Justice For Belle

by Didi Oviatt

  “Maybe,” I finally share my musing aloud. “I don’t know, though. I think he would have said something by now. He doesn’t have any reason to hide something like that . . . you know? We’d be supportive, and he knows it.”

  “Has he ever really had a girlfriend?” she pries.

  Oh man, I think, I’ve got to get out here. Or distract her somehow. This is the last conversation I want to have right now.

  “Not that I can think of, actually. You know what though, Lucy? I’m sure if he does ever decide to settle down, you’ll be the first girl on his list.”

  “Yeah…” She trails off, staring into a vast nothingness.

  “So, lunch then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Two hours?”

  “Sure.”

  Lucy still looks utterly lost in thought, but I can’t play into it. I pull myself to a stand.

  “Okay then,” I tell her. “I’m going to go rack up my Dad’s credit card, and then I’ll meet you there.”

  Lucy closes her eyes and leans back into the couch, adjusting her hands behind her head with her elbows jolted into the air.

  “Do your thaaang, girl . . . I’ll be there.”

  I chuckle and leave her to her peace on my soon-to-be permanent apartment fixture. I pay quickly and then make a beeline across town to the WiFi cafe. My mind is working like a hamster in its wheel. It’s running overtime and getting nowhere. Finding a place to leave my car is a pain in the ass, but after a few layers into a parking garage down the road, the deed is done.

  I keep my line of sight on my toes to avoid a face shot from the multiple cameras above head throughout the complex. I reach the cafe in no time. I pull open the door with a little bit of effort. It’s heavily air conditioned with a lock tight door. The crisp air feels amazing as it slaps me in the face on my way in. It’s a modern place with low-hanging lights that hover over a long bar-style booth across the wall. Each seat is fully equipt with charging stations and sun-yellow cushioned seats.

  First I order myself a latte. The girl at the register can’t be older than twenty. She’s all decked out in black, and intentionally pursuing her bold-red lips out like a duck. For a moment, I’m tempted to pull out my notebook and jot down her kills, rather than my laptop for the real project at hand. I can see her with a machine gun, plain as day, taking out every breathing human in this place.

  Before I take a seat in my intended corner chair at the WiFi bar, I notice Mac across the room. He’s sitting at a rounded, two person booth, alone, and typing so fast on his computer it looks like he’s trying to murder it. His eyebrows are nearly touching, and he’s gnashing his teeth across the top of his bottom lip. Stressed, yet oh so serene, angelic even. I wonder where his mind is, and if he’s cracked any codes.

  We made the choice not to acknowledge one another in public, so rather than talking to him, I take a seat. I choose a different spot than my original intention, one a little closer to the exit so that he has to pass me on his way out. Even if he can’t talk to me, I’m still curious. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll have any reaction at all to my being here.

  I crack open my laptop, search for the hotspot, and get to work on my outline of possible characters and plot points. Having Mac a few tables away only adds to my creativity. I’m chock full of wonder and anticipation, and I only hope my characters can live up to their task. This book will have to be good. I’ll have to write something that the creative curve can feed off of our factual events.

  Time flies and, before I know it, I can see Mac out the corner of my eye packing up his goods and rising to his feet. My heart pounds against my rib cage, fighting its way out, and my breath catches in my throat. I fixate my glance on the corner of my computer screen allowing my peripheral to stock him like prey. Only the look in his eye is an inferno of rage . . . himself as the predator. There isn’t a chance in hell that a man with such a strong sense of determination could possibly be preyed upon.

  He stares past me, the death glare shooting rays of distaste over my shoulder. Just as he’s about to reach my booth, his face softens, and he drops a note onto my lap in passing. The motion is smooth . . . professional spy smooth, no one would have noticed had their eyes been glued to his hand. I grab the paper and squeeze it with a tight fist. The door behind my back swings shut with a woosh in his exit.

  I wait a while after he’s gone before I open the paper to read the note. I even go as far as pretending I’m pulling it from my pocket, just in case. In the same choppy handwriting as my previous note, it reads:

  The eagle’s in flight, ready to land in its nest.

  Yours always,

  Bond, James Jay

  AKA 008

  Another AKA . . . 7’s awesome brother

  I sigh, reading the note a few times over, swooning over the banter. Then I tuck it into my pocket just in time. Lucy plops herself next to me, all thud and no finesse. I didn’t even notice her walk in. Hopefully, she didn’t spot Mac leaving. I was way too busy allowing myself to get lost in the thought of Mac to watch for her at the door. That’s twice now that Lucy has intruded on my obsessing over Mac, and twice now that she did it by utter surprise.

  It was such a small note, yet it tells me everything I need to know. I’m screwed. I’m in over my head. This is real. Not only am I about to commit a nearly incomprehensible heist, or felony, or whatever the hell it is, but I’m doing it with a man I’d rather jump on than run from afterward. How did I get myself into this? Lucy breaks my mind free of its temporary cage.

  “You come up with anything good?”

  My lips bunch to one side and I pretend to scratch my chin in thought with my pointer finger only.

  “Yep. The eagle is ready for landing.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  I chuckle awkwardly, almost manic. I allow myself to feel the note on my thigh through my pants. A piece of him that’s so close to my flesh, blocked only by a thin material, and life’s circumstance. A piece that I’m yet again hiding from Lucy, in my jean pocket nonetheless. Oh, the cliche in it all.

  “Nothing,” I lie. “Just nerdy book stuff. Soooooo, shoes?”

  Chapter Eight

  It’s Thursday evening. There are only two more nights before I meet up with Mac, and I’ve found myself pacing the floors of my apartment like a caged animal. The carpet directly in front of my beautiful new wraparound is wearing thin already; I hope it survives. I didn’t shower this morning and haven’t washed my hair in a few days. I know I’m a sight, but couldn’t care less, really. No one comes here, and I have no intention of going out. I’m locked in for the long haul.

  There was a full week that my mom locked herself in her room once; I was thirteen. I remember it like yesterday. She’d had a downward emotional spiral after losing business to a neighboring bakery. After my dad had delivered her food and drinks to the room for seven whole days, I decided that enough was enough.

  I sat outside of her room and sang, ‘You Are My Sunshine’ for hours until the door creaked open and she emerged. She dropped to her knees and completely engulfed me in her arms. Her hair was as greasy as mine is now, and her puffy eyes matched mine to a ‘T.’ It was our song, as mother and daughter. It was the lullaby she sang to me as a baby, and the first song I recited word for word as a toddler.

  Like mother, like daughter, I resort to hiding away from the world when times get too hard to handle. Only this time she isn’t there for me the way I was there for her. I have no one singing to me from outside the door, no mom to be comforted by. No one to hug so tightly, as I pull myself out of the introverted trance I find myself in. I haven’t allowed myself to listen to that song, let alone mutter the lyrics out loud since I sang along to it at her funeral.

  Yesterday, I took a fairly large box of donuts from the eatery. Between that and the junk food in my otherwise empty pantry, I have enough food to hold me over. I told Lucy this afternoon that I think I’m catching a bit of a cold. I figure that ough
ta keep her at a distance, at least until after the weekend is out of the way.

  She has a thing about boogers. The last time I got sick, she left a can of soup in front of my door. She rang the bell and ran for it. Aside from an occasional text, I think I’ll be safe from her nosey ways. Tim doesn’t have classes for a few days, but I’m certain he’ll be locking himself away to study, nonetheless, and Dad usually keeps a respectful distance.

  With all of my bases covered, I should be able to stress and stew in filth all that I need to before Saturday rolls around and I’m forced to clean up. At that point, I’ll face my demise like the brave hero I intend on pretending to be.

  A small tap on my door intrudes in on my paranoid thoughts. My chest drops. Maybe it’s a neighbor, weird. I peek out the peephole, and to my nervous surprise, it’s none other than Mac. He’s breaking the rules, idiot! What the hell is he doing at my apartment?

  I rush to a small mirror on my wall, a few feet from the door. After re-pulling my hair even tighter into its messy bun, I scrub my pointer finger across my teeth. Good enough. There’s no fixing my look in such little time. I smack my cheeks to make them a little pink. How embarrassing!

  I rip the door open just as he lifts a hand to knock on it again. With a closed fist around his shirt, I pull him in as quickly as I can.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” I say before sticking my head out and looking in both directions down the hall.

  I lock the door at the handle, and again with the chain, just to be safe. Then I spin on my heels to look at him. His eyes are red and wild, and his lips are pursed. He smooths the wrinkles I caused on his shirt with a flat palm and shakes his head, disgusted.

  “I know it’s against the rules, but I had to talk to you. I couldn’t wait.” He says.

  “You couldn’t call?” I demand.

  “I don’t have your number and no, even if I did, I wouldn’t call. That would be even stupider than stopping by.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I agree, and stomp back to my place of pacing.

  “No one saw me. It’s getting dark, and no one here knows me anyway.”

  He follows me to the living area and plops himself onto a corner seat.

  “I think you should sit down,” he tells me. “You’re making me nervous.”

  I comply without argument, more than curious as to why he’s here.

  “Well?” I inquire.

  I point my forehead at him, and stare up, waiting for an explanation. I’ll take anything he’ll give me at this point. Be it encouragement, speculation, whatever words he’s willing to part with. I’m desperate for any sort of interaction with him, like a phene waiting for my next fix.

  “You need to stop stressing.”

  “How do you know I’m stressing?”

  Mac points a finger at my window. The curtains are wide open to reveal nothing but the neighboring apartment building’s sun-warped shingles, and an empty street below. Then it hits me, like a wall of cement. He can see me from his lawn chair on the toxic suburb rooftop! How could I forget about that? He’s probably been watching me this whole time. Of course he has, and for God only knows how long. I deflate some air like a balloon, letting my shoulders drop a few inches. I have no choice but to accept this for what it is.

  “Damn it,” I mutter. “Well, you’re here. Can I get you anything, a drink maybe?”

  “You got whiskey?”

  “Nope. I’m an alcoholic. Whiskey is kind of my vice. If I kept it in my home, things might get out of hand. I kinda’ have to stick with the light stuff.”

  Wow, why did I just say that? I look down at my lap and shake my head a little in shame. Not because of my problem, but because I just told him about my problem. What’s wrong with me? What’s next, a confession about Belle? I can’t recall a time when I was so completely unsure of myself. A naked sense of vulnerability is seeping from my every pore.

  Mac only nods, a humble understanding with absolutely no sign of judgment. His eyes meet mine, and there’s something there. He has something on his mind, something he’s not saying. We’re like magnets pointed in the wrong direction. Two negatives and two positives. Clearly made from the same material, to accomplish the same tasks, yet impossible to touch together. I’m at least three feet away from him, yet I can feel the heat of our energy barrier as it forces us apart. He sighs in surrender and then turns his gaze back to my opened window.

  “I do have beer, though, or water if you’d rather.” I offer, trying to break the silence.

  “That’ll do.”

  I practically run for the fridge, desperate to get away from the tension. I want him, and I know he wants me. I can feel it. Unless I’m as insane as I’ve always suspected I could be. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Just as I bend to reach into the bottom shelf of my fridge, my mind flashes elsewhere. It’s a memory, one I’ve never had before. I’m standing over Belle’s bed, staring at her, the metal pipe gripped tightly in my right hand.

  She’s fast asleep, and just as I rear back to take the first swing at her face, a light flips on. It’s a hallway light, just outside of her bedroom door. I don’t turn to look; I don’t even slow down. My steady and very powerfully driven hands grip the pipe like one would a baseball bat and drop it down on her with full force. Her cheekbone crunches with a splat, and her body begins to twitch.

  “You get lost?” Mac’s voice rings loudly at my side.

  I jump, knocking a cold glass bottle of booze over with my arm. I grab it back up with trembling hands. I straighten myself to a stand and hand it over before grabbing two more for myself. Mac takes a step closer to me no sooner than the fridge door shuts completely.

  The scent of him is just as fresh as the first day we met; only tonight there is a muskier underlining. The delicious smell of his natural skin, no doubt. My knees weaken, and I take a step back. The center of my back touches the counter causing me to reach back with my free hand and grab ahold of it for balance.

  “What are you doing?” I ask desperately under my breath.

  “You were taking a while, so I thought I’d check on you.” His voice is wanting and raspy.

  “I’m fine.”

  I duck and spin, maneuvering my body around him. I’m careful not to brush our flesh together. He props himself against the exact spot of the counter that I just left by the hip, his gaze fixated on me. I look away, twist the top off of my first drink and guzzle the entire thing as if my life depends on it. He, too, takes a drink, but barely a sip. The serious clench of his jaw tells me that he means business. My chest tightens.

  “Why are you really here?” I ask.

  “A few reasons, actually.”

  “Which are?”

  “I’m trying to decide which one I wanna’ tell you first.”

  He takes another sip and continues to stare. I toss my empty bottle into the trash can, and twist open the top of my next. It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Aside from my own heavy breath, I hear only haunting silence.

  “Start with whatever it is you’re so afraid to say.” I breathe, my heart quickening another pace.

  Mac takes a few quick steps forward, again closing the gap between us. The wildness of his eyes and his hair reminds me of a lion, ready to pounce. Soon I’m backed against the wall, with our chests pressed together. I stare at his mouth. His lips are the perfect shade of pink. I want to lick them. I tuck my own in and bite the insides lowering my head . . . denying him access. He places his palms against the wall, beside my shoulders, and lowers his forehead to mine.

  “You’re not who I thought you were,” he says, the hops in his breath mixing with my own.

  I close my eyes tightly and breathe him in. The image I once had of his fists closing in around the neck of an unknown man as he shook the life from him is all I can think about. God, I wish I could stop enjoying the thought of death. I can feel his heartbeat through my shirt, and my nipples harden. The heat from his body screams danger, and the pool of nerves b
etween my legs wants it.

  “Mac,” I whisper, our foreheads still together.

  I try and lift my arms to push him away, but can’t. Like dead weight, they stay motionless at my sides. I shake my head against his. This is wrong.

  “Ahnia, I know we can’t do this. I just . . . I . . .”

  Mac slaps an open palm against the wall. It’s an angry, powerful blow a mere foot from my face. I jump, feeling the vibration of it against my entire body.

  “Fuck!” He shouts and pulls himself away.

  He runs a fist through his hair and storms off. After helping himself to another beer from my fridge, he disappears back into the living room, leaving me behind to gather myself. I take a couple of deep breaths and run my shaking hands down the front of my shirt a few times.

  I’m scared to death of him right now, but I don’t want him to leave either. I can’t kick him out, what if he comes at me? Or worse, what if I wind up throwing myself at him. I don’t trust me at this point, any more than I don’t trust him.

  It takes me a minute to shake the buzz out of my veins enough to actually process what he said. I couldn’t possibly be any more confused. I slowly and nervously inch my way back to him. He’s standing by the open window, peering down at the street below. On the corner of my couch, the furthest spot away from him, I lower myself to sit. My back is straight and only the back pockets of my jeans touch the furniture’s fabric. I’m ready to make a run for it, if needs be. Or, at least, I think I might be.

  “What did you mean?” I ask. “When you said I’m not who you thought I was?”

  He sighs, “I always thought you’d be more detached than you are.”

  “Detached?”

  “Yeah, like careless. I didn’t think you were they type to get nervous or to have a conscience. But, you do.”

  My voice softens, like a frightened child. “Why would you think that?” I ask.