by Holly Hart
Ridley pulls out his wallet. I hold my breath. I start to wonder if I should run. This might be my only chance to get out of here – to get enough of a head start that Ridley can’t follow me, confine me.
And then I release it.
He’s paying cash. That’s good. It means we can’t be traced. Not as easily, anyway. I’m not naïve enough to believe that a man like Ridley isn’t known to the local criminal underground. And if they know who he is, and they know that I’m with him…
I shiver and squeeze my eyes shut. It’s another thing to think about. Another thing I wish I didn’t have to think about. Another reminder that my life has been picked up, shaken, and thrown to land in whatever messy state it falls.
“You’re a good man,” Ridley says, his voice floating out of the office. I glance back to see the owner – his hand, anyway – waving away the offered bank notes. He passes Ridley a small block of wood attached to a short length of brown string. The key disappears into Ridley’s massive hands. “Hit me up when you need something, brother.”
They shake hands – the sideways kind. They go in for a hug. Ridley turns and meets my eyes, and strides out to meet me.
“How are ye feeling, doll?” Ridley asks me, his voice both soft and hoarse. I guess he doesn’t often console women running for their lives. I like that he’s trying.
“Cold,” I whisper. Then I pause. I realize how ungrateful I must sound. It’s not like me – I promise, it isn’t. It’s just the last few days – weeks – they wore me down.
I look up into Ridley’s eyes. He stares back at me, and I swear that I feel his gaze burning my cheeks: a flame licking at my skin; singeing it; blackening it; crisping it like salmon skin on a hot skillet. I force myself not to look away. I want to, and yet I don’t. His eyes are hazel and gold, like a cat’s – or perhaps an alien world seen from space. I get the strangest feeling, like I’m a colonist from far in the future, finally reaching my new planet after a long, long voyage.
Then I shake myself, and it’s gone.
“Thank you, Ridley –,” I say, but the Irishman cuts me off. He grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me against him once more. I feel his warmth, and he gives me a tight, short hug.
“You’re in shock, doll,” Ridley grunts. He gently pinches my chin with two fingers and peers into my eyes. He spins away, and once again I feel cold and alone. I want to pull him back to me, but my fingers just twitch in the empty air by my sides.
He pulls a handful of change from a pocket in his denim jeans and feeds it into an old vending machine. It’s making a funny sound – like a fan belt rattling inside the machinery over and over and over again. I like it. It’s repetitive, punctual, and something to hold onto.
There’s a banging sound, and Ridley leans over and pulls a can of Coke from the bottom of the machine. He opens it, pulling the tab and letting out a metallic click and a hiss of compressed gas. “Here,” he says softly, handing it to me. “Drink this. You need some sugar. It’ll help: with the shock.”
I bring the – warm – can to my lips with trembling fingers and pour half of it down my throat in one long gulp. I cough on the bubbles and look at Ridley, embarrassment coloring my cheeks.
There’s a little smile dancing on the corners of his lips when he speaks. “Come on,” Ridley says, taking my hand with no embarrassment, as though we’ve been dating for years. He drags me up one flight of the metal stairs on the outside of the Sunset Motel, our feet clanking the whole way up. He presses a key into the lock of number thirty-three and turns it.
“Come on,” Ridley says again, jerking his head, “get inside. Let’s figure out what to do with ye.”
I pause. For a second, I’m stuck. Going into this room with a man I don’t know is simultaneously the best, and worst, idea I’ve ever had. It’s not just that I don’t know who Ridley is; I don’t know anything about him. Nothing: except that he knows how to use a gun, and he didn’t blink twice when shooting two of the three thugs who had me captive.
Still …
… I feel safe around him; safe for the first time in weeks.
I take a step forward: a little, half-step; and then another; until I’m inside, in the warmth of an old, faded motel room. I’m safe.
Yeah, I’m safe, except for the demon rearing its ugly head within me. I can hide from bullets, men with guns, and all the horrors of the world.
But I can’t hide from what’s inside.
4
Ridley
She sits opposite me – Frankie – on one of two narrow beds, with worn out springs, in a faded motel room that probably never saw better days.
And she looks like an angel.
I sit across from her, on the other bed, and keep to myself. I don’t know what to say, and I don’t want to risk putting my foot in my mouth. The girl’s obviously seen some rough shit. Hell, I’ve spent my life dealing with crooks in the gutter, but I’ve never been close to the kind of hell Frankie’s been through.
She clutches my overcoat around her shoulders, holding it tight with tiny, trembling fingers. It flows off her back like a cape – or wings – spreading out behind her; ready to open, to flap, to carry her away from this evil place. This place she’s too good for.
The seconds tick away. I can almost hear the imaginary clock meting out the time like a man pounding away at a punch bag, sweat dripping down his face.
Frankie looks down at the floor, not daring to look at me. I stare at her without making it obvious. God, she’s more beautiful than I realized. Long, red, frizzy hair cascades off her head and down her shoulders like a river of fiery lava. Her eyes – when she’s not hiding them – are like tiny planets from space.
But like I said, I don’t make it obvious. Facts are, the people who have hurt her have not been women – they’ve been men. I know I’m no safe-looking hipster dude. I’m as dangerous as I look. That’s probably not what Frankie needs sitting across from her right now, but it’s all I’ve got to give.
“What’s the bet that that thing’s working?” I say, pointing my chin toward a beaten up minibar on the other side of the room. I’ve given up on being silent; that path is only letting Frankie stew in her own private prison.
Frankie looks up, eyes clouding over with surprise. Fuck, I want to know what happened to her – so bad. I want to know if anyone hurt her. Who hurt her? The thought surprises me. She’s not from around here – she’s not Irish, and she’s not one of my people. So why do I care?
“Wha –?” Frankie croaks, her mouth dry, throat crackling.
I smile and stand up. I feel Frankie’s eyes following me all the way to the tiny fridge. As I reach it, I realize I was right. There’s no fan noise. I lean over and pluck a couple of aluminum cans from a pile inside.
“Warm,” I grunt, turning back towards Frankie with an apologetic frown dancing on my forehead. I toss her one of the cans – not thinking – and she jerks backwards in surprise.
“Crap –, I’m sorry,” I say, already expecting disaster. I don’t get to finish. Frankie’s hand flies out from inside my coat, and she catches the warm can of Miller light.
My fist clenches.
My eyes track the marks on her forearm. I didn’t see them in the darkness outside, not properly: purple, violent bruises; cuts and scabs; grazed skin and the marks of a beating.
I jerk my eyes away. The last thing Frankie needs is for me to gawk at her like she’s a caged animal at the zoo. It’ll only make her feel like shit, and that’s the last thing I want. I need to get her to calm down, to open up. But the barriers she’s put up are like the Great Wall of China. It’s gonna take more than a warm beer and a smile to loosen her up.
But it’s a start.
“Drink up,” I grin, walking back to my bed. I inject as much humor into my voice as I can, making it seem as though I didn’t see a thing. It’s a game, a charade – we both know it. “It’s better than a Coke, I’ll tell ye.”
Frankie’s bruised, purple forearm disappears b
ack inside the safety of my overcoat. She snicks her can open, feeds it to her lips, and takes a long, lengthy gulp. She must sink half the can in one huge mouthful, but I don’t mention it. Sometimes a girl just needs a drink; if this doesn’t count as one of those times, I don’t know what does.
“Feel better?” I ask.
Frankie looks up at me, surprise and a little bit of fear painted on her face. Wherever she has been, she’s not used to people talking to her, or asking her opinion. Christ, I don’t even want to imagine what they did to her to force her to close up like this.
I open mine and take a sip. My face wrinkles. It tastes like crap. “I better not get charged for this, I tell ye,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“If he dares mark down beer on my bill I’ll cross it out and scribble in water. That’s all this muck deserves. It ain’t Guinness, I’ll tell ye that.”
Frankie takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Ridley,” she says. She speaks so quietly I have to strain to pick up the words. I lean forward, resisting the urge to cup my hand to my ear.
“Seriously: thank you. I don’t know what would’ve happened –,” she shudders to a halt, visibly shrinking and closing her eyes.
I stand up. I do it without thinking, because it just feels right. I cross the narrow aisle between us and sit down next to her, putting my arm around her shoulders and squeezing her against my body.
“Don’t ye worry about it, girl,” I say. I barely recognize my voice as I speak: soft and gentle; not thickly accented and gruff. Instinctively, I recognize that this quieter, supportive Ridley is what Frankie needs, not the one she saw out on the street – danger on two legs, a pistol in his hand and murder in his eyes.
“I’d have done it for anyone.” I lie.
Frankie doesn’t say a word. I feel her breath against my body; it’s ragged and labored. I live each exhausting, painful breath with her as she bites back the tears that threaten to overflow from her eyes.
“But you didn’t,” she whispers, resting her head against my shoulder. “You saved me.”
I pause – just for a second, and toy with her bright red hair. I definitely shouldn’t be sitting here. It’s too close: too comfortable; too – intimate. I jerk my hand back like it’s touching a hot stove, let a deep, heavy breath escape my lips – and stand up. Tearing myself away from temptation, I realize, and doing nothing, are the only things that’ll to stop me from going a place I know I shouldn’t go.
Frankie looks up at me with betrayal in her eyes. It feels good. I know it shouldn’t, but it does. I’m glad she wants me by her side. Even if it is just to comfort her. It means I don’t scare her. Maybe it means I have a chance.
“Where are you going?” She asks, her voice cracking with plaintive worry. “You’re not leaving me here, are –?”
I cut her off. It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster to hide the self-satisfied smile that’s threatening to conquer my lips. “Don’t worry yourself, doll. I’ll be back in a second.”
For a second time, I feel Frankie’s eyes on the back of my head, tracking me. Her actions stem from anxious concern; they’re far from just curiousity. She’s watching me to protect herself. I move calmly, no sudden movements, nothing unexpected. I walk to the bathroom, grab a fresh white towel and fill an empty glass with warm water.
“Can ye take that coat off for me, doll?” I ask. I regret the words the second they leap from my mouth. That’s exactly not what a man with a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans should be asking a woman.
But Frankie doesn’t look back at me with fear. It’s more … surprise.
“Why?” She croaks, pulling the coat tighter around her chest. I wince. Actions speak louder than words.
“I saw your arms,” I say.
There’s no point in beating around the bush. I was going to need to explain anyway. “Ye need to have someone clean them up, ‘fore ye catch something nasty.” I glance down at the pitiful first aid kit in my hands and shrug. “Best I can do without going to a shop. I guess you don’t want that…”
I wait for her response, letting my face break into a small – but natural – smile. I know better than to push Frankie right now. She’s damaged: hurting; fearful. Forcing her to do something she doesn’t want to do won’t help her recover. And right now, seeing her better is all I want: to see a smile on her face; to see her sit up with a straight back, not hunched over and hiding.
Frankie’s eyes flicker in a triangle: cup, towel, my face;
cup, towel, her fingers;
cup, towel, my face.
“I can do it myself,” she says, swallowing hard. Frankie nods once. “You don’t need to help.”
“But I want to,” I say. “You don’t need to be alone. Not anymore.”
Frankie looks up at me with the distrustful stare of a beaten dog. My mind goes to a memory of one of those animal charity commercials you see on TV – a quivering, trembling animal backed into a corner as the vet tries to help.
Fuck, it’s my turn to swallow.
In truth, I do have an ulterior motive. I want to help clean Frankie up – of course I do. But I want to see what those animals – no, they don’t even deserve to be called animals – what those freaks did to this beautiful girl sitting next to me. And when I find out, when I find them, there will be hell to pay.
Frankie’s breath comes out fast as she considers my offer. I watch the wheels turning over in her mind as she thinks about turning me down. But her shoulders sag, and she shivers like a tree shaking off a heavy burden of snow. “Okay,” she whispers. “And thank you, Ridley.”
I don’t speak as I help her lift the overcoat from her shoulders. It feels like I’m stripping an angel’s wings. I barely noticed what Frankie was wearing up until now: a plaid shirt, checked in red and navy; underneath light blue dungarees.
Very filthy dungarees, I now see, as I sit next to her again.
“Where does it hurt?” I ask, taking Frankie’s arm. She flinches at my touch. I barely know this girl, and still it feels like shit. I don’t want her to recoil from me – I want her to embrace me.
Frankie grits her teeth. Her eyelids slam as tightly shut as the bars in Fort Knox. I doubt she even notices it. There’s something about pain, about trauma: it takes you deep into parts of your brain you don’t even know exist.
Parts you don’t ever want to know exist.
“Here?” I whisper, circling the delicate, pale skin on her wrist with my thumb and forefinger.
Frankie shakes her head. Her eyes are still squeezed shut. There’s a tear leaking out the corner of her right eye. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Frankie leans in to the touch.
“Here?” I say again, tracing my fingers up her forearm. She shakes her head, then catches it and nods as I peel back the checked blue and red sleeve.
I look down, and I wish I hadn’t. Frankie’s right arm is a tapestry of pain and hurt. It reminds me of a piece of modern art – purple paint splashed with vicious energy against a pale white canvas. Except this canvas is Frankie’s skin. And it’s not paint that’s marked it.
It’s pain.
I dip one end of the fresh white towel into the cup of warm water and dab it against Frankie’s skin. She winces as I clean the cuts and scrapes and grazes that mark her body. Her lips turn white; her teeth grind against each other.
But she doesn’t complain.
She doesn’t moan.
Hell, she doesn’t say a word.
Because whatever else Frankie is – whoever she is, and from wherever she came – she’s one tough cookie. I can tell that just by looking at her.
I clean Frankie’s forearms with a tenderness I didn’t know I was capable of. “Tell me if it hurts too much,” I whisper. I don’t know where these words are coming from. They are nothing like what usually comes out of my mouth: harsh, gruff swear words; threats of violence; intimidation.
But I know that Frankie has seen enough of that world. She doesn’t need it from me.
“Does it hurt anywhere else?” I ask, softly lowering her arm to her waist.
Frankie doesn’t say a word. I watch as her cheeks tense, going rigid with nervousness. I watch as her nostrils flare in and out. I see her fists clench out of the corner of my eye, and hear her breath turn ragged, as though she was running a hundred yard dash.
“Anywhere at all?” I prompt, glancing at the glass of water by Frankie’s ankle. It’s almost turned black with the filth from her wounds. More than anything I want her to shake her head. I want her to say no. Because I don’t understand how anyone can survive this much pain unscarred.
But I don’t get what I want.
Just like Frankie didn’t get what she wanted.
Besides, the pain I feel is just a shadow of the trauma that she’s lived through.
Then Frankie moves. She’s been so still this entire time that it takes me by surprise. I watch, entranced, as her arms move through the air. A question dies on my lips, coming out no louder than a puff of wind.
What are you doing? I want to ask. But I know better.
It’s hard to believe, but Frankie squeezes her eyes shut even tighter. She brings both fingers to the pale, pearl enameled top button of her plaid shirt. I don’t know why I focus on that detail, but I do. I think it’ll stick in my head as long as I live.
My forehead wrinkles with confusion.
One by one, Frankie unbuttons the plaid shirt. She unhooks the dungarees and lets the denim fall at her waist, and then continues to her task until the shirt hangs loose and open. Underneath it, she’s naked. I look away. But not before seeing that the skin on her stomach is pale and smooth – and unharmed.
I don’t know what she’s doing.
“Frankie,” I say, voice hoarse. “Stop, you don’t have –.”
Suddenly, I pause. This time, I really am struck dumb. I finally realize that Frankie’s not undressing out of some misguided sense of giving me payment for my help. It’s so much more, so much worse than that.
Frankie shrugs off the shirt. She turns her body away from me, covering her breasts with her arms.