Instead, I was out to see the sights.
If I just so happened to get some serious shopping done at the same time then, well, that was a cross I was willing to bear.
The drivers gave me recommendations when I asked for them, and they helped me stay out of the saturated tourist areas. I heard a lot of good information on which attractions were the ones to visit and, after a shopping trip or two, decided to take a look at the Pensacola Lighthouse.
We had never been to the lighthouse during our vacations. I’d asked to go a few times, and Sawyer had even backed me up on it, but our parents had turned down the occasion time and time again.
Admission was cheap, just a couple of dollars. What I hadn’t been prepared for, however, was the climb. I’d foolishly figured that there was an elevator or something to the top…I mean, why wouldn’t there be? But that wasn’t the case. Instead, I had to ascend 177 steep stairs with a handrail to climb the spiral to the peak…
But that view was breathtaking. While the museum portion of the lighthouse was interesting enough, giving a solid glimpse into the history of the place (and a few ghost stories), it was the sight from the top that really made it all worth the while. The Naval base wasn’t far, and it looked positively tiny from my vantage point…and then there was the ocean.
The magnificent, incredible ocean.
While I stared at that ocean, I thought about my life. I felt so small and insignificant in that place, staring at that gorgeous palate of nature. I reflected on the few memories of my biological father that I still had; I drifted through early recollections of life alone with my mother, and how stressed she had been until my trip to Bristol; I thought about Chet, and the changes that he had brought to our lives.
I even thought about Sawyer.
Why was he even here? What had Dad said to him that made him come back? Why had he agreed to come down to the beach house? Dad could have hired any number of body guards and private security. Why Sawyer?
It occurred to me there were lots of questions left unanswered.
As much of an asshole as he was, and as obvious as it was that he wanted to stay out of my life, I couldn’t help but still be drawn to him. I couldn’t put my finger on it – or wouldn’t. I was still afraid of him, and how angry he had been acting, but maybe he would soften up. There had to be a reason he came… I wasn’t sure.
It didn’t make things any easier. I couldn’t understand how someone could hate me as much as he did, and as I stared over that beautiful ocean view, it killed me a little inside.
(Return to Table of Contents)
Chapter 10 – Sawyer
New Orleans, Three ½ Years Ago
Gary, somewhat unsurprisingly, turned out to be a greedy son of a bitch. We were reaching maximum capacity on what the police could turn a blind eye towards, and every weekend he was determined to make a few more bucks than the last. When the intake weakened, he’d drop our prizes to compensate, or threaten to downsize the teams.
It became clear that he was a loose cannon. He was going to milk this side business dry and take us all with it. It was like Slippery Pete said: Stubborn bastard. He stays the course, man. No matter where those tracks go.
We all knew what was coming the night that he threw gambling into the mix. His criminal associates, while still small fries in the seedy underbelly of New Orleans, were dangerous on their own. They may have been smaller cogs in the overall machine, but as men they were still tied to some very powerful men…men who were otherwise untouchable.
And weaker links in the chain can be broken.
It was only by dumb fucking luck that Slippery Pete happened to have a grudge against my opponent. He didn’t explain what had happened or why this asshole was the one guy in the world who could piss him off by sheer virtue of continued existence, but it should have been me in the ring.
The fight started chaotic. Slippery Pete was a skilled Brazilian Jiu-jitsu practitioner, having studied the art for a decade and a half – showing how little Gary’s little street fighting enterprise had progressed until I showed up. But sheer talent backed up his son’s years of hard work and dedication. As I watched him weave and dance in the ring – now an impromptu cage with the addition of a tall, thick wire-link fence – I realized that I would have been caught completely off-guard if this guy had ever faced me. That went double if I had pissed him off anything like this other contender.
Just like the other fighters, I hung around on the other side of the improvised cage, against the back entrance to the bar. While we were covered with an overhang across the area, I felt an odd sense of claustrophobia.
Maybe it was our esteemed guests. While the usual throng of spectators was here, there were a small handful of competing criminals. I had actually worked for a few of them during my weeks of punishment, seeing their brutality up close and personal.
Oddly, one of them wasn’t here. The Naysayer, they called him. His absence left something in my stomach. I’d spent one night on his bodyguard detail, and he was the shrewdest out of them all. The tale went that he got his name from his habit of turning down most of the work that came his way…he didn’t like to take risks, and if there was a shadow of a doubt whatsoever, he said no.
Hence the name.
In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. While the criminals set their grudges aside and gambled against one another over the fights in a completely disorganized mess (with such unregulated bids as Team Red wins, Piledriver is knocked out during the night, and Barber defeats Slippery Pete), I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was up.
Excusing myself from the other fighters, I slipped inside the bar to take a piss. The place was locked up from the other side and empty, and that’s why I heard the glass break and the door swing open.
I was just about to flush the toilet when the noises registered. Quietly popping the Employees Only door open from the other side, I could see a large group of officers fanning out from across the door, flashlights held against their pistols.
Fuck.
A major flaw in getting back outside was that there was no exit from the backrooms. This left me with the realization that someone was about to check this door, and besides trying to hide in one of these painfully open rooms, I’d have to slide back upstairs.
But I was heavy from my training, and the stairs were loud in the middle of the night. Letting the door quietly rest against the frame, I backed up slowly, considering my options.
It all happened at once.
The sudden burst of deafening activity from behind the walls told me that the raid party had sprung upon their prey. Loud footsteps bounded into the building – probably the other fighters – and I heard the police fly into action. In the midst of the commotion I ducked into a side room and quickly retrieved my wallet, then flew up the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible, hoping against all fear that the sounds were drowned out by the cacophony of commotion.
The door didn’t fly open immediately, but I was going to be above everyone soon. I was unfamiliar with Gary’s living areas, and I needed an escape. Fast.
The muffled sounds of authority figures called commands to the throng of people, and a few gunshots were fired to keep everyone in line. I thought of the layout of the nearby buildings, and how I might best use them to my advantage. The alleyway beside the bar led around to the shelter behind, and was clearly filled with police. However, on the other side…
I darted into what looked like Gary’s bedroom, lifted a window, and poked my head out. There was a large sign, obstructing anyone from seeing me; I could probably reach it, but whether or not it would hold my weight…
Ducking back inside, I knew I looked conspicuous. Completely unclothed besides a pair of shorts, I was going to stand out and attract the eyes of any officers in a half-mile radius.
I knew I didn’t have much time. Quickly pulling the drawstring to his tiny closet, I grabbed a hoodie, some jeans, and a belt. Ripping my shorts off and throwing them into the back of
the closet, I threw everything on over my boxers and zipped the belt up as close as I could. There was a pair of sandals here – I took those too, and then pulled the string back down…but not before my eyes fell upon a small box in the room, with the lid slightly askew.
There was a paper bill, barely sticking from the top.
I quickly emptied the box: I couldn’t tell in the semi-dark how much it was, and I stuffed everything into my jean pockets. Considering that I had only ten bucks to my name, whatever my asshole proprietor had shoved in here was probably enough to get out of the city.
Not like you’re gonna need it anyway, I thought to myself.
I could hear the door slam downstairs. I immediately flocked as silently as possible to the window, shoving the sandals into the front pocket of the pullover hoodie. I need my skin for this, I thought to myself. The last thing I want is these oversized things to fucking slip and send me falling to that pavement.
I pulled myself out of the window and clung onto the sign, praying that it was anchored enough to withstand balancing me. Climbing out and standing with my feet on the sill, I held onto it, shrouded from the moonlight and hidden from anyone coming into the alley. I slowly pulled myself to it, realizing that I could improvise a shaky, death-defying climb with it.
I’m a street fighter, not a fucking action hero, I thought to myself. But the movement I could hear from the stairs convinced me, at least for just a few minutes…oh yes I am.
I climbed just out of view and froze, afraid of tipping anyone to my location. The sounds of police officers raiding the bedroom came to my ears, and I knew that the jig was up – someone was going to peer through the one, obviously open window, then look up…
Miraculously…that didn’t happen. I heard the window close as some incompetent cop muttered about a draft.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Once the sounds faded away from the bedroom, I quietly crawled up the sign, hoping I wasn’t about to slice my hand on something and plummet to the unforgiving concrete below.
The sign stretched up to a third story – what it was, I had no idea, nor was I interested in stopping to find out. It affixed to the top of the building, and I paused to gather my courage.
Swinging a hand free, I grasped the ledge. My other hand grappled to it, and I almost lost my handhold. With my feet against the wall – thank god I didn’t try this shit in shoes – I pulled myself up and onto the top of the building.
There wasn’t time for celebration. I had to get as far away from here as possible, but I had the luxury of being able to run now. Ensuring my wallet was still on my person, I bolted across the floor, ducking around the air conditioning units and the various metallic pipes. The next few buildings were smacked up against this one, all with a level enough floor, and I needed to break for it.
I crossed over four or five buildings before another alley crossed my path. My eyes spotted a fire escape down the side of the building – I slapped the sandals on, dropping to the floor. As I raced down the stairs and around to the other side, I disengaged the fire escape ladder.
It had been my intention to catch it and lower it, but the thing dropped with such severity that it was impossible. With a loud, echoing succession of noises, it fulfilled its role and gave me a ladder to the ground.
I didn’t have time to waste – if anyone with a badge heard that and was coming, it was all over anyway. I practically slid down to the ground and raced to the edge of the alley.
There were some cops in sight, but they were preoccupied with the raid – none of them were facing my way. Pulling the hood over my head, I casually strolled away from the scene, keeping near the buildings. Nobody called after me; nobody tackled me from the dark.
An hour later, I arrived at the Greyhound station that had brought me to New Orleans.
Hello, old friend, I warmly greeted the station as I approached a ticket kiosk. There was only one question to answer… Where was I going to go? I stared at the list of destinations. A bus was headed out to Los Angeles in the morning. I could find myself a quiet corner of the station and wait… There was Seattle even later in the day, and a few Midwest destinations where I could bore myself to death counting fields of corn.
No… I was running now. Running from all the things I’d done. There would be questions asked about the bust, and far as I knew, I was the only one who got away. People tend to put two and two together, even if the answer isn’t four. Half the criminal underworld was at that fight. They’d be looking for a patsy. Somebody would be laying this one at my feet.
The next bus was leaving tonight, heading towards Pensacola. There was a city I never thought I’d see again. I’d spent plenty of time there with the family at my fathers Beach House, but that was years ago. Nobody would recognize me. I could blend in… But there was another reason to go.
I knew someone there. Someone I could trust. Someone who could get me back in the cage… Fighting was in my blood now, and no amount of fear or danger was going to keep me from it.
I retrieved some of the wad of bills and bought the ticket.
Within fifteen minutes, I was on the bus and seated by myself. There weren’t many people here – and most of them had paired off or formed small groups between two rows – and I chose a row by myself in the middle. Peering over my shoulder, I realized that nobody was paying much attention to me, and I decided that it was time to count my resources.
I pulled the bills from my pocket, flattening them in my hands and counting them out before sliding them into my wallet.
Over three thousand dollars, I choked to myself. I felt bad, but it would have ended up some corrupt cop’s Christmas bonus if I hadn’t taken it. Now, at least it offered me a way out of here. As I slid the wallet into my pocket, Slippery Pete entered my mind again, and I reflected on him with remorse.
You saved me, I thought to myself. You and your stupid grudge are the only reason I even stood a chance of getting out of there.
Pensacola, Present Day
For the first full week back in town, tensions were still high with Saffron. It appeared that I had succeeded in isolating her, and I was growing more comfortable with the distance. We barely saw each other now. I spent a lot of my time out on the road, and she was always curled up with one of her books whenever I was home at some reasonable time. That worked fine for me. The more time she spent in the house, the better…
I’d considered trying to patch things up, but I knew that I needed to keep her away from me. I was running out of excuses, since I didn’t care too much about Pensacola itself.
After all… I’d spent a few years here.
Not that I’d done anything with the time since I’d gotten back.
I’d visited a few bars for a drink if I felt daring, but otherwise I just cruised around on the bike. The furthest I’d driven was Alabama. I had barely recognized that I’d passed state lines, and I rented a motel for the night. It had been this cheap, sleazy place on the side of the road, offering me nothing but a night’s rest and some truly awful porn all paid for with Saffron’s black AMEX.
I watched it anyway. I knew who I wanted the actress to be. But even that pissed me off, because the thought of another man touching her made my blood boil.
It was on my tenth day in Pensacola that I decided enough was enough, and that I’d see about making something of myself while I was here. Things were quiet, and it was clear my father was just being paranoid in sending us down here. Hitting the road on my Suzuki again as I peeled out from the Beach House, I knew just the guy to reach. He’d been my saving grace when I’d stepped off the bus in Pensacola with a few thousand dollars and skeletons in my closet.
My stop was a dive bar, a few miles away. Reggie’s, it was called. It was this run-down little place with relatively horrible regulars, but I knew the place and didn’t mind the atmosphere so much. Parking outside, I kicked the stand into place and whipped out my phone. I thought I had felt a buzz against my leg on the drive over; sure
enough, there was a text:
> Grabbed a table. Back left. Welcome back.
With a small smile, I slipped the phone back into its pocket. The bouncer near the front turned to me as I approached, holding his hand out for my ID. A few seconds later, he studied the unfamiliar card, running his thick thumb across the edges.
“Out-of-towner, eh? Might not be the place for you tonight.”
I assessed him quickly. The immediate conclusion was that this guy was built like a brick shithouse…and could probably take a punch like one. He stood close to a foot shorter than me, but he was a stocky little bastard – broad shoulders, bulky arms, tight abdominals under a thin shirt. Didn’t look like he’d skipped ‘leg day’ either – with those tree trunk thighs, he could probably land a truly vicious kick. Thick jet-black hair ran down to his shoulders, flowing around his meaty throat, and his dark eyes peered menacingly at mine. This was a guy with a hair-trigger temper, but he could keep his anger in check.
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