by Shari Copell
“Chelsea.” A soft voice sounded from the couch. I just about shit my pants right where I stood.
“Who’s there? Who are you?”
“Have you forgotten me already? It’s your old pal, Scott Dreyfus.” As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see him, or his outline to be more precise, sitting on my couch in the shadows.
I can’t even begin to tell you the thoughts that went through my head at that point. I knew he wasn’t there for anything good, but I couldn’t move.
“What are you doing here, Scott?”
“We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t. I’m going to turn around and leave. I am going to drive around the neighborhood, and you are going to be gone when I get back.” I tried to sound firm, but I thought I was going to puke.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Chelsea.”
Now I’m not a big gun enthusiast, but I know the sound of the hammer being pulled back on a pistol when I hear it. I heard it then.
Jesus Fucking Christ on a pogo stick!
I started to shake so badly I don’t know how I remained upright. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I got thrown out of my house. Did you know that? My fucking old man threw me out. All because a couple of stinking cunts couldn’t keep their mouths shut.”
My mouth was shut now, so dry I couldn’t speak.
“Did you lock the door?” His voice was calm, smooth, the tone of a viper about to strike.
What was the right answer here? Yes, and now I’m locked in here with you? No, and I’m lying through my teeth?
I decided on the truth. “Yes.”
“Good. Then come and sit down beside me on the couch.”
No way was I sitting beside him. I sat down in the recliner across from the couch. In doing so, I accidently bumped the buttons on my cordless phone. It beeped loudly.
“Give me the phone.”
Oh God, no. Not my phone. Not my lifeline, my link to the outside world. I clutched it with desperate fingers.
“Scott...listen…”
“Give. Me. The. Fucking. Phone.” He leaned forward and extended a hand. He was not going to take no for an answer. I wasn’t about to refuse him when he was holding a pistol. I laid it reluctantly across his palm. He snatched it from me and sat back.
“Please, Scott…”
“It’s interesting how you’re willing to beg now that the tables are turned.” He chuckled softly, and my stomach went into a knot. “I like the sound of you begging. I’ll hear it again before this is all over.”
I will not cry, I will not cry…
“What should I do to you, sweet Chelsea? Torture you? Rape you? Both? There was a time when I wanted to fuck you. Now I just find you repulsive. I’m leaning toward torture, actually. I’d like to hear you scream. I want you to feel the same kind of pain I feel right now.”
I didn’t really believe I’d done anything wrong. Still, I offered the words to try and defuse the situation. “I’m sorry. I never meant for you to lose your job. You just didn’t seem to care that someone tried to abduct me from the parking lot.”
“I didn’t care. I don’t give a fuck about any of you. The only thing I give a shit about is the green that lays in the cash register at the end of the night. Doesn’t matter how it gets there. So you nearly got taken by a bunch of bikers. Big fucking deal. Who cares?” I heard him fiddle with the gun. The hair on my neck rose. Would he give me a warning before he shot me?
“And now even that’s gone, isn’t it? No more money for Scotty. No more money, no more job, no more Tapestries. And when I got a little too loud arguing with my old man, he put me out on the street. I’m literally living in my car now.” He leaned forward on the couch. I could see light glint off the weapon as he moved. “You don’t mind me staying here for a while, do you? Seeing as how I have nowhere else to go, and it’s all your fucking fault!”
He screamed the last few words at me. I was tempted to tell him to be quiet, that it was the middle of the night and people were sleeping. Then I thought if he got loud enough, someone might call the cops.
My mouth went dry. He was nuts. I was dealing with a psychopath. No one had a clue he was here. I was going to die.
“Whatever you say, Scott.” I settled back in the recliner. He had a gun. I had nothing but my wits, and I wasn’t sure I even had very many of those.
My brain raced through all of my options and landed on the only one available to me. Even though I’d worked late for the dance, I had to put in an early Sunday shift later on that day. I was as punctual as Big Ben. Would someone come looking for me when I didn’t show up for work? Maybe, if I could keep Scott calm, keep him talking and engaged, I had a chance of staying alive until someone came to see where I was.
If they came to check on me at all.
Someone has to come. They have to. I squeezed my fists and eyes shut tight. It was my one hope, and I clung to it.
CHAPTER TEN
Needless to say, it was a long night.
Scott was furiously angry one minute, bawling like a baby the next. He’d tell me he hated me and was going to kill me, and then the next thing out of his mouth would be an apology for breaking into my apartment. It was like standing in front of a snarling dog that was wagging its tail. I didn’t know which Scott Dreyfus to believe, so I sat quietly, giving only one-word answers if I had to talk at all.
He babbled, he raged, he seethed. As time passed, he became even more freaking unhinged. Scott was a great-looking guy who’d had most everything handed to him his whole life. Now that the silver spoon had been yanked from his mouth, he had no idea what to do. The man had no coping skills whatsoever. He’d been handed a shitload of adversity and had not the first clue how to pick himself up and dust himself off.
Every now and again, he’d escort me to the bathroom. On the way back to the living room, he’d throw a handful of pills to the back of his throat and grab a glass of water from the kitchen. I don’t know what kind of drugs he was taking, but I really think they were the only thing that kept him from killing me. Fifteen minutes after he’d swallow a handful, he’d list to one side on the couch. I couldn’t see him in the dark, but it seemed like he was sleeping.
A couple of times I tried to slide to the edge of the recliner, hoping I could tiptoe to the door, unlock it, and slip out. Unfortunately, Scott seemed really wired and jumpy in spite of the drugs. The slightest noise or movement from me would cause him to jerk upright. Then he’d lift the gun, point it at me, and curse.
It was now dawn. There were no windows in my living room, but I could see the light of morning through the windows in the kitchen and my bedroom.
The clock on the wall ticked the time by as Scott alternately ranted, cried, and fell asleep. When it got to be 10:30 a.m., my phone, tucked beside his leg on the couch, rang for the first time.
Scott took a look at the display then fixed me with the most horrifying, demon-possessed look I’ve ever seen. “Fucking Asher Pratt! Why the fuck would he be calling you, Chelsea?”
I shrugged and sank back into the chair.
He was on me in less than a second, shaking me so violently that my teeth rattled, before he threw me to the floor. He gave me a brutal kick for good measure.
I covered my head with my arms, drew my knees up under me, and held my breath.
“You’ll fuck him but not me. He’s a musician.” Scott said it in a snarly, jealous, sing-song voice. “All the women love a musician. Bar owners suck hind tit though, don’t they? I have to pay my employees to fuck me.”
He was beyond insane. I lay on the floor, staring at an ant trying to crawl through the thick shag rug, as Scott started to smash things in my apartment. My computer monitor, my glass butterfly collection, my lamps. I wanted to make myself as small as that ant and sink into the carpet too.
I heard him crush my phone beneath the heel of his boot in the kitchen then he drew water from the tap. He was taking more pills. Good. Maybe he’d fall aslee
p and leave me alone.
I lay on the floor for the better part of an hour as Scott paced and ranted about what a stupid fuck Asher was. I barely heard a word he said. I’d been up for over twenty-four hours, and all I wanted to do now was sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, Scott kicked me until I opened them.
One miserable heap of regret, that was me. I was too exhausted to be frightened anymore. I stared at the dust bunnies surrounding the ornate leg of the couch and made a mental note to do better the next time I vacuumed.
Scott finished his Asher-rant and sat down on the couch, planting his feet right in front of my face.
“Are you scared? You should be. You’re on my shit list now, and that’s a bad place to be. I mess people up when they’re on my shit list.”
I wanted to laugh. I had always been on Scott’s shit list. By now, I was so exhausted and numb I didn’t care what happened to me.
“Just shut the fuck up and do whatever it is you’re going to do to me. You make me sick.”
He grew quiet. Now that he could no longer taunt me with my fear, would he escalate to torture? I hoped not. I wasn’t someone who could tolerate a great deal of pain.
When he said nothing further, I moved my head a fraction of an inch and glanced up at him. He had his head back, eyes closed, mouth open. The drugs had kicked in. I wasn’t stupid enough to think he was sleeping though.
I had a lot of time to reflect then—on my parents and my love/hate relationship with Asher. I was glad I’d gotten one last chance to talk to Asher, at least. I wouldn’t be going to my death with hate in my heart. It’s funny how you cling to the little things when your world is about to go down in flames.
A pounding on the door shook me from my thoughts. “Chelsea, are you in there?”
Asher.
Scott jerked awake and pointed the gun at the door.
“No! It’s me you’re pissed at. No one else needs to get hurt today, Scott. Please.” I went to my knees in front of him.
“Then get rid of that little fuckwad, or he dies too.”
I drew in a deep breath, pushed myself up to a sitting position, and turned toward the door. “Go away, Asher. You were supposed to come over last night, and you didn’t bother to show up. I want you to get lost.”
My heart was racing a mile a minute. Would he get the message?
There was nothing but silence from the other side of the door. I clenched my fists so tightly I cut grooves in my palms. Get out of here, you dumbass.
Finally, Asher said, “Have it your way, bitch,” and I heard him stomp away. Relief and regret flooded through me in equal measure. He never called me a bitch. Had he understood? If he hadn’t, I was screwed.
Scott relaxed and dropped the pistol into his lap. He was tired too. I eased myself back into the recliner. I needed to be able to move quickly if Asher realized something was wrong and managed to get in.
Even as I hoped, I knew it was hopeless. I’d thrown the deadbolt, and the sliding chain was firmly in place. Asher wasn’t that big of a guy. He’d never be able to break the door down by himself, and if he took too long trying, Scott would put a bullet in my brain. And still, I refused to give up.
Scott nodded off again. I sat back, my mind numb, wondering how this was going to end.
I shifted in the chair and woke him up. More pills, more crying, more ranting about how unfair life was. I was surprised Scott hadn’t killed himself with the amount of drugs he was taking.
I glanced up at the wall clock. It had been more than two hours since Asher knocked on the door. Scott leaned forward on the sofa, breathing heavily, his elbows on his knees, gun held loosely in both hands and pointing at the floor. Just pass the fuck out already.
Suddenly, there was the sound of a small explosion from the kitchen—it sounded like someone was pounding on the door with a baseball bat—and a multitude of things happened all at once. I jerked, and Scott slid off the couch to his knees on the carpet, dropping the pistol as he lurched forward.
A voice I didn’t recognize called from the other side of the door. “Police! Open up!”
In the time it took me to lift my head and look out through the kitchen, the police had kicked the door in.
Scott stirred drunkenly and got a good grip on the gun. I shot to my feet and, legs churning, headed toward the cop standing in the doorway.
I don’t know what made me do it. I wish to God I hadn’t. As I was running, I turned to look back at Scott.
He was still on his knees. His gaze met mine. His eyes were moist, blank with despair and anguish. I heard him whisper my name just before he put the end of the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was surprised to see the crowd gathered outside my apartment. It had snowed overnight, about three inches. Traffic had already churned the snow into an icy brown slop. The sky was gray and leaden, like my soul at that moment.
A dozen cop cars had the building surrounded. An ambulance sat behind them. My parents were there, as well as Marybeth, Willow, Mr. Dreyfus, and Asher. I hadn’t heard a thing inside.
The wonderful hero cop who caught me as I sped toward my kitchen door had wrapped a dark woolen blanket around me. I guess he thought I was cold. I was shivering, but it was from an overload of adrenaline.
They wanted to take me to the hospital, but I refused. I just wanted my dad. I broke down sobbing when they handed me off to him. He crushed me against his chest and cried too.
Scott was surely dead in my apartment. The grim looks on the faces of the cops told me I was right. I heard them call for the coroner as the ambulance team unloaded the gurney.
Poor Mister Dreyfus was bone-white and shaking, smoking one cigarette right after the other. They asked him to come inside to identify the body, but he just stood frozen, a statue of grief, as smoke curled around him. It was a horrible thing to ask a parent to do. I felt like I should say something to him, but I couldn’t think of anything. It was beyond senseless. I’d simply gone to get a pair of shorts from my car on that night so long ago, and now his son was dead.
My dad spun me around and placed me into Asher’s arms so he could interrogate the police officer who’d brought me out of the building. It was the embrace of a trusted friend.
“How did you know?” I glanced up into Asher’s face. It was rigid and lined with relief, but he laughed a little at my question.
“How could I miss that whopper of a clue you threw me? You made it very clear you were going home alone last night.” He pulled me tighter against him. “Mister Dreyfus came in this morning looking for you. Scott left what was basically a suicide note blaming you for everything. When you didn’t show up for work…Well, I just knew. My heart was in my throat all the way over here. I wouldn’t let anyone from Tapestries come with me the first time.” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t expect you to answer me when I called through your door.”
“You thought you’d find me dead?”
He bobbed his head, a barely perceptible nod acknowledging the unthinkable. “You’re coming home with me today.”
Of course, I had to go somewhere, with my apartment being a crime scene and all. And I just didn’t want to deal with the fact that there was a freaking dead body in my living room. Still, Asher had no right to make assumptions.
“I think you better clear that with my parents first, Mister Pratt.”
He glanced down at me and smiled. “Already done.”
“They said yes?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“I wasn’t taking no for an answer. And your father said he owed me one.”
I sighed. Maybe going home with Asher was for the best. I had never been so tired in my life. I needed some place where I could decompress and rest without pressure and drama. That would not be my parents’ house. My mom would be all weepy and touchy-feely, and my dad would be homicidal that someone dared to threaten his little girl.
I peered up at Asher. “I’ll go home with you, but no sex.”
I giggled at his tone of exasperation.
After some preliminary questioning, we were allowed to leave. I think everyone could see I just needed some peace and quiet (and sleep) for a day or so before they started asking the hard questions.
A female police officer named Terri offered to retrieve my purse and some clothes from my apartment. There are still a lot of nice people in this world despite what you may see in the media.
Asher walked me to his bright red Pontiac GrandAm and opened the door. I think I might have been asleep before I hit the seat.
Asher still lived in the two-story row house he’d lived in when I dated him before, in a small Pittsburgh neighborhood called Panther Hollow in Oakland. It would’ve been an easy drive for his mother when she worked at UPMC Hospital.
I was so incoherent with fatigue that he plucked me from the car and carried me to the back door.
“I have to put you down to unlock.” Asher stood me on my feet on the concrete stoop.
“That’s all right. I think I’m awake now.” Just barely. I tried to blink the sleep away. My ears were ringing. It felt as though the ground were shifting under me.
He walked me into the house and sat me down on the sofa. “Wait here. I’ll get your things from the car.”
The sofa was large, made of bumpy brown chenille, so fluffy and soft it felt like a big hug. I snuggled back into it. The living room was small, but neat. I wondered if Asher did his own cleaning.
The thing that struck me the most as I glanced around was the large portrait hanging over the TV. Debbie Pratt, looking much younger than I remembered her, was holding a five or six-year-old Asher in her lap. He had on a black, white, and red-striped polo shirt, top button undone, collar loose and folded under, as though he’d dressed himself and no one noticed. A mop of honey brown hair, much lighter then, swooped off to one side above bright, intelligent eyes. A small white plastic guitar lay across his lap, his smile as wide as the Grand Canyon. The promise of youth.