Scare Crow

by Julie Hockley

  “They asked me for pictures,” Griff told me. “I asked that this one be made especially for you. My brother had knocked out my tooth after I peed in his morning cereal. Classic.”

  I was at a loss for words. “Thanks. It’s …”

  “Really ugly.”

  Cassie and Hunter both unzipped their hooded jackets, revealing similar ugly sweatshirts. This sweatshirt would bring way too much attention to me, but I couldn’t remind Griff of this while Cassie and Hunter were within hearing distance. And Griff was just too preoccupied with the fight for me to remind him of all the other stuff we had to be worried about.

  I looked at the tag: extra large. I sighed. Well, at least they had accounted for my college weight gain, and this would indeed hide my belly. When the rest of the roommates came out of their rooms proudly wearing their ugly sweaters, I knew I had to make a decision, even though I had no choice really.

  At least I wasn’t going to be on my own.

  I threw my shirt over my clothes. “I love it.”

  We all left the house together—Griff and his ugly-shirt army.

  My roommates went to find their seats in the arena while Griff and I went to a changing room in the back. The camera crews were already there, as was Griff’s fight team. I found a corner to hide in away from the limelight while Griff got ready and got filmed getting ready.

  Every time an undercard bout would end in the arena, the camera lit up and came back to Griff: Griff punching the air, Griff wrestling one of his teammates to the ground. Soon, it was Griff’s turn to go out. The camera crews left the room to film his exit and entrance into the stadium. Griff and I had a few moments alone.

  I jumped in his arms as soon as everyone had left the room. We stayed like this for a while, cheek to cheek, listening to the noise outside.

  “Even if I lose—”

  “You won’t.”

  “Even if I lose,” he said again, “the second prize is still more than I would make winning in a hundred of the other fights. This money will give us the ability to hide for a bit, at least until the baby comes.”

  My heart tore a bit. This was the biggest night of his life, and he was still worried about our next meal. I wished he would focus on himself for once.

  I didn’t want to let Griff go. But when a light knock came at the door, our arms fell to our sides, and I was ushered out before we even had a chance to say good-bye, before I could wish him the good luck he didn’t need.

  As soon as I was out the door, the noise was deafening and only getting louder with each step. The baby was doing gator-sized rolls against the skin of my belly as I came out through the gateway. Stands went all the way to the ceiling and all seats were filled, though no one was sitting in their assigned chairs. Screaming from spectators took up any air left in the arena. I felt as though I was crawling deep into the bowels of an anthill.

  It was easy enough to find my seat: I just looked for the ugliest sweaters in the crowd. My roommates’ seats were just a few rows back from the front. Griff had planned it so that I would be close enough for him to see me in the crowd but not so close that the cameras would point my way. Griff’s anthem came over the loudspeakers, and none of my roommates even noticed that I had arrived and found my seat (even though I had to step over a couple of them to get there). I stretched my neck, but I didn’t see Griff make his entrance into the arena. As soon as he was in the ring, he turned his head my way, and our eyes connected.

  Another song came on the speakers, and I looked at one of the mega-screens hung around the stadium. Griff was fighting a Brazilian fighter named Batte Gomez. He had apparently held the middleweight title for almost three years, which was unheard of according to the gossip at Griff’s gym. Until that moment, I had no real idea what this guy looked like, other than the picture that was on the millions of posters posted everywhere in town.

  The posters did not do this beast justice.

  His hands and his forehead were big enough to crush a school bus like a beer can. He was less human, more buffalo.

  My eyes immediately went looking for Griff. I was shaking my head. He needed to get out of there.

  Griff was standing at one corner, hidden by his fight team standing behind him. The monster entered the ring, and I was foolishly yelling at Griff, my voice lost in the anthill.

  Griff was doing this for me, because of me. He would die doing this for me.

  The referee was introduced to the jeering crowd, the fighters bumped fists, and just as the fighters were parted, Griff glanced back. He was looking for me, and one last time our eyes locked before he got kicked in the face. He had just enough time to shake off the pain of his opponent’s foot against his cheek before the buffalo’s fist found his jaw. There was a gasp from my row of roommates as Griff staggered back. He moved away from the Brazilian while he once again tried to shake it off.

  Using his gloved hand, he dabbed at the blood that was leaking out of the corner of his mouth, and then he glanced at the blood on the glove. All of a sudden, I saw something change in Griff as he wiped the blood against his shorts. He smiled and waved at the crowd. He rolled his shoulders back and went after Batte Gomez.

  I watched him take on the buffalo swiftly and powerfully. He was careful, methodical, relentless, and a lot faster than his heavier counterpart. Griff grappled Gomez to the ground, and when the first round ended, he was sitting on Batte’s chest trying to find a hole under his arms so that he could get to his face.

  The second round came as quickly as the first round ended. Griff charged as soon as the bell rang, his fist ahead of him leading the charge. It found a space under Batte’s jaw, and Batte fell back, his head hitting the rubber mat.

  Griff stood with his fists held ready in suspension. His opponent put an elbow under himself in an effort to get up, but it buckled under his weight. He fell flat again, and the crowd almost went quiet, or perhaps my ears had tuned them out. As Griff was about to take advantage of his opponent’s incapacitation, the referee jumped in front of him, fell over Batte, and waved his arms.

  The whole world went still, along with Griff.

  I could feel the wave of disbelief rise as everyone, including Griff, realized what had just happened. Griffin the Grappler Connan had won. Against all odds.

  Griff’s team were jumping up and down around him while Griff turned, trying to find me in the crowd, but he was being blocked by the crowd that followed the golden belt. As Griff’s team parted to let the belt come through, Griff took off running. He flew down the stairs, flew between the rows of fans.

  I knew where he was going. I was about to step over Joseph to meet him halfway and drag him to the back, to where the cameras couldn’t catch us, but Griff was already there. He lifted me up and kept me in his grasp while everyone nearby tried to jump into our row to get their hands on the victor, stepping on my roommates, on Griff and me, in the process.

  Security had to fish all of us out, and we were shepherded back into Griff’s changing room. Hunter had a bloody nose, and one of the twins’ shirts had been torn. They never looked happier. I hoped that the stampede of people would have kept us hidden from the cameras. I made a quick decision to just let it go. For the first time in several months, I stopped worrying about what could happen and celebrated with everyone else. I enjoyed the now.

  Griff still had me in his arms when I pressed my hands against his face. “You didn’t think you would win.”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “You should have told me, explained to me what you were walking into. I would have never … we would have found another way. I thought you were going to die.”

  “No one would have let me die. I promise you that I won’t leave you, in life or in death.”

  The door burst open as the rest of Griff’s fight team came through carrying champagne and the belt he had left behind.

  After the mind-blowing win, Griff was immediately booked for a press conference, interviews with the media, and meetings with sponsors and pr
omoters. I ended up driving home with Joseph, while the rest of the lot stayed to follow Griff around, drunk on his refound celebrity.

  “You didn’t want to stay with everyone else?” I asked Joseph while we were in the car.

  “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How much did Griff pay you?”

  “Enough to make it worth my while.”

  ****

  I was going down the stairs for my regular 3:00 a.m. snack of peanut butter and apples when I heard the door jiggle. One of my drunken roommates, rolling in after partying with the fighters. After the roommates had gotten back from Christmas break, Griff had ordered them to lock the door from now on. And no more parties! The order was well-received, because it came from their beloved Griff. But at least once every weekend, someone, usually a drunk someone, got locked outside after forgetting or losing his or her key. There must have been twenty keys to our house floating around in bars across campus.

  I let the drunk someone on the other side of the door suffer before I went to let him or her in.

  There was someone standing under the broken porch light, still holding the two paper clips he had been using to try to jimmy the lock. When he took a step forward into the light of the hallway, Meatball came charging down the stairs. I had time to loop an arm out and latch onto his collar before he attacked the man under the cloak.

  This man looked filthy, like he had been sleeping under a leaky bridge, and smelled like he had been eating out of a garbage bin. I didn’t immediately recognize him. But when he pulled his hood off, when my eyes met his, I knew exactly who he was. In this instant, I also realized that he was pointing a gun at me.

  Norestrom.

  The bastard who had killed Rocco.

  If he hadn’t had a gun pointed at me, I would have let Meatball rip the arteries out of his neck.

  “I was starting to think I was never going to get you alone.”

  I wasn’t alone. Joseph was sleeping upstairs. But I didn’t tell him this. Clearly he had been watching me, and clearly he had lost touch with reality.

  “I am alone. What do you want?”

  He was jittery, moving in quick sequences. Like his brain was moving faster than the rest of the world. Meatball was snarling, foaming at the mouth. I was having trouble keeping him close to me. When Norestrom took a gentle step forward, Meatball lunged up, almost yanking my arm out of its socket. So Norestrom went back to his original spot.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he told me. “I just need money.”

  I tried not to laugh.

  “How much?”

  “Just enough to disappear.”

  I really wanted to punch him in the face. But I was also enjoying seeing him so squirmy. I couldn’t tell if he was high or frightened out of his mind.

  There was a noise upstairs. Norestrom pointed his gun quickly at the stairs and quickly came back to me. “I thought you said you were alone?”

  “Don’t you have connections? People who have enough money to buy you your own island?” I wanted to keep him calm and talking.

  But his arms had started shaking, and the wildness in his eyes was mounting like his time was about to run out.

  “Not anymore,” he answered. “Because of you.”

  He had been forsaken by Victor, by his own kind. I was loving this newfound fact.

  “I’ll give you all the money you need,” I said to him. “Just come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you everything I have.”

  “I need it now. Tomorrow will be too late.”

  “Well, I don’t carry that kind of cash with me.”

  Back and forth his eyes went from my face to my guard dog. Until something else caught his attention. In my struggle to keep Meatball at my side, my bathrobe had come undone, and my belly poked out from my too-small T-shirt.

  While the wildness of his eyes remained, a smile crept over his face. I recognized that smile. It was demonic. It was the same smile he’d had on his foul face before he had ordered his men to kill Rocco.

  “Okay,” he said, backing away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He would see me tomorrow. With Victor or with whoever else was willing to pay the price of knowing that Cameron’s baby was hiding inside of me. With whoever was willing to pay the price of being able to use my child as leverage in the underworld.

  While Norestrom was lowering his gun and I was trying to figure out how to get to the revolver that was in my purse on my bed so that I could shoot his head off his shoulders, Joseph had sleepwalked down the stairs.

  “What’s with all the barking?” he muttered. Norestrom jumped and I jumped and Meatball got free of my clasp of his collar. A shot rang out. Before Norestrom had time to pull the trigger again, Meatball had bounded, slamming him to the ground and sending the revolver flying into the pile of shoes stacked by the door.

  Norestrom was kicking and screaming, using his free arm to punch Meatball in the head. I tried to pull Meatball away before Norestrom could really hurt him, but his jaw was firmly set into Norestrom’s puny arm.

  Joseph rushed to help me, and together we finally managed to get Meatball off him. Joseph held his collar, while I rushed to grab the gun on the floor.

  Norestrom was already on his feet, getting ready to pounce on me until I raised the gun. He was brought to a halt, his gaze jumping from my face to the gun that I was pointing at his head.

  Rocco.

  All I could see was Rocco. How much he loved to goof around. How much he loved to eat. How his teenage body had matured before his brain had had a chance to catch up. Standing in this hallway entrance with a gun in my hands, I could hear the echo of his laugh—a child’s giggle stuck in a man’s body. He was the funniest kid. He was a brother and a confidant. He was sunshine in darkness. And the piece of shit who had taken this child’s life, the one who had robbed the world of Rocco, was standing in front of me.

  I steadied my stance and felt every muscle of my arms tighten around the gun. The blood left Norestrom’s face.

  He stood erect, a step away from the front door, and fished something out of his front shirt pocket.

  “Hands up,” I growled.

  He had already pulled out a shiny badge and held it in front of him—a shield to my gun. “I’m a cop. You can’t shoot me.”

  Norestrom kept his shield in the air and took one step back. He was right; I couldn’t shoot him. He turned around and grabbed the door handle.

  I pulled the trigger.

  I pulled the trigger.

  I pulled the trigger.

  With each pull, his body pulsed forward like he was getting hit by lightning bolts.

  I kept pulling the trigger until nothing but air came out and Norestrom was lying with his cheek squeezed against the door and his limp body in a pool of his blood.

  When the smoke cleared, a whimper from Meatball made me spin around. His front legs gave out, and he fell to the floor.

  No. No. Nononononononono. I ran to my dog’s side. I grabbed his head, feeling warmth under my fingers. When I pulled my hand away, I saw red.

  Meatball’s head went limp in my arms. My pajama bottoms were already saturated with his blood.

  “No,” I screamed. “Meatball. Not you. I won’t, I can’t lose you.”

  Meatball was looking blankly at my face, and his eyes started to close. I could feel his breath leaving him. I started trying to pull him up, but his deadweight was too much for me.

  “Please, Meatball. I need you. You can’t leave me here. Not like this.”

  Meatball let one long sigh escape him and forced his eyes open. “I won’t make it without you.” The top of his head was soaked with my tears. He managed to wag his thumb-sized tail. Then he dragged his head up to my face to lick my nose.

  I glared up through my tears and yelled at a dumbfound Joseph, “Help me!”

  Joseph roused from his daze and helped me carry Meatball to my car. While Joseph drove, I had my big monster of a dog lying on my lap while I whisper
ed urgently. I promised Meatball all the popcorn he could eat. I promised him that I would pay Joseph’s mom so that she brought him her famous meatballs every day of his life. I promised him that I would never leave him as long as he never left me.

  With every breath, Meatball’s body weakened against my legs, sinking deeper into obscurity. I knew he couldn’t see me anymore because he just looked vacantly at the seat ahead. But I knew he could hear me. So I didn’t shut up. Not for one second until I was finally pried from his side at the twenty-four-hour veterinary clinic.

  ****

  I didn’t know how long I’d been pacing outside the surgery door in my blood-soaked pajamas before the doctor came walking out. He took his time. Removing his mask, removing his scrubs, taking a breather.

  He bade me to sit, but I refused. I was ready to wring his neck for information.

  “The bullet missed his heart, but made a mess of his humerus.” He put his hand on my shoulder, as though he could sense I was about to fall. “I was able to eventually dig the bullet out, but he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s weak. Very weak. But I think he’ll be okay.”

  I kept my eyes on his expression, while his words clumsily processed in my mind. When the doctor smiled tiredly, I flung myself into his arms and hugged this perfect stranger as though he were the father I never had.

  Joseph and I were brought into the back room, where Meatball was sleeping on a metal gurney. The vet let him wake up just long enough for me to see him. When his eyes flickered opened and he saw me, he tried to get up, but I soothed him back down. I hopped onto the bed, gently pushed his big head onto my lap, and rubbed his ears until he fell back asleep.

  Joseph pulled cash out of his torn wallet and handed it to the vet. It would take me a while to pay him back, but I would. Every penny and more.

  The vet left us so that we could visit with Meatball.

  While my dog lay sleeping on me, I left one hand on his chest so that I could feel him breathing in and out, feel the pulse of his beating heart under my fingers. And then I remembered what was waiting on the floor at the house. “What am I going to do with the body?” was the murmur that came out of my mouth. I wasn’t worried about the fact that I had just killed someone. I was worried about how I was going to get rid of that excuse of a human being that was lying in a puddle of blood on the carpet. Former human being.