“Not a word outta you, or I’ll shove a hose down your throat and watch water leak outta your eyes.” The harsh voice causes my lips to quiver. Autumn buzzes me in, but I’m not about to move, or even breathe.
The guy pats me down and pitches my knife into the bushes. He pushes me to the side parking lot and shoves me facedown in the back seat of a car. His massive thighs straddle my hips, smothering my escape.
“Are you the guy who killed Trevor?” He uses my head as a punching bag.
“Get off!” I swing my arm back, missing him completely. “Get off me!”
He grips the back of my neck and bashes my face into the seat. I try to flip over but can’t shift or reach him to stop the attack.
“First strike,” he says.
He stabs me in the back just below Jake’s tat, the blade setting the spot on fire. My muscles tense as I brace for a second jab, but the knife is left lodged in my flesh. My back spasms from the pain and the knife tips to the side, held in place by my thick down jacket.
“You got the wrong guy!” I shout, my face colliding with the seat. The second blow crushes my nose, sending blood over my lips and down my chin. Dizziness follows when he lifts my head.
“Trevor didn’t come home which means he’s dead. Where’d you two put his body?”
“Us two, who?”
He uses brute-force, driving my head downward, determined to keep my face pressed to the seat until he gets an answer. “One of you killed him. Tell me where he is.” I reach for the knife, but he gets it first. “Not a chance,” he says. He grabs my wrist and sets the blade against my palm.
“Don’t,” I beg. A hot pain flares as he cuts my hand from side to side. “Stop!” I kick my feet, swear, and jerk, until he slams the rock-hard knife handle against my spine, beating me repeatedly with it. “You blacking out on me?” he asks, sinking the knife into the seat next to my head. “Blacking out?” He shakes me. “Blacking out?”
My vision distorts. Images vibrate. I’m somewhat delusional, sure that the last hit was the blade going straight through my head and not the seat. I can’t speak, can’t shout, can’t remember how to fight back.
He punches my head until my words are dead. Blood. Pain. Darkness. The night smothered in black. I try to sit up, but my battered head and blood-smeared cheek stay glued to the seat. He stops clobbering me at some point, his voice along with the hum of the city replaced by numbing silence. I’m about to die, barely breathing, the knife suspended over me; I can feel it there, piloting my moment of death. But garbled sounds split the silence, and his weight shifts back. I’m able to turn, meeting frantic eyes when I do. He struggles to loosen a cord around his neck, his face crimson red, mouth open and choked for air.
“Autumn.” I pant.
The cord drops when a cop knocks her out of the way. The guy gasps and inhales quick raspy breaths, hauled from the car by his shoulders, taken away to a patrol car. Words outside the vehicle are disjointed. My head pulsates, and my heart pounds in my ears. I tell Autumn that I can’t see, that I don’t want to open my eyes.
“It’s okay, babe. My cops are here.”
My cops, she says. Cops who’ll likely make this guy disappear. The ones she calls for help, the guys who know the situation and won’t take statements or ask questions. Like Ed and his partner Kevin, and the rest of their crew.
“He’s bleeding,” Autumn says. “Check his nose and his hand.”
My hand is and examined, then the damage to my face. I lie on my side to keep pressure off my back, flinching when someone palms the stab wound.
“Help me get him upstairs before anyone pulls in, and do something about the surveillance cameras on the streets and in this lot,” Autumn bosses. “Get Nick involved if you have to.”
“Screw you,” a cop says. “You take care of that. We need to move this guy and his car.”
“Who is he?” I sit up, only to fall right back down, conquered by dizziness. I close my eyes and spin in the dark.
“Dylan? Don’t fall asleep. Let’s get you inside.” She takes my hand and pulls me upright, helping me out. “Send someone to my place. He needs help.” Her voice breaks.
“Give us twenty minutes.”
I steady myself against the car until I manage to focus and can begin to walk. Her bare feet are red from the cold and the snow. I stare at them, my head hanging low as she helps me over to the side door of her building.
“Autumn, you’re in way over your head,” a cop says.
“No, you are,” she snaps back. “What if I tell Nick you didn’t know this guy was staking out my place? Get him out of here.”
She holds the door open. I stumble inside, struggling to climb the stairs, blood streaming from my nose that she soaks up with her nightshirt sleeve. I keep my hand in my coat pocket so the cut doesn’t drip. Each step is labored, every breath excruciating.
“We can’t take the elevator,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder, checking if I’ve left a trail of blood. “You’re going to be just fine.” Her hand on my lower back drives me forward. “A few more steps. Please, don’t pass out on me. Please.”
I’m not going to pass out, but I don’t feel like talking. My head aches like it’s been cracked open. The coward clocked me from behind, just like Ed always does.
Cowards both.
I collapse face-first on her living room floor, eyes glued to her pale legs sprinting through the room.
“Shit, shit,” she says. A drawer opens, and water runs in the kitchen. “Dylan, someone will be here soon. He’ll fix you up.” A glass of water and a wet washcloth are set on the floor next to me. She kneels and reaches under my body to unzip my coat, removing it one sleeve at a time, careful not to aggravate my wounds. “I need to take off your shirt, okay? Can you roll on your side for me?” I turn, and she unbuttons the front of my flannel shirt. “Okay. Let me help you up so you can take this pill.” She sets it in my hand.
“What is it?”
“Vicodin.”
I drink it down before slowly turning over to laze on my stomach. “Who was he?” I mumble.
“Trevor’s roommate.”
“Trevor who?”
“The guy from the alley.”
I turn my head and look at her. “Are there more of them?”
“No. It’s just one guy seeking revenge. He must’ve been watching my place and took a guess.” She tosses my bloody shirt to the side and lifts my undershirt to examine my back. “I’m sure he saw me wave to you, and since I don’t have many visitors, he must’ve thought you were involved.” She wipes my back with the washcloth in gentle circles. “No visitors ever, actually. No one ever comes here.” With a furrowed brow, she looks at the blood on her hand. “Trevor and his crew are total coke heads. The cops will either arrest that guy or set him straight.”
“That means he’ll end up dead.”
“Possibly. But that’s not up to me,” she says, in a nonchalant way. “Trevor must’ve told him where he was the night he followed me into the bar. That was the last anyone heard from him.”
I want to close my eyes, but the room spins faster when I do. I rub my forehead with my thumb and forefinger, praying the Vicodin kicks in quick. “So how come his roommate didn’t come after you?”
She gives me a curious look, as though I forgot. “I’m Farren Black’s daughter. Addicts steer clear of my dad and the cops. That guy wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me.”
I’m queasy from the taste of blood in my mouth. And I’m tired, hellishly exhausted by everything and everyone.
“Don’t close your eyes, babe. Keep talking until someone gets here.” I open my eyes and Autumn smiles. “The stab wound doesn’t look all that deep. It’s not bleeding too much. You’re lucky he just wanted info. If he’d come to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“He chickened out. Guys who punch men in the back are cowards.”
“Yes. Well, I think whoever comes to help will just
disinfect the wound and stitch you up.”
“Stitches?” I lift my head.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?”
“I hate hospitals.”
“Then you’ll have to get stitched here.”
I hold my wrist, checking out the gash in my hand. “Tell me more about Trevor. I need to think about something other than pain.”
She exhales heavily, doing her best to stay calm with all the blood and my barrage of questions. “Trevor’s a thief who stole the mayor’s car.”
“Oh, fuck.” I lower my head, closing my eyes.
“Something happened between them, but I don’t have all the details. Some ongoing feud.” She exhales a second breath and speaks slower. “The mayor said not to touch him. He just wanted the car back for his wife. Then a few weeks back he changed his mind and wanted him dead. I heard Trevor hit her.”
“Great, not only did he steal the mayor’s car, but he hit the mayor’s wife? What a winner.” I open one eye. “And he was after you because you took a car back that he stole? You’re not telling me everything.”
“I am. That’s it.” She stands, looking down at me. “Stay awake. I have to rinse the washcloth.”
I want to get up and follow her, but I can’t stand. I’m still dizzy. And shaky. And dazed. But I need to get off the floor. I need to do something. I need to walk to know that I still can.
“Dylan, just lie still for now.” She scurries back from the kitchen and rolls me on my side, washing the blood off my face. “A nosebleed can look worse than a murder scene.” She pinches and holds my nostrils closed, just below the hard bone. “But once it stops and the blood is gone, you’ll never even know you were hit. As long as it’s not broken.”
“It’s not broken. My head hurts more than my nose.” I reach for my coat, taking the smooshed stick of butter from the pocket, placing it next to her leg.
She laughs. “That should be the last thing on your mind.”
“No.”
“No? Why no, Dylan?”
“Because I like thinking about you. You’re the best thing to have on my mind.”
She sits cross-legged at my side, gathering her nightshirt between her legs in an attempt at modesty. The repetitive motion of her wiping my face, along with the Vicodin kicking in, eases the sharp, throbbing pains.
“You’re so handsome.” She traces the shape of my lips with her pinky. “And clean. Almost good as new.”
“Thanks.”
“Dylan, you’re going to be okay.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“How do you know?” I whisper back.
“Because you’ve lost yourself in me.”
My laughter becomes a wince, my muscles tensing up. “Conceited much?” I say.
“Always.” She winks.
“Well”—I prop myself up on my elbow—“I’d much rather be lost in you than feel so incredibly lonely being lost in myself.” The urge to kiss her is overwhelming. “I need something.” Holding her side, I steal a soft kiss. Her lips part, welcoming my advance, but then she quickly shies away.
“You were totally determined to see me tonight.” She blushes, trying to hide a smile. “I love your stubbornness.”
The door buzzer interrupts my longing. She rushes away and buzzes someone inside. There’s a knock on the door a minute later. The peephole is checked. The door opens.
“Autumn Black?”
She nods. “He’s there.” She points at me, locking the door behind a heavyset older man with a croaky voice.
“How ya doin’, son?” His creaky knees settle next to me, a strong stench of liquor on his breath. He drops a black satchel that looks like it’s from the Victorian era, digs inside, and takes out a needle. It’s thrust into my arm before I can object.
“Ow! What the hell is that?”
“It’ll ease the pain.” He yanks it out.
I was floating a second ago, relaxed from the pill, everything serene with just Autumn and me. Now my heart is beating like a ferocious beast.
“I gave him Vicodin,” Autumn says.
“Hmm … I suppose you should’ve mentioned that when I walked in.”
I twist on the floor. “I need to get up. My heart’s blowing up inside my chest. I can feel it pushing against my ribs. Something’s smothering me. I can’t breathe!”
“Don’t panic.” He flashes a light into my eyes. “I asked how you’re doin’. You know your name? You remember what happened?”
“Yeah, I know my name. Dylan Marzniak. I got hit in the back of my head a bunch of times and got cut.” I lift my hand. “But I don’t want stitches.”
“He’s got a stab wound on his back,” Autumn says.
“No stitches.” I shake my head. “Do you know this guy?” I ask her. “Who is he?”
Autumn shrugs. “I was told to ask if I ever needed help and they’d send someone over.”
“Who’re they?” I ask.
She shrugs again.
The guy turns me on my stomach. “Don’t look,” he says.
“Don’t look at what?” I cry out as he sticks the tip of his finger into my stab wound, prying it open. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I was talking to her,” he says. “Autumn, don’t look.”
“Quit it!” I shout.
“It’s not terribly deep,” he says.
He sets a brown bottle and gauze at my side. “This will sting,” he says, and it does, “and this will hurt,” he says, and it does. He stitches my back, and that frickin’ hurts more than anything. I hate needles more than I hate hospitals and doctors.
Autumn hovers, supervising. I try to focus on her feet instead of the pain, cursing over, and over, and over again.
“You finished yet?” I complain.
“That part is,” he says.
“Only four stitches, Dylan. You’re okay,” Autumn says.
“No. No, I’m not okay. What did this guy shoot me up with?”
“A powerful painkiller,” he answers while examining my palm. “And yes, you’re fine. Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking!” I am panicking. “Ow! Stop poking me with needles. What was that?”
“A sedative.”
“I don’t need that. I don’t need any more drugs!”
Everything is happening so fast. I need a second to breathe. I need time to comprehend what’s going on. I try to sit up, but the room spins whenever I lift my head. “I don’t care about the cut, or the hole in my back, or my bloody nose. What’s painful is my…” Blackness creeps into my vision, either from the drugs or the knocks to my head. “… pain … my head…”
Someone catches me before I hit the floor, but I wasn’t upright, so I don’t know how I could collapse. My eyelids are leaden with sleep, unable to be pried open. My shoes, socks, and jeans are taken off. I float out of the room and fall onto a bed where a fleecy blanket covers my cold body.
Autumn talks to me underwater. I can’t answer. She moves in closer, whispering in my ear with a soothing click of her tongue and soft lips against my ear. “It sounds weird, Dylan, but that’s how I feel …” I reach for her, only to catch hold of the blanket. She tucks it under my chin, her soft voice lulling. “Tender, warm, and safe,” she says. “Yes. Just relaaax.”
I don’t want to move or ever wake up. I’m in a drugged half-sleep, having a one-sided conversation, hearing Autumn’s words and never my own. I must be answering because she pauses to listen, but her exchanges back are unclear, my brain picking up what it wants and tossing the rest aside.
“I’ll get your knife.” She runs her fingers through my hair. “I will. Breathe, babe. In … and out. Tingles. Yesss. Close your eyes.” She rubs the back of my legs. “Massage oil. Relaaax. Releeease. Breathe.”
It’s lucid dreaming, except I’m awake.
“No,” she whispers. “What song? No, no, no, we can’t have that.”
/>
Instead of my aggravated response to repetitive sounds, her flow of whispered clicks brings relaxing pleasure.
“Yes. Tell me about him,” she says. “I’ll take care of you. I’m right here for you. Gentle kiss. Gentle touch. Gentle kiss.” Her voice is paralyzing. “Excellent. One more kiss … A Long December.”
I flop over and moan.
“Relaaax. Relaaax.”
“Dylan!”
My eyes flicker open. I sit up, hearing my name, but find that I’m alone in an unfamiliar room.
“Heather?”
15
There’s a state between wakefulness and sleep when my thoughts warp, and I think Jake’s still alive. And there’s a state between sleep and wakefulness when I think Heather’s next to me, but my mind is powerless to stay in the dream. Within seconds I’m back in waking life, and Heather is dead again, her hand no longer in mine.
I look around Autumn’s bedroom, her blinds drawn, the loft deafeningly quiet. A haze of natural light penetrates the doorway, cast back from the front windows in the living room.
It must be morning.
An excruciating headache lowers my eyes to mere slits. There’s a bandage on my palm and a razor-sharp pain in my back. I’m in only my boxers, and my clothes are nowhere in the room. I ease off the bed and stagger to the living room. High ceilings, dark hardwood floors, and a wall of towering windows highlight the minimal space. I repeatedly blink from the light. My eyes burn, my mouth dryer than stale bread.
I find my clothes washed and neatly folded on the kitchen counter. The potent scent of lavender laundry detergent makes me queasy, but it’s better than last night when all I smelled was blood. Hardly noticeable over the lavender is a hint of cigarette smoke and a trace of cinnamon, the latter on my greasy skin. I touch my arm and sniff my fingers, then rub my thumb and forefinger together, deducing it’s massage oil.
“Autumn?” I stop and listen. The refrigerator hums, cars drive past, a door closes in the corridor of her building, but there’s no response from her. She might be at work. I haven’t a clue what she does for a living, other than nosing around for the cops.
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