by Wendy Heard
She’s in a place of honor, surrounded by bikers in leather jackets and vests. She converses intensely with a man at her side. Like she senses my gaze, her eyes dart to mine and I’m pinned by a glittering, dangerous stare.
I let my eyes roam, as though I haven’t noticed her attention. I make my way to a nearby firepit, smile at the women surrounding it and make a comment about wishing I’d brought a jacket.
The voice on the phone was right. This is not going to be easy.
I return to the hallway to scope out the ladies’ room. It has two stalls and a single, dingy sink.
She has to go to the bathroom sometime, and if not the bathroom, the bar. I should find a place at one of the firepits, watch her, and follow her wherever she goes. I can get her in the crowded bar area, or I can get her in here.
Fine. That’s my plan. Time to get my purse from my truck. I’m ready to get this over with.
I straighten my ponytail and square my shoulders. I nod to myself in the mirror. My ponytail bounces peppily, like a cheerleader. I should never nod like that again.
I leave the bathroom and pass through the main room on my way out. I’m by the pool tables when I accidentally make eye contact with the bearded man again. This time he gives me a grin and a wink. I shake it off, making a point of ignoring the wink in case his psycho old lady is looking.
At the bar, I get waylaid by yet another bearded man, this time a six-foot-five mountain of a guy with a blond Gandalf beard that ripples over his belly.
“What’s up,” he yells at me over the music.
I try to step around him. He sidesteps, blocking my way to the door.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I like your ink! Did that hurt?” He points at my chest piece with a fat, dirty index finger that someone needs to snap right off his hand.
Instead of being the one to do the snapping, I force a smile onto my face. “You bet it did.”
“I got one, too.” He stretches the neck of his T-shirt down to reveal a giant Old English tattoo across the white, hairless skin of his chest. It’s clumsy but has enough black ink in it to make me wince. He sees this and grins. “Fuck yeah that hurts, amiright? Lemme buy you a drink. Why haven’t I ever seen you here before, li’l mama?”
I take a deep breath for patience and say, “I’m on my way to meet my boyfriend, actually. Sorry!”
He groans and clutches at his chest like I’ve wounded him, and finally he lets me move around him toward the door. I hurry past the bouncer and out into the cool night air. The guys near the rows of motorcycles are still there, smoking cigarettes. When they see me, their eyes widen.
I dig around in my pockets for my keys. The biker guys have gone silent. I look up, my senses tripped by a premonition of danger. Their eyes flit back and forth between me and the far corner of the building.
I follow their gaze. A line of women walks toward me. In front marches the woman who’d stepped up to me at the pool table. She looks pissed.
“Shit,” I say.
One of the bikers laughs. “Shit’s right.”
“What did I fucking tell you?” the woman hollers. She closes the distance between us.
I open my mouth to protest, and she pops me in the jaw with a punch that tosses me back onto my butt on the asphalt. She squats down to speak close to my face. “Did I not give you a warning?” Her voice is raspy with decades of smoking. “Did you not just look at my man again? Are you fucking stupid?”
“Honestly, it was an accident. I was—”
“Looking for your boyfriend? You got no man here. I don’t know who you tryin’ to find, but you need to learn your place, girl.” Her fist draws back and hits me square in the cheek. My head smacks asphalt. Lights erupt behind my eyes. She hits me again, in the forehead, in the stomach, and then she stands up and kicks me. I hide my face in my forearms, curl up and deflect blows. Pain explodes in my head, my gut.
I can’t argue or fight; they’ll murder me. I know gangsters. And what am I going to say, anyway? “I’m gay—I don’t want your man”? To a bunch of bikers? I’d rather get my ass kicked by these bitches than raped by this group of onlooking men.
A hard blow lands on my neck and unconsciousness sucks me down. I fight it, grip my hair, protect my face.
The woman kneels down next to me and says, “That was your last warning, bitch. It’ll be a lot worse next time.” She’s out of shape, panting with exertion. I wish it was just me and her.
I feel them walk away. I’m left in front of the motorcycles, curled around my pain, holding it in my hands like a gemstone. When the throbbing in my gut recedes enough to inhale, I touch my face with my fingertips. It’s always my first worry; I have nightmares that Carol catches me in the face with her baseball bat and I’m disfigured for life. A lump is rising on the back of my head. My stitches must have been ripped out; warm blood trickles into my eyes, and my neck aches from the blow they’d landed in the side of it. I press my palms to the asphalt and push myself up. Blood drips from my nose. It trickles thin and salty down the back of my throat.
Darkness approaches and recedes. Close at hand, a dude says, “Bitch fights, man.”
“I know,” a voice replies. “Nasty.”
I get to my feet, hunched over, gut aching. I fumble the keys out of my pocket and unlock my truck. I pull the door open and haul my body up into the cab. I slam the door shut behind me. I turn the key in the ignition. I’m getting blood on the seats. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my left hand and, with my right, I crank the truck into first gear and bump my way out of the parking lot. I drive around the corner, down the street, and pull around the back of one of the warehouses.
I pull the flip phone out of my pocket. My fingers slip and miss as I dial the numbers. A faint beep, and I press the code I’ve memorized by now. I snap the phone shut and rest my pounding head on the seat. I stretch the neckline of my shirt up to my nose and use it to wipe some of the blood off my face.
The phone buzzes. I flip it open. “I’m sorry,” I say, voice muffled through the shirt. “It got fucked up.”
The voice says, “What happened?”
“I just got my ass beat by some biker bitches.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m around the corner from the bar. I just need to rest for a minute before I can drive. I think I actually have some ibuprofen in here,” I realize aloud. I pull my purse open, feel around in the side pocket, and sure enough, there’s the bottle of ibuprofen 800s I got at the clinic. My hands tremble as I press open the childproof cap. I shake a pill out and swallow it dry.
“What happened?” the voice asks. “Did you get caught in the act?”
“No, nothing like that. Some bitch thought I was looking at her man. Old-ass dude. He wishes.” I groan, press a hand to my head. “I gotta get this stitched up again.”
“Are you injured?”
“Nothing’s broken. It’s just bruises. And these stitches came out, but those were from Carol.” My nose seems to have stopped bleeding.
“You didn’t call anyone for help, did you? You can’t let anyone know you’re down there.”
“No, I didn’t call anyone for help. What do you think I am?”
“You said you needed to get stitches? We should make a plan for what you’ll tell the ER. Can you make it back up to LA? We can’t have you on record at an ER down in Orange County.”
“Chill. It’s fine. I’ll drive myself up to the clinic I always go to. I pay cash—there’s no drama.”
“Oh.” The voice is surprised.
A long, pregnant pause, and then I say, “What do we do next?”
A sigh, which sounds mechanical through the disguiser. “We don’t normally give second chances. We expect our participants to take their responsibility seriously.”
“I do take it seriously. I got literally attacke
d. I was on my way to do exactly what you—”
“Listen,” the voice commands. “Do not interrupt me while I am talking.”
“I’m sorry.” Sorry isn’t even a big enough word for the sadness I feel at this failure.
“As I was saying, we do not usually give second chances. But this time and this time only, I will reassign you. You clearly weren’t at fault, and this was a difficult target. I knew it would be a challenge.”
“I tried,” I say quietly.
“I know.” The voice is softer. “Go to your clinic. Get stitched up. I will make the arrangements necessary, and I’ll contact you soon. But, Jasmine?”
“Yeah?”
“There are no third chances. Do you understand?”
A chill sweeps through me. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“I’ll do better next time. You don’t have to worry.”
“I know you will.” The line clicks, and the call ends.
17
JAZZ
SCRUBBED CLEAN AND bandaged, I say goodbye to the nurses at the twenty-four-hour urgent care. There’s something wonderful about nurses. My whole life, they’ve been the ones to stitch me back up. Doctors can kiss my ass; they have the attitudes and the lectures, but nurses are always just...there for you.
“No more boxing,” orders the main nurse, Sue. She’s in her seventies and has fun pink streaks in her gray hair.
“Sure thing, Sue,” I say cheerfully, and she rolls her eyes. She’s known me for a long time.
The sliding doors let me out onto Vermont. I’m parked just a block away, which is a miracle for this part of town. Headlights whiz by as cars fly over the speed limit, exhilarated to drive without traffic. A homeless man with a shopping cart shuffles by. An upright, proud-looking Chihuahua is perched on his shoulder. The man doesn’t have any shoes on. There’s something sweet and sad about his bare feet.
My purse buzzes. It’s the flip phone. I snap it open. “Hello?”
“I hear street noise. Are you alone?”
“Gimme a sec.” I get into the truck and shut the door. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“What did you tell the doctor?”
“Oh, this urgent care thinks I still do boxing and jujitsu, so they’re used to me coming in with all sorts of injuries. It’s fine.”
“I’m glad it was you and not someone else. I’m not sure I’d trust anyone else to handle this so well.”
I feel warm all over. They aren’t mad at me. “Thanks.”
“So let’s talk about your assignment. I’d be more comfortable giving you a few days to recuperate, but I’m sure you’re worried about Joaquin. Do you think you can handle being reassigned in the next day or two? We have a few potential alternates.”
“Yes. Reassign me. Nothing’s really wrong with me, just bruises and a few stitches.”
“Excellent. We’ll be in touch tomorrow. Do you have rehearsal? Would evening be all right?”
“No rehearsal tomorrow. I get off work at four.”
“Perfect.”
We hang up. I turn on my iPhone. As it powers up, I wipe half-heartedly at the dried blood smeared on my seats. It should come off with Windex. I don’t think anything sticks to fake leather.
The little apple icon pops up followed by a text notification. It’s from Sofia, at eight thirty.
Do you want to keep me company? It’s wine o’clock. :-D
A drink actually sounds fantastic, but it’s ten thirty; that might be too late. I reply, Sorry, I—I stop, consider. I fell while loading up my drums and had to get a few stitches. I’m down to get a drink if you’re still around.
Three little dots appear, and then Oh no! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?
I’m totally fine. Not a big deal.
Well, come get me, then.
It only takes me fifteen minutes to get to Studio City; the 101 is clear, and she lives right off the Laurel Canyon exit. It’s probably best not to arrive covered in dried blood, so I dig around in my truck for the bag that contains some spare clothes, which I keep on hand so I don’t have to go out after work in my Trader Joe’s uniform. I trade the blood-soaked white tank top for a clean black one. My windows aren’t really tinted, but I’m too worn down to care if anyone sees my black bralette. It’s not like I have any boobs to hide anyway.
Sofia lives in one of those modern buildings that takes up a whole block. It has a security entrance, and I look her name up in an electronic directory. I press the numbers on the little pad and she answers, “Hello?”
“It’s Jazz,” I say into the speaker.
“Come on up. Take your first left and the elevator is on the right.”
Her directions take me past a ritzy pool area and into an elevator alcove where two teenage girls giggle incessantly over something on one of their phones. Sofia’s apartment is down a carpeted hallway that smells like air freshener. I’m fascinated by the way people decorate their front doors in nice buildings. They put inspirational signs, even little entry tables, in the hallway. In my building, that shit would be stolen the second you closed the door behind you.
I knock on apartment 215, and a shadow passes by the peephole. A chain disengages and the door swings open. She looks relaxed; she is barefoot and wears a simple black dress. Her hair swings free and wavy down her back.
“Show me the stitches” are the first words out of her mouth.
This makes me smile. I lift my bangs to display the bandage. “Is that my ticket inside? Showing you my injuries?”
“Yes. Now you may enter.” She beckons me in. I follow her down a little hall to the kitchen, which is all granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The black dress she has on is made of clingy T-shirt material, and I get an A for effort as I try not to look at her ass. I set my purse down on the counter.
She hands me one of two glasses of red wine. “Cheers. To getting stitches where your bangs will cover them.”
I clink my glass against hers and sip. I always forget how rich and thick red wine is, like blood. For some reason it makes me think about Joaquin, somewhere out there. Is he safe? I pray to a God I don’t know if I believe in that Carol takes pity on him, that she keeps him alive.
Sofia reaches out with a bare foot and nudges my calf through my jeans. “Jazz? Hello, fun? We’re having fun. We’re not worrying about things.”
I force a smile onto my face. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Yeah. You should be.” She’s happy and sparkly, a completely different Sofia from the one I saw the other night. I’m going to need a lot more alcohol if I’m going to avoid bumming her out completely.
I try to rally. “I mean, we have red wine in fancy glasses and a completely sterile, silent house. It’s basically a music video.”
“My house is not sterile! It’s...” She looks around at the kitchen, which is so clean and free of clutter, it looks like we are the first people to ever set foot in it.
“Fucking party time with the principal. Everyone be real quiet and swirl your wine.” I make a show of inhaling the wine fumes.
“I am an assistant principal. It is totally different.”
“Right, I forgot. Assistant is way cooler.”
“Way cooler.”
I smile into my wineglass. I feel a little better. “Thanks for inviting me out. Seriously. I needed the company. Even if you make me write standards, it will be better than sitting alone in my apartment worrying about Joaquin.”
“Good! Same here. Actually, no. You know what? Today has been a good day. In a weird way. I think.”
“I can tell. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” She takes another drink of her wine. “I just want to enjoy not feeling horrible for the first time in ages.”
“All right, well, should we go hit up a bar? You know the area. What’s around here
?”
“There’s a wine bar down the street.”
The long day, hours of traffic, and physical exertion overwhelm me suddenly. I set my glass aside. “If I drink too much wine, I’m going to fall asleep. It’ll have to be cocktails. Where do women like you hang out, anyway, besides wine bars? Like if you want an actual drink?”
“Women like me? What does that mean? Principals?”
I grin. “Studio City women. Yoga women.”
“Yoga women?” She laughs. “Screw you, Echo Park. You don’t know my life.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I want you to look me in the eyes right now and tell me you do not do yoga.”
She looks down at her tanned feet, which are meticulously pedicured. “Yeah, fine, I do yoga.”
I cackle. “Ha! I knew it. You’re one of the yoga women who come through my line and ask me why we’re out of kale chips.”
“Why are you guys always out of kale chips, anyway? Just order more. I don’t understand.” She pulls a drawer open and sets the corkscrew carefully inside.
“Women who have matching utensils!” I yank open the drawer, revealing a neatly organized row of black-and-red KitchenAid utensils in size order from biggest to smallest. “Oh my God. Sofia. This is pathological. It’s worse than I thought. You need help.”
“Shut up!” She grabs a spatula and threatens to hit me with it.
I dodge. “Wait—I have to see. I have to know the extent of your psychosis.” I pull open a deeper drawer and reveal a matched set of Tupperware containers with coordinated lids separated from the tubs by a custom drawer divider. “Oh my God! You’re a fucking serial killer!”
Sofia giggles helplessly. She fans at her eye makeup. “Why are you so mean? I didn’t make fun of your hipster apartment!”
“All right, all right, I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Let’s get going. Find us a bar and I’ll call us an Uber.”
“There’s an English pub up Ventura Boulevard. I think they have a full bar.”