by Deja Voss
He returns to the living room, gripping a key in his hand.
“That’s clever,” I say, as he unlocks the box. “Gotta work for it.” He pops the top open and pulls out a little baggie filled with pink and blue pills that resemble my birth control. “You don’t have any beer?” I ask.
“This is so much better. You ever try molly before?” he asks, holding the bag up in front of my face and waving it around like I’m a damn dog waiting for my treat.
“Hell no, Desmond. I get drug tested for work. You know that.” Or I did, at least. Sure I know what molly is, and what it’s supposed to do, but other than a little weed here and there, I’ve never done drugs.
“Oh come on, it’ll be out of your system in three days maximum.” He pulls out a couple of pills from the baggie, and sets one in my hand. Everything inside of me is telling me this is horrible idea. I can’t trust this guy. What if I get all weird and high and he tries to take advantage of me? “Just take it,” he urges. “I got some crazy shit to tell you.”
Fuck, I think, this is your chance. I pop it into my mouth, taking the water bottle from his hand to wash it down. I try to pinch it in my cheek so I can spit it out when he’s not looking. It dissolves before I can even find it on my tongue. Fingers crossed the laundry monster in the back seat of my car didn’t listen to me and he’s planning on bursting in any minute now.
I try to think about the side effects of molly that we went over during a drug training. I remember hearing about dehydration in users. I don’t know if that’s because the typical user is some dirty hippie kid dancing and sweating at a festival, or if it’s a thing. Euphoria. Horniness. This is not going to be good.
My face flushes red-hot and my fingers start to tingle as we sit down on his old worn couch. It looks like something his parents bought back in the 80s, green with teddy bears printed all over it. The bumpy fabric feels nice under my fingers. I catch myself petting it like a puppy dog and shake my head, trying to snap out of it.
“So what happened to you?” I ask, pretending like everything is business as usual. “Why’d you quit the force?”
“I didn’t,” he says. “I got put on paid leave.”
“Oh,” I say. “That sounds pretty great.”
He’s drawing a circle on my thigh with his fingers, and I keep reminding myself how repulsive he is as I slide away to the other edge of the couch. I can pet my own thigh. Boy, that feels neat.
“It’s not. I loved that job. It’s cool, though. I’m going to be working for the FBI now. You can’t tell anybody, though.”
He has to be higher than I am. Nobody in the FBI would touch this joker with a ten-foot pole. He’s loud, rude, and doesn’t give a fuck about protocols. And he’s currently popping pills with me on a Monday afternoon.
“It’s hot in here,” I say, with a dry scratchy catch in my throat. I run to the window and pull the blinds up, fanning myself with the air from outside.
“You bet it is,” he says, taking off his shirt. “Pull that blind down. I’ll turn on the fan.”
“Why are you so paranoid?” I ask. I can see the words coming out of my mouth, like they’re floating in thin air in front of me. “Is the FBI watching you right now?”
“Shut up about that,” he says in a loud whisper. “They can’t find out!”
“You sound like a crazy person,” I laugh. Holy shit it tickles when I laugh. “There’s nobody out there.”
“The guys on the force, Lena,” he says. “They’re watching my every move. They’re paying me to stay quiet, like some sort of idiot. I’ll show them, though. I’m going to work for the FBI and shut the whole department down.” He’s flexing his biceps and making eyes at me like he’s just said something incredibly romantic. Those are some nice-looking biceps, to be honest.
Wait a minute…
“What did you see?”
“I’ll tell you if you kiss me,” he says, batting his eyes. All of a sudden, his face starts morphing in front of my eyes. His hair turns red and curly, and his skin turns completely white like it’s caked in make-up. He looks like a circus clown, and I am fixing to run out of this place screaming, because it takes a whole hell of a lot to scare me, and hallucination or otherwise, clowns are the one thing that checks that box.
I pull my pepper spray out of my pocket and point it at his face.
“Chief Sanderson,” he says from his painted-on clown lips. “I saw him murder someone. He expected us all to do the bitch work and cover it up for him. Get that shit out of my face, bitch!” I clutch the pepper spray tighter, blinking my eyes furiously as I try to get my mind right again.
“Who?” I ask.
“The chief of police. Shit, you are no fun when you’re high!”
“Who did he murder?” I demand.
I don’t even know what hits me as his hand wraps around my throat, and the pepper spray drops to the hardwood floor with a loud clunk. His other fist makes contact with my nose, a loud crack rings in my skull, followed by the taste of pennies in my mouth. “I said get that shit out of my face.” I gasp for air as he releases his grip, dropping to my knees. I crawl for the front door, not really sure when, why, or how this turned into a fight for my life. I don’t know if the drugs are making this better or worse, but I feel like I’m sliding across the hardwood on some sort of slippery liquid, and I push the thought out of my mind that it might be blood.
“I thought you were my friend,” I cry as he towers over me. His boot digs into my ribs, and I feel the blood begin to pool in the back of my throat. “What did I ever fucking do to you?”
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” he’s chanting over and over again, like he’s going to summon the big man himself. “Helena, I would never do anything to hurt you. You’re my only friend.”
“That’s right,” I say, trying to make my voice as soothing as possible as I raise my hand to try and grip the doorknob behind me. I’m not walking out of here without some answers. He kneels down on the floor next to me, hanging his head in his hands. I feel for the lock, my head pounding and my entire body feeling like I’m just a bag of skin filled with sloshy goop. If I wasn’t so worried about his next move, I’d almost call it pleasant.
“Let me make it right,” he pleads. “Let me get you some ice.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I pant. “Ice would be good.” Hell, he could offer me a grilled cheese sandwich right now, as long as he leaves the fucking room.
“The fuck?” I hear a voice shouting through the living room window screen. I swear the mini blinds shatter as Micah throws himself through the window frame, rolling on his side with an elegant control that I wouldn’t expect a man his size to have. Before Desmond can even move, Micah has a pistol trained on his head.
“Helena,” Desmond grunts in a low whisper, putting his hands in the air as he looks down at me, “what is this? What are you doing with this guy?”
“She’s leaving, that’s what she’s doing,” Micah shouts, inching closer to him, never dropping the pistol. I feel so relieved on one hand, stupid and weak on the other. I put myself in this situation. I should’ve never eaten that pill. I should’ve known better. I needed my wits about me if I wanted answers, and now, all I’m left with is a bloody nose and I’m sure an ‘I told you so’ from Brooks when we get back to the clubhouse.
“You’re one of them,” Desmond stammers, eyeing Micah’s leather cut.
I feel Micah’s arm around my body, lifting me from the floor, and I try to put weight on my legs, but they wobble underneath me, so I just sink my head into his chest, using his body for support.
“I don’t know who you are, asshole, but if I ever hear about you beating up on a woman again, it’s not just me you’re going to have to deal with.”
“Helena, I’m sorry,” he says, bursting into tears as Micah presses the pistol into his forehead.
“Fuck you,” I say, spitting on the floor in front of his feet, a lot more blood than I expected leaving my mouth. “Let’s get out of here.”
We walk out the front door like your average couple, his arm hooked around my waist, keeping me upright. “You’re going to have to drive,” I say. “I’m kind of fucked-up.”
“What the hell? You were in there for half an hour, tops. What did you do?”
“Molly,” I laugh, as he dumps me into the front seat of my Jeep. “Can we just put on some music and go get like a gallon of Gatorade? I feel like that’s what I need in my life right now.”
“Brooks is going to fucking kill me,” he says, and I laugh hysterically watching him try to adjust the driver’s seat, scooting back and forth. I don’t know why it’s one of the most hilarious things I’ve ever seen in my life. “You need a doctor.”
“I need a swimming pool of sweet tea and some bubbles. Doesn’t blowing bubbles sound awesome right now?”
“Girl, you are outside your mind.” He puts the car in reverse in the driveway, and I am jarred back into reality at the sound of a gunshot going off in the ranch house of horrors I just escaped.
“What was that?” I shout, grabbing for his arm.
“Nothin’?” he says with a shrug. “Put some music on. We gotta go.”
“Do you think he…” Holy shit. I knew he was fragile. I knew he was fucked-up. Hell, he even put hands on me, but I don’t want to imagine that I pushed him over the edge. I don’t want to wear that blood.
“You’re just high,” he assures me. I can tell he’s lying, even in my condition. I don’t care. He’s a good man. He just saved my life, and he doesn’t even know the first thing about me. “You need to stay awake though. Stay awake until we can get you to a doctor. Looks like he punched you pretty good. What the fuck were you even doing with him? He seems like a nut job.”
“I was trying to figure out why he lied to me when he was supposed to be keeping an eye out for my sister. I was also trying to find out what he knew about Esther.” I reach for my purse. My lips hurt. I need Chapstick. I pull out my compact and scream at the sight of my face. “Where is all this blood coming from?” I ask.
“We’re going to the doctor right now, relax. Put some music on. Keep talking. We’ll stop and get you something to drink on the way.” He is being so nonchalant. I try to take his advice, try to do some yoga breathing, but every time I exhale through my nose, I spray blood onto my lap.
“Hey, honey,” he says into the phone. “I need you to do me a favor. Track down Patch quick and meet us at camp? Yeah, everything is okay, Amber. I just gotta get the bleeding under control and I can’t do that while we’re driving.”
“Josie,” I murmur, feeling myself slipping away, trying to fight sleep. “Get Josie.” I reach for his fingertips on the stick shift, making sure I have his attention.
“Stop at Brooks and get Josie, too. I love you. See you soon.”
I don’t remember much more about the ride to camp. I know we drove through for fast food takeout and I ordered an ungodly amount of food. I couldn’t bring myself to eat from the giant bag overflowing with french fries but they felt good on my fingers, their texture, their warmth. Laughing, I chugged my soda and iced tea, and most of Micah’s milkshake, and when he helped me into the camp, I headed straight for the kitchen sink, turning the faucet on full blast and shoving my head underneath it, letting the water cool my face as I lapped up as much as I could.
“Come on, girl,” he says, “I need to figure out where the blood is coming from.”
By this point in time, I had myself convinced it was ketchup, and I was just a messy eater. He guides me by my arm to the bed in the middle of the little cottage, propping me upright on a bunch of pillows. He goes to the bathroom and returns with a bunch of towels, and my eyelids feel really heavy. I struggle to keep them open, but it’s not going as planned.
I snap to consciousness as the front door swings open, the sound of heavy boots beating on the floor.
“Micah! Where the hell are you?” Brooks is charging through the camp, heading straight towards Micah with his hands balled up into fists. He looks like he’s covered in blood, too, or maybe ketchup. I don’t know why the thought makes me giggle. I immediately stop as I watch him grab Micah by the t-shirt and start punching him in the stomach.
“Enough,” I cry. “He saved me, Brooks. We’ve had enough today.”
“Seriously,” Micah says, shoving him off. “I got inside as fast as I could.”
“Desmond did this to you?” he asks. For the first time, he reaches for my face. I try not to flinch, but my jaw feels tender. “I’ll be back. Going to go take care of that pussy.”
“Stay here with me,” I beg. His eyes look so sad as they gaze into mine, like he’s far away and thinking about something. The sight of me is paining him. I try to roll over on my side to avert this uncomfortable stare down, but my entire body feels bruised. Instead, out of nowhere, I reach for his face, softly stroking my fingers through his beard. “This feels nice,” I say, bursting into laughter.
“She ate some molly,” Micah says.
“That fucker drugged you?” he asks, grabbing my wrist. “I’ll be back.”
“Don’t go!” I whine. “I drugged myself. Besides, he’s dead.”
He looks at Micah, and looks back at me.
“I watched him shoot himself in the head. Your girl here must have some sort of magical powers. Men completely lose their shit when she rejects them,” Micah says.
“Not funny,” I mumble. “I’m tired, guys.”
“Patch is on the way,” Micah says. “I’ll get you cleaned up so he can get right to work. You just try and stay awake, sweetie.”
“I’ll do it,” Brooks says. Micah looks him up and down, shaking his head, eyeing him like he’s lost his mind.
“You sure, prez?”
“I’ve known this girl since high school. She doesn’t need your dirty dick beaters on her body. Besides, this is my fault anyway.”
CHAPTER 11
ONE YEAR AGO: ESTHER
I t’s not the first time I’ve woken up in this position since my surgery. If Brooks could literally sleep on top of my body without smothering me, I’m sure he would. Instead, he just tangles his limbs around me, leaving me basically paralyzed.
If he wasn’t snoring right in my ear or thrashing around like an alligator trying to death roll his prey, I’d think it was romantic, endearing. I think he believes the tighter he squeezes, the less likely it’ll be that he loses me. My cell phone rings on the nightstand. I know that number. I’ve been waiting for that call.
I was just hoping it would come in one of the moments that he wasn’t clinging to me, asleep or otherwise. Whatever the news is, I need to face it on my own. Sure, you want to hope for the best, but I’m no Pollyanna. I wish I had a minute to compose myself before I took this call, but that risks the chance of my ringer waking up my husband.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Esther, it’s Doctor Larson’s office. We received the results for your biopsy. Dr. Larson would rather you meet at the office to discuss what’s going on. When is the soonest I can get you here?”
“Tell me,” I rasp.
“Mrs. Harrison, I think it would be better if Doctor Larson explained herself.”
“Just fucking tell me,” I say a little louder. I’m perturbed. I grew up in a motorcycle club. We don’t sugarcoat. We don’t dance around problems. “Is it cancer?”
I can hear the receptionist gulp into the phone. “Yes,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Am I fixing to die soon?” I ask. Brooks stirs, and I run my fingers through his dirty blond hair, trying to sooth him so he stays asleep.
“I can’t answer that over the phone, ma’am. I’m not a doctor. Please, can I schedule you an appointment today or tomorrow so you can talk to a professional about your options?”
“Oh, I get options?” I say sarcastically, like I’m going to a wedding and can choose between chicken or fish. “How about you have the doctor call me when she has time.”
If this is it, I’m not w
asting another day hanging out in doctors’ offices, getting poked and prodded. If she has a solid answer for me, if she can make me well again, that’s another story. Right now, I’m just talking in hypotheticals with some broad who knows jack shit about anything.
“I’ll see what I can do. Please, if you change your mind, call me. It’s very important.”
I hang up on her, untangling myself from Brooks’s vice grip.
I feel fine, I feel fine, everything is so fucking fine, I try and tell myself as I tiptoe across the bedroom floor, using the furniture for stability. Let’s go eat something! Maybe you’re just hungry!
I don’t remember the last time I was hungry. I could always try, though.
I start the coffee, grab a bagel and slip it in the toaster, and sit down at the island to rest for a minute. I should’ve been recovered from my surgery a week ago. One thing is for certain, nobody can see me like this.
Not our foes.
Not the club.
Not my brothers.
Especially not my husband. I dig out the bottle of pills from inside the ceramic cookie jar that we never use. My stock is dwindling. I’ve amassed a decent collection of random pain pills over the years, but now that I actually need them, I wish I would’ve hoarded more.
Yellow, blue, or pink? They’re all the same to me. I crunch down on a couple and make a list of shady contacts who might be able to hook me up. As long as I feel nothing, I can pretty much do whatever I need to do.
Including getting my affairs in order.
“Esther!” Brooks shouts, storming into the kitchen in his boxer briefs, clutching his phone. “What did you tell the doctor this morning?”
“Nothin’,” I say. I never talked to a doctor if we’re getting technical here.
“You need to get dressed. I’m taking you downtown.” Those sneaky little backstabbers. I wish I never would’ve put him on that sheet that said he was entitled to my medical information.