“You want to break the law? And stream it live to the world?”
For five solid days, I have been putting together this plan, going over every aspect of it. Once the spark was finally in my head, it was almost infuriating how simple the entire thing was. From just that single kernel of an idea sprang the perfect target and action, everything coming to me at once.
“Not just that, I want to show the Vance McCreary’s of the world what happens when they doubt us,” I reply, nodding for emphasis.
That line was supposed to be the kicker, the big finish that would completely get him on board. I wait, expecting his smile to match mine, but instead something very different happens.
He looks absolutely mortified.
“You’re still hung up on what some pompous ass said the other day?” he asks. “So much so that you’ll risk going to jail for it?”
“Not just risk it,” I say, seeing another opportunity to pull him back onboard, “it would be almost guaranteed!
“What would be better than to pull off the perfect crime, punk our biggest doubter, and get sent to the clink for a few days, all while the world watches?”
By the time I’m done speaking, my chest is heaving with exertion. The excitement, the urge to expel everything as fast as possible, my altered state, all combine to have my heart racing.
For months now, we have been treading water, but this is a chance for us to finally surge ahead.
I wait for some sign of that same excitement from Quasi, but none comes. As a matter of course, no response of any kind comes, not until he pulls up along the curb outside my house and puts the car in park.
“I can’t be a part of this.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Friday, January 21st, 2015
7:34 pm
The container of grapes still sits open beside Pearson, but she has long since forgotten them. They rest off to the side, their purple tops beckoning to me from where I’m seated.
The last time I had fresh fruit worth eating was years ago.
“What was the plan?” she asks, pulling my attention from the food to the top of her head, hidden behind the computer.
“The plan?” I ask, raising my eyebrows just a bit.
“Yeah, your plan for the Fourth of July,” she says. “The one that was so illegal that Quasi couldn’t be a part of it.”
At this point in the story, I’m not feeling particularly joyful, though I can’t stop the smile from appearing. Even after all this time, when we are getting so close, she still wants to skip ahead.
“We’ll get there,” I say softly.
For just a moment, the typing stops before beginning fresh, a tiny sound resembling a sigh mixed in with it.
“Okay,” she says. “So, just like that, Quasi was out?”
My gaze goes blurry as I again fix it on the rear of her computer, my mind drifting back in time. For a moment I am back standing on the curb in front of my house, the second time in just a week. Much like the time before, a bandage covers my left arm as I stare and watch my friend drive away into the night.
Only this time, I know a half apology in the morning won’t be changing anything.
“No,” I say. “He was out after the shouting match we had sitting alongside the curb. After I called him a coward and a freeloader and said everything Vance had said about him was right. After I accused him of being jealous at all the attention I was receiving.”
Using the base of the computer, Pearson slides the screen over a few inches to the side. She continues to work as she does so, but her new angle allows her to see my face as we push forward.
Given the part of the story we are fast approaching, that is a wise decision on her part. I’m sure she wants to judge for herself my reactions to everything I tell her just as I want her to see and know that what I say is real.
“So, that was the night it all changed for you?” she asks.
I let out a smirk, letting her see it rock my head back but bring no mirth to my features.
“Everything changed the day we went and spoke to Terry Weinberg,” I reply, “but yes, that night is when I reached an all-time high.”
A more apt description would be to call it an all-time low, though I’m not exactly up for mincing words.
I trust she knows exactly what I mean anyway.
“That was the night when my alter ego consumed my actual one. I believed in Chaz D so much and feared that at any moment it could be taken away to the point that I would battle anybody that dared challenge it.”
“Just like Vance McCreary,” Pearson offers.
I nod in agreement. “And just like Quasi.”
The expression on her face tells me she is confused, her pale blue eyes drifting over to me despite her fingers continuing their steady pace.
“As I’m sure you’ve picked up,” I say, matching her gaze before looking away, “my fuse for him grew shorter as time went on. That’s because he was the voice of reason - the only voice of reason - in the whole damn thing.”
This causes her to pause, bringing her hands together in front of her.
“But just a little while ago, you were saying how he was a bit of an enabler.”
“Actually, you said that,” I say, pointing it out hopefully without sounding accusatory.
I glance to her to let her know it was not meant to be hostile before again shifting my gaze down to the table.
“Early on, we were both on board entirely,” I say. “We both had this idea that we could do a few funny things, live a little, sow some wild oats, whatever cliché you want to throw at it.
“Once we were done, we would go back to being the same basic people we always were. Maybe I would be a bestselling novelist, maybe he could get on with someone making documentaries, but we would still be Charles and Abe.”
“But that’s not what happened,” she says.
This entire line of discussion is not something I planned for, though that doesn’t make it any less true. It is something I’ve always felt but never acknowledged, the kind of thing someone avoids when they’re not sure how to best say something.
Or they’re just too ashamed to admit it.
“Not at all,” I say, “not for me anyway. Early on we were both all in, but there came a breaking point when Quasi just didn’t want to do it anymore.”
“The punch,” she inserts.
I pause, considering it.
“Probably before that, but that was when it really came to a head. He wanted completely out then but the proposition from Rider Life reeled him back in.”
“The life just wasn’t what he imagined?” she asks, intermittently casting glances between me and the screen.
At this, I take a moment, pursing my lips.
“The life was exactly what we imagined, for the small part of it we imagined. The problem was we ended up taking it so, so much further than that.”
Pearson nods and looks over at me, searching my face for some indicator as to what I’m really thinking. I match her gaze the entire time, wanting her to know every word of what I’m saying is true.
“But something must have changed his mind,” she says. “He was there on the Fourth with you.”
I nod, though that is all I can give her right now.
Yet again, she is getting ahead of herself.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Monday, June 4th, 2012
3:51 pm
The warmth of the seat burns straight through my pants, scorching the backs of my thighs. Sitting in the summer sun all afternoon has heated the leather to just a degree shy of the sun, my cargo pants not standing a chance against it. Still, I must avoid showing any outward sign as I lower myself down onto the seat, staring into the camera just a couple short feet away from me.
“Hey, hey, this is the one and only Chaz D back again to let you know it is the fourth of June, meaning we are exactly one month away from what will be an epic celebration.”
I hold my gaze on the camera a moment before reaching down and turning th
e key on the motorcycle I’m straddling, the engine emitting a low rumble. With my right wrist, I twist back the gas feed a couple of times, seven hundred and fifty cc’s responding audibly each time.
“Showtime starts at eleven, right after the fireworks go out. Get your friends, get wasted, and then tune it to see what trouble Chaz D gets himself into - live.”
On the last words, I raise my eyebrows at the camera despite them being largely obscured from view by the sunglasses covering most of my face. Behind the camera, Pauley gives me a thumb up, tracking my movement as I downshift the bike and peel out of the parking lot.
The bike is a loaner from a friend of Pauley, a big guy who works out at the junkyard with tattoos that make mine look minor. He would kill me and Pauley both if anything happened to the motorcycle, which is why the minute I am out of sight I throttle down to a crawl, just fast enough to keep it upright. Making a long, slow loop of the block, I swing back into the parking lot, the smell of exhaust and burnt rubber still in the air.
Pauley remains where he was when I left, the camera hanging by his side. Slowing to a stop, I park the bike and pull the keys, exchanging them for my phone.
“Thanks for setting this up,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” Pauley says, taking the keys and offering me a slap on the shoulder. “Always happy to help. Thank you for not wrecking it.”
He doesn’t bother to expound, though we both know exactly what he’s referring to.
“Thanks for doing this, too,” I say, holding up the camera towards him.
“Yeah, where’s your boy Quas at these days?” Pauley asks. “Haven’t seen him around in a while.”
The sunglasses slide easily from my ears as I peel them off and run a handkerchief over my face, the rag coming back damp. I shake my head and say, “Naw, I think he’s out.”
“Out?” Pauley says, shock registering on his features. “As in out out?”
“Very same,” I say, pushing the sunglasses back into place.
“What happened?” Pauley asks, still plainly showing his surprise.
“I don’t know,” I say, crossing my arms and shaking my head. “I think everything just got a little too real for him.”
My voice relays I don’t especially feel like talking about it, though Pauley has never been the most astute at picking up on social cues. He continues to shake his head, his concentration only broken when the front door opens, the bell ringing out behind us.
“Hey, Pauley, you’ve got one in the chair waiting for you!” Rae calls. “Hey, Chaz.”
Before either of us can respond, she is gone, back in through the front door.
“Damn, that’s crazy,” Pauley says, instantly returning back to the conversation about Quasi as he starts to drift towards the door. “And right here, while you guys are so close.”
“I know,” I say, holding my hands out wide while I turn to watch him go, “but I can’t make him take part.”
A wicked smile grows across his face, a matching thought for sure not far behind. The look lingers a moment before he twists his head, opting not to share whatever it was he was thinking.
Best guess, it was some way to make Quasi do whatever we want.
In a way, I’m kind of glad he decided to hold it in.
“Hey, what are you up to later this afternoon?” I ask, the gap between us growing as he heads towards the door. “Want to get crazy?”
“Can’t,” he says, motioning back towards the door, “got to pay the bills. Thanks to you, business is booming.”
I smile and offer a small wave, acknowledging the compliment without expecting any further comment.
“Speaking of which, can I get you to finish the right sleeve between now and then?” I ask. “I want the look to be complete by the time we go live.”
“Oh, I think I can find some time for my best spokesperson,” he replies, reaching out behind him and grabbing hold of the front door. “What is this you’ve got planned anyway?”
My only response is another smile, the same thing I do every time he asks.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Tuesday, June 19th, 2012
10:39 am
Three different times I hear her call out for Charles, the name piercing my slumber.
The first one barely pulls me out of the black void I was drifting in, the second forces my eyes to open. The third brings me fully awake, wondering why the hell she’s yelling and why whoever she’s yelling for won’t just answer.
It’s not until there’s a knock on my bedroom door that I realize she has been asking for me.
“Charles, are you in there?”
So much time has passed since my mother actually engaged me in conversation, or anybody referred to me as Charles, that it hardly registered with me. A small groan rolls out from somewhere deep in my chest, knowing that whatever is coming next probably won’t be good.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I reply.
My voice relays the exact amount of pain I feel, the byproduct of too many Jaegerbombs at the shop with Pauley and some of his friends.
How I got home is anybody’s guess.
The door cracks open, a flood of bright light coming into the room. It splays across my bed and crosses my face, my body on instinct jerking to the side, my eyes scrunching tight.
“Damn, Ma,” I mutter as everything housed inside my skull seems to expand three sizes, all threatening to burst out at any moment.
“Sorry,” she says, sliding into the room and pushing the door most of the way shut.
Just a narrow shaft of light remains stretched at an odd angle, falling across my desk and chair.
Mercifully, my bed is plunged back into shadow.
It has been ten years, but this has all the earmarks of one of her little fact finding expeditions she used to undertake while I was in high school. She would come in and perch herself on the end of the bed, ask seemingly benign questions about what was going on. Girls, grades, even drugs; one topic at a time, she would gently probe around, make sure everything was copacetic, then report back to my father.
Something tells me this one won’t be quite as gentle.
And that I won’t be nearly as receptive.
My initial reaction is to try and head her off, asking what she wants in hope of putting her on the defensive. If I can get out ahead of anything, perhaps I can avoid it altogether.
In my state though, that just isn’t a real possibility.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
Her slippers shuffle against the carpet as she goes to the chair and sits down in it, the springs whining slightly under her weight.
“Fine,” I say, keeping my eyes closed and the covers pulled up to my chin.
As far as I know, she hasn’t yet seen the full sleeve adorning my left arm and while I don’t really care what she thinks, I don’t much feel like the argument either.
“Oh,” she says.
Her voice is even, just the slightest hint of a crack present.
“It has never been like you to sleep so much, and I noticed you’re losing a lot of weight.”
The two of us haven’t been in the same room together in quite some time. Whatever weight loss she has noticed has been through peering out the curtains as I leave or come home.
I should have known.
“Yeah, been working odd hours, going to the gym and stuff,” I say, putting just enough boredom into my voice to let her know this conversation can end at any moment.
“Oh,” she repeats. “I stopped by Bob’s yesterday, was going to say hi and see if you wanted to have dinner with me on your break, like we used to. Do you remember that?”
Of course I remember that, it was just a few months ago.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You weren’t working though,” she continues, her voice low.
I quit Bob’s two weeks ago. If she went there, I’m sure Pamela or Marcus or whatever new slob they got to replace me told her that. The fact that she can’t just come
out and say it irritates me, the hangover and the fog of sleep starting to lift.
“No, I was off yesterday,” I reply.
If she can’t respect me enough to tell the truth, I’m going to lie too.
“Good for you,” she whispers.
Without even looking over, I know tears are forming in her eyes, just three words betraying the look on her face.
“Do anything fun?” she asks. “See Abe, maybe?”
The agitation within me grows into full-on pissed. My eyes pop open as I roll my head over to look at her, my brow bunched into a scowl. She’s been to work and she’s talked to Quasi. She knows we haven’t spoken, probably got the full rundown on what I’ve been doing from the turncoat bastard.
“You know, you used to be a lot better at this.”
Even in the darkened room, I can see her wet cheeks, watch as her mouth drops open a half-inch.
“If there’s something you want to ask, ask.”
The words seem to hit her like an anvil to the chest, pushing the air from her lungs. I watch as she visibly wilts before me, her entire body shrinking as small as she can make it.
“I...I’m just worried,” she whispers. “I’ve been trying to give you space and everything, I know we both had to deal with your father’s death in our own way.”
“That’s right,” I snap. “We do. You choose to sit in your room and cry every night while I decided to get outside and live.”
The words are out before I even realize it, the look on her face telling me they found their mark. Something about seeing the pain on her features only emboldens me to go for more.
“And truth be known, all this stuff that has you worried? That’s my making sure that when I die, there are more than four people at my funeral.”
Even I know it is cruel and far afoul, but I do not care. Seeing her face contort itself as her hands rise to cover it, hearing her sobs as her shoulders start to quiver, only confirms that I am right.
Snapping the blankets down to my waist, I let her see everything she’s missed the last few months. The patterns of ink etched into the skin on both my arms, the definition in my torso starting to show for the first in my life.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 68