaking it all in.
“I’ll pay ya back,” I acknowledge as I settle myself in the seat and take stock. My ribs hurt like a bitch, I’ve got a split lip, and a gash in my right cheek. Axel grunts his acknowledgement but leaves it at that, this man knows when to throw fists, when to throw words, and when to bless the silence. He knows any lecture he’d throw my way wouldn’t help; I’m already taking myself to task for losing control and causing a headache for the only people who accept me.
Settling back in the seat, I look out the window. All the pain and anger fall away, draining me, and all I’m left with is the hollow ache in my chest and the pain in my side. I lift my fist and rub over my breastbone, anything to ease the heartache that has nothing to do with the fight. Touching the bumblebee tattoo over my heart. Two years. I’m so sorry.
Chapter 2
Tessa
Son of a bitch!”
Snow. Of course, it’s snowing. It's always snowing in Minnesota. From what I’ve heard it would snow in July if mother nature got the notion. My plan was to get to Duluth after the snowy season had ended, but because this place is apparently the living embodiment of the phrase “When hell freezes over,” I’m driving through a freakin blizzard. In April.
To make things better (worse), my car broke down last week somewhere in the middle of Nowheresville Iowa, population two chickens and a goat. Thank GOD there was cell reception to call for a tow truck. A week waylaid to fix everything, but the room and grub were cheap, so I didn’t burn through all my reserve; just most of it. I need to find a not too scary motel around Duluth and then hopefully a job to refill the proverbial tank.
“Why the fuck is it snowing in April?! Baby, mommy might be crazy for going North instead of South this time,” I say over my shoulder to a sleeping Evan in his car seat. But I know that’s not true, the city on the North Shore is a strategic choice; big enough to disappear in, out of the way enough that it shouldn’t be on their list of places to look. Anonymity is key, it’s the only way Evan and I will survive. If we can stay off their radar and under the table, I know we can make it.
It’s been three months and four days since Evan and I escaped Seattle and that bloody bedroom. Those first weeks were the most scared I have ever been, always moving, never comfortable enough to stay still for more than a week or two. I know eventually we'll need to settle down- the road is no place for a rambunctious soon to be toddler. But I feel like I can’t stop yet, there aren’t enough miles between me and that bedroom. There haven’t been enough quiet days to let the terror fade. No, the west holds no sunset ride for me and mine. I can never go back that way, never let the past catch up to us. I will do everything in my power to not let my mistakes touch Evan. Hopefully I’ll find a safe place, a place we can stop running and start a new life, let him start his without worry. I owe my baby that much at the least, more probably. I may have brought him into this world under horrible circumstances, but the least I can do is give him some semblance of a normal life full of Cheerios and sandboxes.
It’s getting late and these headlights suck, plus the heavy snowfall is making it impossible to see the road. You’d think that growing up in a place where it snows would count for something, but I’m a horrible driver in the snow and I have to be smart; no unnecessary risks. I’m realizing the last-minute research I did wasn’t nearly enough; I have no idea where I’m going or where I am other than ‘The Frozen North.’ Deciding anything is better than ending up stranded in a ditch off the highway, I take the next exit and follow the signs toward a town called Proctor.
Following the road north for a few miles, I start to see signs of civilization. Scattered homesteads and pole barns give way to residential neighborhoods, which quickly turns into a quaint main street business district with a lone flashing light on a wire. I want to take in the little town charm, but it looks like I’m flying the Millennium Falcon at light speed out my windshield. Right now all I care about is finding somewhere warm to stay. Through the snow I see the faint but now familiar glow of a neon sign that reads “Vacancy” by a row motel.
“Found one bud! We taking bets if this one has breakfast?” my question is answered by a shockingly loud and indelicate fart from my sweet little six month old, all the more reason to stop for the night- that sounded full.
I pull into the small parking lot in front of a well-kept motel. It’s an older style, with each room opening to the parking lot. The building looks like it’s kept up with fresh paint and, at least from what I can tell through the snow, the parking lot isn’t crumbling. It’s a definite step up from a few of the places we’ve crashed recently.
I park in the space closest to the office on the corner and twist around to check on Evan. He is still asleep, snuggled up with his little turtle Lovie and sucking loudly on his pacifier. That little stuffed turtle with the blanket attached was the best money I ever spent. Since he was only a few days old the turtle has been his favorite toy, he needs it with him everywhere or he fusses like crazy. I know it’s against the parenting books to let him have a blanket or toy with him when he sleeps, but you try sleeping in motels with thin walls and a baby and not get kicked out for him screaming all night. If it keeps the boy quiet and asleep, he gets to keep it.
I watch him sleep for a few moments before I unclip my seatbelt, double check the heater, and climb out of the car. I know, bad mom strike number two, but he’s dead asleep, it’s freezing out, I’ll be right back. Plus, remember what I just said about a sleeping baby? Yeah, he’ll be alright. I climb out of the car and pull my hoodie sleeves down my arms, shoving my hands in the pouch against the snow. I do an awkward little half-run-half-jump over the curb and snow drift to the sidewalk and the door, sinking into the snow that has yet to be shoveled.
Note to self: Converse and snow do NOT mix.
Let’s be honest, I’m from Seattle and should already know that wet weather and canvas shoes are a stupid combination. You’d think this would stop being a big revelation for me at some point, but nope. Every time I step in a damn puddle, I get annoyed and confused again. Every. Damn. Time. The bell overhead jingles when I open the office door and stomp inside, shaking the snow off my shoes and sweater.
The little office is rather basic but clean with a counter along the far wall, a worn couch under the window, and a sideboard with a coffee maker that looks like it is old enough to remember the moon landing. An older man comes through a door on the other side of the room, summoned by the bell. He looks to be in his mid-sixties, solidly in “grandpa” territory with a shock of thick silver hair. He is tall with broad shoulders, a strong square jaw, and a sense of presence.
“Hey Darlin’? Can I help you with something?” the man asks, his blue eyes practically twinkling as he gives an easy smile.
“Yes, hi, I’m looking to get a room for the night,” I say, taking a few steps further into the room.
“Just one night?” he asks.
“Um… at least one night yes. I might end up needing a few more, I’m not sure right now.”
“One or two beds? I think I’ve got a king available.”
“Umm just one, but I’ll need space for my son’s pack-and-play, so a smaller bed is fine.”
Smaller beds are cheaper, so they get rented and cleaned more, big beds in a place like this aren’t always used for the best of intentions. I glance back out the window, the car is still there, I need this to hurry up, so I can just hide. My sudden concern must have shown on my face, because the man straightens up and comes around to my side of the counter, offering his hand for a shake.
“Name’s Clayton Williams, Clay if ya like. I’d be glad to have you and your boy stay. It's a slow season for us, Spirit Mountain is closed up for the season and it's still too early for folks to trek the Boundary Waters; you’ve got your
pick of the rooms,” he says as he takes my hand in a firm shake.
I’m a little taken aback by his friendly attitude, but I’m sure that’s only because it’s so contrary to every other interaction I’ve had up to this point. Sleaze-ball does not even begin to cover the level of creeps I’ve been dealing with for the last few months. Clearly there is something to the whole “Minnesota Nice” stereotype because I think I might actually like “Grandpa” Clay.
“Hi Clay, I’m Tessa. We won’t be in your hair for long, just passing through on our way to find a place closer to the city. I hate driving in snow, so I wanted to find a place until things clear up. I’m so glad you’re here!”
What the fuck am I doing telling him this shit?! Word vomit much? Get your shit together girl.
“Proctor ain’t much but it is a good little town to stop off for a spell. Got a good room for you and the boy, and it’s yours as long as you need it.”
I reach into my little hobo sack purse for my wallet, but he waves me off. “We’ll handle all that when you take off darlin, no need to fuss with it tonight with a sleeping babe in a car. Now, the wife and I run this place and the diner just down the road a bit,” he says, pointing down the road in the direction I was heading. “Before you run off for the day, you and your boy should swing through for breakfast. Best waffles in town,” Clay says with a winning smile.
