by Zahra Girard
This is my opening; she’s distracted.
As soon as they’re out of view, I run toward the trailer, clearing yards in seconds, adrenaline flooding my broken body and numbing me to the pain that burns through every limb.
I kick open the door. Storm inside.
Anna’s just feet away, standing at the window closest to my mom, who’s tied to a chair.
Anna whirls, her attention shifting from the window shades to me. Fear makes her eyes go wide.
“You fucking asshole,” she screams. She lifts her gun.
But she’s too slow.
I might be a fucking mess, but there’s nothing on this earth that will stop me from caving in this bitch’s head.
Before she can raise her gun, I’m in reach, and I swing my ax with everything I have.
It flashes through the air. Heavy, sharp, deadly.
The steel blade cuts through bleached blond hair, through skin, through bone, into whatever passes for that bitch’s brain.
And, as she crumples to the ground, her gun goes off.
I flinch.
Expecting pain.
Expecting the bite of lead in my chest and the feel of my blood spilling down my body. An insignificant price to pay to send this bitch to hell.
But the bullet doesn’t hit me.
Instead, I hear a muffled moan of pain.
I look to my mom.
And scream as I see blood blooming from her stomach.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tiffany
With every gunshot, I say a little prayer. It’s simple, quick, and I whisper it to whoever is listening more times than I can count. Blaze, please come back to me.
But I break when my prayers are answered. I break when he emerges from that construction site, limping, with Stone and Crash at his side, with agony and fear all over his face, and his mother’s body in his arms.
He’s fought so hard, he’s given everything, and what has that gotten him except more pain?
Tears blur my vision when he reaches the car. The first thing he does is throw open the back door of the Volvo and lower his mom onto the seat.
Then, seeing my tears, he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tiffany, are you OK?”
After all this, he thinks of me first.
“Is she…?” I say, looking back towards his mother’s still body.
He shakes his head. “No. Not yet. Can you get us to the hospital?”
I nod. Shake my head a few times and blink until enough tears leave my eyes that I can see straight again. Then I start the car and pull us away from the construction site. Blaze’s club isn’t far behind — I see Stone and Crash and Razor and Sarge all in my rear view mirror. And then, as the construction site fades in the rearview mirror, I see a thick, black column of smoke climb into the sky.
“Clean up,” he says. “There will still be a lot of questions, but fires get rid of a lot of the hard evidence.”
All I can do is nod; my heart’s in my throat and I don’t think I could speak if I wanted.
We get to the hospital in minutes, with his club on our heels, and he throws open the door and hefts his mother back onto his shoulders. He staggers, the weight of today and of his mother’s body causing him to nearly stumble. I shout and throw the door open, ready to help, but he shakes his head and gives me a look.
“You shouldn’t come inside,” he says.
“What? Why?”
I want to be with him. Want to stay by his side until I know that he and his mother will recover.
“There will be a lot of questions. Questions that I can take, but I don’t want you to have to deal with. The police will be here soon, and you shouldn’t be mixed up in any of this.”
“I don’t care about any of that. Blaze, I love you, I want to be with you. I can’t just go.”
He turns and heads toward the entrance to the ER, and I follow right behind him.
The sliding doors open and heads turn. Nurses, doctors, patients, a hundred quizzical and concerned looks flash our way as Blaze enters, bloodied and carrying his mother. He carries her right up to a hapless triage nurse.
“Get me a doctor. Now,” he growls and, without waiting for her response, he barges right past her counter and onto the active floor of the ER.
In seconds, he’s surround by ER staff and, with the help of a pair of nurses, lowers his mother onto a gurney. The second she’s down, Blaze collapses; his shoulder wound has broken open, blood flows freely, and in seconds he is on another gurney, surrounded by nurses and doctors who wheel him off to somewhere where I can’t get to him.
A hand on my shoulder makes me turn.
“Take a seat, Tiffany.”
Stone is there, watching me.
“I should get back there,” I say. “I should be with him.”
“You need to stay here. Let them do their job.”
The sliding doors to the ER open again and an older man wearing a Lone Mesa PD uniform enters. He’s not Torreon police, but the sight of him is enough to make me fidget. Stone follows my eyes with a look over his shoulder.
“Relax. That’s Hanratty — he’s one of ours. I called him in to help with cleanup,” he says. Again, his hand gently steers me toward one of the waiting room’s chairs. “It’s going to be just the three of us waiting here. Everyone else is on their way back to Lone Mesa and away from any prying cops. Now, take a seat. This will be a while. We need to be patient.”
Reluctantly, I sit. So much of me wants to run back there, to be by his side, even if it means fighting my way through nurses and orderlies, just so I can hold Blaze’s hand and hear him tell me that everything will be OK. I need him. I need to hear his voice. I need him to give me something to cling to so that my over-active brain will just shut up and stop playing over every single scenario that ends with me, huddled and crying, because the man I love is suffering.
Minutes pass into hours, other patients come and go, the staff mills about the ER, and not a single one spares a glance for Stone or Hanratty or me; they go about their business, not realizing that the most important man in the world is in their care.
And the more time passes, the closer to the edge I get.
Then a doctor emerges from the bustling crowd, her gaze locks right on Stone; her face a concerned mask that makes my stomach turn. She heads right toward him; he stands to meet her, and they shake hands. They’re not five feet from me, two heads huddled in hushed conversation; I catch snippets of that muffled conversation — words like ‘organ damage’ and ‘emergency transplant’ and ‘blood loss’ — and then Stone gives me a look that makes my heart break.
By the time their conversation ends, I’m on my feet and heading for the door.
I need someone to talk to, and I don’t know Stone. As much as everyone in the club might look up to him, he and I haven’t shared more than a few sentences in terrible circumstances.
I want my dad.
“Tiffany, where are you going?” Stone says, following me out into the parking lot. I’ve got the keys to the Volvo in my hand and my eyes are again brimming with tears.
“I’ll be back. Just let me go, OK?” I say.
I don’t wait for an answer; he won’t stop me. And he doesn’t even try. Instead, he gives me his number and pats me on the back.
“You call me if you need anything. I’ll be here, watching over Blaze. Stay safe, all right?”
I start the car and I drive a route that I haven’t driven in years — to home.
My eyes flood, my heart agonizes through all the pain that I know Blaze must be suffering at this moment — the pain of his wounds, the pain of having his mother on the brink — and I rush toward the front door of the home I grew up in. I frantically bang my fists against it; it’s been so long, I don’t even have a key anymore.
“Dad,” I cry out. “Dad, it’s me. It’s Tiffany. Please let me in.”
Over and over, I slam my fists against the wood, praying for him to open up. I’ve never thought of him as someone
I’d go to for comfort — he’s always been the career type, the kind who encouraged me to pursue my studies, to excel, but when it came to hugs and affection, he was always distant — but this is one of those moments where, no matter how crazy it sounds, I just want my dad.
I just want my dad.
He opens the door, confusion and worry dominating his face.
“Tiffany? What is it? What’s wrong? I’ve been worried about you.”
At first, I can’t speak — I just charge forward and throw my arms around him, pulling him close and letting his shirt soak up my tears. There’s a giant wet stain on his chest when I finally pull back to take a breath.
“Dad, I need to talk to you. About a lot of things,” I say. The words come out slow and shaky; I’m just as unfamiliar talking to him about what’s in my heart as he is hearing about it. Until this moment, our conversations were about grades, achievements, career milestones, our respective days at work — his as the tax assessor for Torreon, mine as a griping, entry-level Loan Specialist for a small regional bank. But it doesn’t matter how inexperienced I am at this, all the pain inside me needs some outlet.
“This isn’t a good time, Tiffany,” he says, still holding me tight.
“I’m sorry, dad,” I say, taking another breath and enjoying the feeling of having someone familiar hold me close. “It’s just, I’ve been through a lot and so much has happened and I have never been this scared in my life.”
“I’m sorry, Tiffany,” he says.
He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t push me, and doesn’t let me go.
I’m grateful for that. This is so new; I struggle to find the words to open my heart to a man who I’m nearly strangers with, a man who provided for me as I was growing up, who was the economic and academic pillar of my childhood but, when it came to emotional support, his capabilities were almost non-existent.
“Dad, I’ve been with this man. His name is Declan. He’s the one that took me during the robbery. It’s a lot to explain, it’s complicated, but he didn’t hurt me. In fact, I care about him. A lot. And I’ve been trying to help his mom. Because the bank is trying to take her house away. And things have been so scary for the last few days. So scary.”
His grip shifts, loosens, and I take a step back. Look into his eyes. See concern and confusion.
“But you’re OK?” He says.
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I say and, before he can move, I step around him and keep talking as I walk through the hallway of my childhood home. He’s right on my heels. “I don’t think I’ve been hurt but, I love him, and he’s in so much pain right now, and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing except wait around. He’s been shot and his mom is being operated on and I don’t know if she will make it. Even though she hasn’t been kind to Declan, it will still crush him if she doesn’t make it, because he loves her so much.”
In the kitchen, I open the fridge and take out a beer, pop the top, and take a long drink. I hardly taste it, but it’s comforting all the same. I normally hate beer, but Blaze doesn’t, and the taste of it makes me think of him. It helps. A little.
My dad is watching me. His face still an unreadable mix of confusion and parental concern.
“Dad, I had nowhere else to go. No one else to talk to,” I say, reading his confusion as stemming from the fact that I never talk to him about these things, and now I’m showing up at home babbling about some man he’s never met, a dying old woman, and some dangerous bank scam. He must be so confused. And seeing his confusion makes me more agitated, more anxious. I start pacing, patrolling the hallways, letting my words flow as my antsy feet aimlessly take me through my childhood home. “This is all just so fucked up — sorry, dad — and I don’t know what comes next. My life is so messed up right now. More messed up than it’s ever been. I thought coming back to Torreon would help, but I am so, so lost.”
“Tiffany, stop,” he says suddenly and with so much force that it startles me.
And, in my startled state, I don’t process what he’s telling me; I keep walking into the master bedroom, where there’s a suitcase sitting on his bed, half-packed, with clothes and suit jackets and ties and a few family photos sitting on the bed beside it, waiting to be put in their place.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
The guilt and shame on his face shock me out of my anguished ramblings.
“Dad, why the hell are you packing up? Where are you going?”
He clears his throat. Never in my life have I seen him so ashamed. And so fearful.
“Tiffany, there’s something you need to understand.”
“Were you involved in this?” I say and, before he even speaks, my mind puts together answers, scenarios, ways he could use the power of his office to force vulnerable people to seek loans and put their houses and livelihoods at risk. “You were, weren’t you?”
Saying those words makes me want to vomit.
He takes a step forward and I take a step back.
I am disgusted by the sight of my own father.
“Anna and her father came to me right after they hired you. She sought you out because she knew you were my daughter and she knew what my job was. If I didn’t go along with them, they were going to hurt you.”
I suppose he expects the shame on his face and the remorse in his voice to make me pity him, or at the very least understand what he’s going through, but it has the opposite effect; I feel nothing but anger.
“How could you?” I say.
He tries to come closer, but I back away.
“I couldn’t let them hurt you. I know we don’t talk much, but I’m still your father and I still love you.”
“So what? I’m supposed to be grateful that you went against everything you ever taught me about morals and self-respect because you were afraid of the consequences? I’m supposed to just pretend I don’t see you trying to run from the consequences like a fucking coward?”
“This isn’t my scam. Don’t you understand that I didn’t have a choice?”
“Not your scam? Bullshit. Did you even try to call the cops? Did you even think about warning me? You just fucking rolled over and did whatever they told you. And now that you have a chance to come forward — because, dad, I can tell you for sure that Anna and her father are both probably dead right now — instead you’re running?”
He has the audacity to look shocked.
“You want me to come forward and turn myself in? I’m your father, Tiffany. You want me to go to jail?”
“I want you to be a fucking man and face the consequences of your actions,” I say. “Have some heart for once. Have some fucking courage instead of being a fucking coward.”
My dad pushes by me, determined. He takes hold of the suitcase, shoves a few more things in it, and slams it shut.
“I won’t go to prison.”
“Coward,” I spit. And I move to block the door from the bedroom.
Then my father erupts.
“Get out of my way, Tiffany,” he says, setting the suitcase at his feet and raising his hands threateningly. “Get out of my way or I swear to God…”
“You’d hit me? I’m your daughter.”
The man that nods his head and takes another menacing step toward me isn’t my father. Not anymore.
“I don’t want to,” the stranger growls. “I love you, Tiffany, but there’s no way I will let you stand in my way. I’m leaving.”
There’s so much violence in his eyes that I don’t doubt for a second that he’ll hit me if he decides he has to.
Slowly, I take a step back.
Then another.
And I turn and I keep walking toward the kitchen. The man that used to be my father doesn’t follow me; I’m sure I’m nothing more than an afterthought to him compared to escaping to some safe haven far away.
But I don’t spend long in the kitchen. With one hand, I grab the largest knife I can find. With the other, I grab the portable landline phone he keeps next to the fridge. And I run out the back do
or on my hobbled foot, hardly registering the pain that sears up my leg, and sprint around the house to the driveway.
“What are you doing?” He shouts at me, his voice rising in pitch with desperation.
I hold the knife in front of me, stopping him as he’s halfway out the front door.
“Don’t move,” I say. My voice is cold. “I don’t care what you say, what threats you make, what you claim your motivations were, I will not let you get away. You will face the consequences, dad. And, if you move from that very spot you’re standing on, I will use this.”
With my free hand, I dial the police.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blaze
There are voices at the edge of my consciousness. Voices that break through the cloud of pain and opioids that fog my thoughts. I can’t open my eyes, can hardly register who’s saying what, but I can still listen.
“He looks like shit.”
“Well, so do you. Except Blaze has been shot and beaten within an inch of his life. So what’s your excuse, Mack?”
“Christ almighty, Stone, I’m just making an observation. I didn’t mean nothing by it. When our boy wakes up, I’ll tell him how handsome he is.”
“So, not only are you going to insult him when he’s asleep, you’re going to lie to his face when he’s awake?”
“Harsh. Both of you need to chill out. Blaze has been through hell and recovery won’t be easy. And I’m sure he will remind us all of that fact whenever either of you play him in pool. Expect plenty of excuses about why he’s losing.”
“Oh fuck, we will never hear the end of it, will we? Just incessant bitching about his bum shoulder, like he’s some old man sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch, prattling on about how his funky joints are telling him the weather’s about to change.”
I stir. Open my eyes and see a world that’s nothing more than a vibrant smear and beams of light that blast pain into my skull.
I’d rather be asleep, but I can’t go back to sleep when my reputation is at stake.