Bad Parts

by Brandon McNulty

  “She’s not home, though.”

  “Exactly. Now’s the time to break in.”

  “And do what?”

  “Cheeto, I’m outta time!” she snapped. “Can’t you read the numbers on the fucking clock? Sundown’s coming fast.”

  “Ash, sunrise hasn’t even hit yet.” Cheeto held his hands out as if to placate a growling mutt. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “If we don’t, I won’t get my hand back.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “That’s okay?” Something in her brain popped. He could’ve told her to cut her other hand off and she’d have been less appalled. “Are you fucking mental? It’s anything but okay. We have the biggest show of our lives coming up!”

  “It’s just a show.”

  “It’s way bigger than that.”

  “Look, I know how you feel—”

  “You don’t know shit. I’m garbage without my hand.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. Fucking garbage.”

  “Why, because you spent a few minutes in a dumpster?”

  The comment hit her like a punch to the nose. At first she couldn’t breathe. Then the world around her shook like a morbid daydream. She grabbed the steering wheel, clutching tight, trying to steady herself. At some point she realized she was hyperventilating. Her lungs shriveled to raisins. She fumbled for the door handle and opened it. Cold air swept in. She stumbled outside, dropping to her knees in the middle of the wet street.

  “Ashes, wait!” Cheeto left the van and hurried over. He looked at her with concern. With pity. She couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand that he knew. “Don’t beat yourself up. What your parents did to you—that wasn’t your fault.”

  Not her fault. Like that made it better. Try telling a stabbing victim that the knife in their gut wasn’t their fault. See if that helps.

  “Ash?” he crept closer. Reached out to her. “I’m trying to help.”

  “You want to help?” She swatted his hand away. “Get in the van and help me get my hand back.”

  “But—”

  “Get back inside!” She stood and shoved him onto his ass. Seeing him land hard made her feel both better and worse. It was a strange feeling. He didn’t deserve it, but at least she wasn’t the only one getting knocked around anymore. “Go, Cheeto! Now!”

  Bouncing to his feet, he drew his hair back. The look in his eyes was wet, wounded. Whatever pride she took in shoving him instantly faded. Regret flooded her heart as tears flooded his eyes. In the years she’d known him, she’d never seen him cry. It seemed as though he never stopped smiling.

  Until now.

  “This isn’t you,” he said, shaking his head. “This isn’t you.”

  43

  Judging by the fire in his knees, they were eight miles out. Maybe more. Karl growled through taped-up lips, but Candace didn’t respond. That crushed him. He needed to hear her voice. That could get him through this. He needed her to tell him things would be fine. That she was only doing this to protect the Traders. That it pained her to stash him in the trunk of her Jeep and take him north.

  But all she did was drive. Her own traded part had to be killing her. He could tell by her shaky steering. The vehicle hitched and slid until she slammed the brake, which flung him forward against the backseat.

  They seemed to be off the highway now and slowing down. Sadly, the heat in his knees got no cooler. He tried breathing. Deep breaths. Inhale on one, exhale on two. Count to ten. Repeat.

  They came to a complete stop. He thought they’d reached a traffic light, but the motor cut silent. The driver’s door popped open. Candace climbed out, her shoes scratching gravel. She greeted someone with a grunt.

  Karl tried shouting for help, but he couldn’t loosen the duct tape around his mouth. Best he could do was roll around, knocking into things.

  The trunk opened with a click. He found himself staring up at Candace. Her eyes bulged. Her face was pink and wrinkled with strain. One hand rubbed—no, scratched—at her abdomen. Her other arm twitched at her side, a pistol in her grasp.

  “Out,” she said. “Move it.”

  He mumbled behind the duct tape.

  “Now, Karl.”

  Again he mumbled.

  Instead of peeling it off, she slammed her gun against his knee. He roared against the tape. It felt like a volcano had blown beneath his thigh.

  “Out. Not saying it again.”

  Twisting and shrugging, he moved toward the tailgate. Once he reached the edge, he swung his feet out and pressed them to the wet blacktop. His knees crackled. It was dark out, but orange floodlights shone. Short buildings stood nearby in a straight line. No, not buildings—storage units. The kind where you stashed old junk or new cars if you didn’t have garage space.

  Under the gun, he staggered ahead on shaky knees. Candace raised the door on a storage unit. Inside were stacked cardboard boxes and plastic crates. Toward the back stood a sturdy table with more boxes stacked upon it.

  No way was he going in. He couldn’t spend the night here. Not eight miles out. Not in a cramped space like this. In the past they disciplined Traders by stashing them in a house near Dickson City, barely six miles out. Six was brutal. Eight was torture.

  The gun’s barrel nipped into his back. “Get in.”

  When he shook his head, she shoved him forward.

  He stumbled and hit the floor, knees-first. The impact hurt so bad he momentarily blacked out. When he came to, he tasted blood. Must’ve bitten his tongue. He tried moving his legs and discovered his ankles were bound with an extension cord.

  “Sorry, Karl,” she said, yanking the cord tight. “Can’t have you kicking the door down while I’m gone.”

  Unbelievable. To think for years this same woman had invited him into her home. Into her arms. Into herself. Now she tied him down like a hostage.

  The moment he was rolled onto his back, the overhead lighting beamed down on him. He panicked. It was just like Pittsburgh. Like the warehouse. It sent him back in time thirty-two years to his worst moment. Two bullets. One in each knee. Even now he could smell the blood pumping out of him, could feel his body going cold.

  Tears leaked from his eyes, rolling hot along his ears. He twisted and shook. Moaned through the tape.

  Something icy poked against his chin. Cold steel. Her gun.

  “I’m taking off the duct tape,” she said. “When I do, don’t yell or raise your voice. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Good.” Her fingernail scratched his cheek and caught a tape corner. One quick rip took it off. Some of his mustache went with it. “Here, drink some water.”

  She poked a sports bottle between his lips. His dry throat welcomed the cold water. After giving him a few gulps, she sealed the lid. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Candace, my knees… Don’t leave me here.”

  “I have to. It’s the only surefire way to keep Ash in check till sundown.”

  “Please. Not like this. All these boxes. It’s like Pittsburgh. The warehouse.”

  “Christ above,” she said. “That was thirty-two years ago.”

  “Please. Anywhere else.”

  “Unfortunately, I couldn’t arrange for anything on short notice. Look, it’ll be a rough night. But you’ll tough it out and learn your lesson.” She patted his thigh. “Once everything settles down, I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Candace, this is mad!”

  “Shh.”

  “My knees, the boxes, it’s—”

  “Shut your mouth.” She tucked the barrel under his chin. His mouth clicked shut and she slapped the tape over it. “Remember, I’m actually taking it easy on you. You and I both know this is a mild punishment for betrayal. Let’s just hope Ash doesn’t act up again.”

  Clutching her stomach, she rose to her feet. With a grunt, she stepped back. Their eyes met for a cold moment.

  Then the lights went out.

  The do
or rolled down.

  She left him there. Just like the shooter had thirty-two years ago.

  44

  Ash merged onto I-81 North and crushed the gas pedal. She had no destination, only a desperate need to clear her head. Driving fast usually relaxed her, and now was no exception. With the van rumbling around her and the heater throwing chalky air in her face, she felt healthier, saner. Her neck muscles warmed and softened as she distanced herself from Hollow Hills.

  Before long, however, her anxious mind overpowered her. Thoughts of Dad suffering cropped up inside her head. She could only imagine what he was going through. She pictured her own knees buzzing like a pair of hornets’ nests, complete with bursts of stinging heat. Her stomach twisted with each passing mile, each shake of the vehicle’s frame.

  Over in the passenger seat, Cheeto stared out the window. She’d allowed him to ride along only because he promised to shut up and not look at her. His pitying look from earlier still irritated her. She worked hard to hide her past, especially from her bandmates. Now that he knew about the dumpster, she wanted to fire him. That, or smack him around till amnesia kicked in.

  But what she wanted more than anything right now was to grab her Gibson and play something fierce. Something from the heart. Obviously she couldn’t play anything, so she turned on the CD player. The speakers blasted with the latest Bad Parts album. She amped the volume.

  Next to her, Cheeto lip-synced. On the album, his vocals meshed perfectly with her riffs. With a voice like that, he couldn’t be mimicked or replaced.

  She lowered the volume. “Cheets.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why’d you join my band?”

  “You promised we’d make millions.”

  Ash snorted. “Any other reason? I mean, you had it pretty good with that Boston screamo band. They were your buddies. Why leave?”

  “Guess I outgrew them. Wanted to see where life would take me.” He shifted in his seat. “If we’re being real, I never thought much of my singing till you threw me in your lineup.”

  “Wow. You’re nuts. The second I heard you, I saw dollar signs.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I actually wanted to quit singing, get a haircut, and take up accounting.”

  “Accounting? Seriously? Can you even subtract?”

  “Very funny. My old man’s an accountant. Every time I see him, he pushes me to get a degree and join his firm.”

  “Pssh. You’re better with notes than numbers.”

  He shrugged. The van went silent.

  Driving around didn’t placate her tangled stomach. Next chance she got, she turned back. When they returned to Hollow Hills, she parked on Candace’s street, about six houses down. There were still no lights on inside. Why was it taking so long to move Dad a few miles out? The question only made the guilt twist harder inside her. She wanted a distraction—wanted Cheeto to say something. Hell, she’d say something herself, but she couldn’t think of anything.

  Actually, there was one thing.

  “So,” she said, taking a deep breath. She couldn’t believe what she was about to admit. “I was twelve when I found out about the dumpster.” She tried to meet his eyes, but the best she could do was stare at the dash. “Now before you tell me that I was a baby and it wasn’t my fault, you gotta realize I’ve heard that a million times. I get it, there’s no logical reason to blame myself. But I do anyway. You see, when Trent and I were kids, it didn’t take us long to realize that Dad and his ex-wife weren’t our real parents. I always wondered about my real mom and dad, and I worried that I wasn’t good enough for them. That bothered me, but at least Trent was in the same boat. At least until…”

  She stopped herself. Couldn’t go on.

  “Until,” Cheeto said, “you found out only you got left behind. For whatever reason, they kept Trent but not you.”

  Lump in her throat, she nodded. She expected him to coddle her and tell her it was okay, but he didn’t. Nor did he pat her shoulder, offer a hug, or deliver any of the other consolatory gestures she’d received through the years.

  “Ash?” he asked. “Can I see your hand—er, wrist?”

  “Why?”

  “Just want to see it.”

  What the hell, she figured. It was no secret anymore.

  She popped the cast off. Even with the heater blasting, her arm felt chilly as she stretched it toward him.

  He pushed the sleeve up her arm. Her flesh tingled under his fingers. He gripped her wrist. With his thumb he rubbed her stump. Kept rubbing. Wait, was he massaging her? It might’ve felt good if not for how perverted it was. She tried pulling back, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “Can I have my arm back?”

  “In a sec.” He leaned forward as if studying the seamless flesh. Without warning, his lips pushed against it, warm and soft.

  “Jesus!” She jerked back. “The fuck, Cheeto?”

  “What?” When he looked up, his hair tickled her forearm. Something stirred within her stomach. He kissed her stump again. “Am I doing something wrong?”

  “Yeah.” She tried to wrestle her arm free. “You know my policy.”

  “Policy?” He laughed. “What’re you, HR?”

  “I’m protecting the band.”

  “Are you?” His head tilted. “Is it really about the band?”

  “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You tell me.”

  Her mouth opened to reply, but words failed her. She wanted to smack him, but she felt paralyzed. Right in front of her, Cheeto—her fucking vocalist—was making out with her amputated limb and she…

  She didn’t want it to stop.

  But it had to stop. For the band’s sake. If Cheeto went further, it would change their dynamic, both onstage and off.

  Slowly she pushed him away.

  “What, I’m not good enough?” he asked.

  “That’s not it.”

  “So am I?”

  “For fuck’s sake, just stop!”

  “Why? I don’t care that you’re missing a hand. Doesn’t change anything. Not for me.”

  She was breathing heavy. They both were. The windshield fogged up. As she reached for the defroster, something in the back of Ash’s mind detonated like a nuke. It exploded down her spine, an outpouring of excited chills.

  She eyed him. Ached for him.

  Again he kissed her wrist. Harder this time.

  She tried ripping herself away.

  He held firm.

  “Cheeto.”

  He looked up. Their eyes locked. Hers urged him to back off. When he tipped his head forward, she cupped her hand around his cheek and pushed him back.

  “Cut the shit,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she said, and kissed him hard on the mouth. It happened before she could stop herself. The warm, sliding contact made her head tingle. Warning bells went off in her mind, but she ignored them. Her rule broken, she plunged her tongue between his lips. He tasted of cigarettes and Big Red. She hated the taste of both but couldn’t pull herself away.

  With mad urgency, she dragged him into the back of the van. She worked his belt off and unzipped him—one-handed, no less. He wore no underwear, which worked just fine for her. She reached down and felt him sprout within her grasp.

  His fingers snuck beneath her shirt and climbed her sides. He clutched at her bra, trying to rip it away. She moaned, her nipples aching against the padding. Finally, with frantic hands, he unhooked it in the back. Her tits dropped free, tickled by cool air. They stiffened as his sturdy, hungry hands found them again.

  Like drunken memories, their clothes vanished. Wearing nothing but their tattoos, they wrestled one another to the cold plastic floor. The chills didn’t stop them. They fought to get on top of each other before she playfully beat him down with her empty wrist. He laughed, submitting to the blows. Once he surrendered, she fitted herself onto him and slid down, moaning as she did.

  Sweat burst along her neck and back.

/>   Her lungs shrank.

  Beneath her, his breath floated hot in her face. She feared it might melt her, so she put her mouth over his. When she pulled her lips away, she pressed her hand to his chest. Their eyes met, and she nodded to him like she did during their shows—during those moments when she wanted to up the intensity.

  At first they were clumsy. Out of sync. Much like their first time onstage together, they couldn’t find their rhythm.

  But once they did, it was music.

  45

  Ash woke to knocking. She lifted her head. Sunlight blasted her through a window. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but her hip and shoulder ached like hell. Pushing herself up, she felt her fingers slip between plastic trenches. They felt familiar. Her brain swam, wondering why.

  Then it hit her.

  The van’s floor had plastic ridges.

  The van…

  She heard snoring beside her. Turning her head, she saw Cheeto. His face lay hidden under his hair. She started to sit up, and the blanket slid from her shoulder.

  Her bare shoulder.

  They were both naked.

  No. Hell no.

  But it wasn’t a dream. They’d fucked last night. How could I have been so stupid? Now they were more than bandmates. This would wreck the whole group’s dynamic. Their onstage chemistry, their off-stage interactions, their songwriting, everything.

  The knocking came again. At the back door.

  In a panic, Ash donned her jacket and zipped it. The lining iced her bare flesh. She pulled her jeans on and crawled to the back door. She opened it a crack.

  “Morning, girlie.” Candace flashed a smug grin. A gun-shaped bulge poked from her jacket pocket. “Care to explain why you’re parked on my street?”

  Ash rubbed her eyes. “When I wake up, I’ll tell you.”

  “You think this is funny?” Candace smacked the door. It woke Cheeto with a start. “Because I don’t. I want to know why you’re here, so close to my house.”

  Ash couldn’t think straight. Her messy mind wanted to make threats, apologies, everything. Pressuring Candace could backfire and cost Dad his knees, so she decided to play smart. “Went for a late drive. Parked here because I wanted to talk to you first thing in the morning.”