Hang Time

by S. W. Lauden

  “What’re we going to do with these idiots?”

  “Get them on the bed and tie them up.”

  Marco did as he was told. He made each of them put both hands through one of the ropes on the bedpost. He secured the knots, pulling them tight until they dug into their wrists. Satisfied they wouldn’t be going anywhere, he took a pinch of cocaine off the nightstand and threw it into their faces. The white powder clung to their eyelashes and sprinkled their cheeks.

  Greg took his phone out and started snapping pictures. Then he went over to where their pants were piled up on the floor. He fished both driver’s licenses out of their wallets, tucking them into his jeans.

  “Now we know your names. And where you live. Tell anybody we were here and we’ll hunt you down.”

  Marco laughed. He absentmindedly lifted his fingers up to lick them clean before Greg stopped him.

  “Go wash that crap off your hands.”

  “Sorry, bro. Old habits die hard.”

  Marco passed by Gabriella, who’d wandered back into the room. She came over to stand next to Greg, a dazed look on her face. Her hair was perfectly tousled, and it looked like she’d touched up her lipstick. It was hard to believe she’d been screaming bloody murder a few minutes before.

  “You guys literally saved my ass from these two.”

  An edge crept into her breathy voice, a hint of street smarts under the polished trophy wife façade. Greg shook his head.

  “You can thank my friend. He’s the hero tonight.”

  Gabriella looked over her shoulder toward the bathroom. Her face was only a few inches from Greg’s when she looked back. He could smell fresh toothpaste on her breath, saw the light trapped in her amber eyes.

  “Maybe I will.”

  Greg blinked first.

  “Let’s get out of here. I’ll call the police from the car.”

  She shook her head with a dramatic pout.

  “No cops. Let’s just leave these jokers for hotel security to deal with. But first…”

  She sprang, bounding across the bed until she was on top of the blond.

  “Look at me, asshole!”

  He squealed as she dragged her fingernails down the length of his cheek, digging jagged red cuts into his skin. His screams turned to sobs as she slowly backed away. It was as if nothing had happened by the time she reached Greg again. She straightened out her dress, spinning for the door.

  “Ready when you are.”

  h

  Greg waited until they had her safely in Marco’s car before he called in an anonymous tip to the desk clerk.

  “A couple of coked up lunatics are trying to kill each other in the room next to mine…”

  Greg was behind the wheel again, with Gabriella beside him. Marco held down the back seat as they flipped a U-turn and headed back toward the party where this all started. They’d only driven a couple of miles before she leaned a little closer to Greg.

  “Let me guess. You guys work for my husband, right?”

  “That obvious?”

  She brought a finger up to twirl the ends of her hair. The frat boy’s blood glistened on the tips of her nails.

  “You can’t take me home. He’ll kill me. He’d probably kill all three of us.”

  Greg looked into the rearview mirror while she spoke, trying to make eye contact with Marco. He worried that this wouldn’t turn out to be your average jealous husband case. Marco was busy looking out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

  That left Greg on his own.

  “I think we’ll be fine. Not sure I can say the same for you.”

  She choked up a laugh that caught in her throat.

  “You don’t know shit about me.”

  “You’re right, but it sounds like your husband’s a powerful man. And he’s getting tired of you screwing around behind his back.”

  “I get it. You’re like some white knight, come to take the whore queen back to the king for her punishment. That it?”

  “I honestly don’t care who you screw, or who you screw over. This is just a job for me.”

  Her eyes were glassy with tears.

  “Let me out here then. I can take care of myself.”

  Greg pulled over, calling her bluff. The sudden deceleration snapped Marco out of his trance.

  “She can stay with me tonight. I’ll take her home in the morning.”

  Greg couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Get real, Marco. Your place is a pig sty.”

  “Good point. Then she can stay in the office at your house. I’ll text the lawyer to let him know what’s up.”

  Chapter 4

  The kid in the blue hat had a gun in his outstretched hand, the tip of the barrel pressed firmly against Greg’s temple. He gritted his teeth, sweat snaking down his face to the rope around his neck. He waited for the bullet that never came, praying for an end to all the promises of violence. Ready for the score to be settled at last. He heard the kid squeeze the trigger and felt the side of his head explode.

  “Wake. Up.”

  Greg forced his eyes open. Kristen stood there, their son in the crook of one arm. She slapped the side of his head with her free hand.

  “Get out of bed right now.”

  He sat up, holding his head in his hands. His voice felt thick in his throat.

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s somebody at the back door asking for you. Some woman in a slinky dress. It looks like she came here straight from clubbing.”

  Gabriella.

  His mind flooded with memories of her naked body tied to the bedposts. He immediately tried to drive the images from his head. Not only because his wife was standing right over him, but because Gabriella was trouble. He knew it from the moment he laid eyes on her.

  “Let me explain.”

  “Is this how it’s going to be when you’re on tour, Greg? Staying out all night with strange women while your son and I are stuck at home?”

  “She’s just a client with a violent husband. I let her sleep out in the garage last night.”

  It clearly wasn’t the explanation Kristen hoped for. Either that or she could read his mind. She turned and stormed out without another word. Greg wanted to chase after her, but his head was still groggy from sleep. He stood up and staggered into the bathroom instead. The reflection in the mirror was the same one he’d tried to destroy at Eddie’s, but now he saw something else there, too—the dull look of resignation that claimed his father’s face in the last years of his life. The same gray cloud that crept behind his brother Tim’s eyes when he gave into his addiction; utter hopelessness consuming him in the weeks before he died.

  Greg didn’t bother breaking the mirror this time. He was too tired and couldn’t see the point. So he slipped into a pair of board shorts instead, zipping on a hoodie.

  Kristen stayed on the couch when he walked through the living room. One side of her thick, green robe pulled open to feed their son. Her legs were folded beneath her as she stared down at her baby, pure love in her eyes. He watched Timmy’s mouth as it sucked greedily, his little fist resting on his mother’s chest. The body that once gave Greg so much pleasure had evolved into something much more vital. So beautiful that he wasn’t sure he could ever bear to touch her again.

  The pounding on the back door reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing. He slipped through the kitchen and out onto the deck. Gabriella reclined in a lounge chair, a forearm over her closed eyes. One knee was bent, forcing the hem of her dress to ride up. Greg found it hard to look away.

  Her voice was low and smoky.

  “You gonna offer me some coffee, or keep trying to figure out if I’m wearing underwear?”

  “Sorry. Just making sure you were all right.”

  “Come on, Greg. You know I’m perfect.”

 
; She swung her legs to the deck, propping herself up. Now it was her turn to do the staring.

  “The ocean sure does something to the bodies of you surfer boys.”

  He looked down in feigned surprise, giving his abs a pat. She stood up and straightened out her dress.

  “Coffee?”

  “Uh, yeah. Wait here. You take cream?”

  “Whatever will make this hangover go away.”

  Greg was already heading inside, but she kept talking.

  “You should probably get some coffee for your friend, too.”

  He stopped, watching her expression in the reflection of a window.

  “Marco? He probably won’t be here for another hour or so.”

  She cocked a hip, nodding to the garage.

  “Last I checked he was still asleep. Believe me, I would know.”

  Greg turned around slowly, trying to wrap his head around what he heard. He prayed Marco hadn’t made such an impossibly stupid mistake, but knew in his bones that he had. Why would she lie about something like this?

  “I watched him drive away after we got out of the car.”

  “Well, he came back. And stayed all night. You jealous?”

  The blood rushed up into his face as he tore across the backyard and into the garage.

  “Get up, Marco. Now!”

  His partner didn’t budge, so Greg stomped over and slapped him across the head. Marco leapt up. His body pulsated with a burst of manic energy that made him look like a shaved monkey.

  “Come at me, bro!”

  Greg had no time for empty threats.

  “Tell me you didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Take a case to trail some guy’s cheating wife and then end up sleeping with her yourself.”

  Marco’s shoulders slumped as he collapsed down onto the pillows. Greg had his answer, but he couldn’t let it go.

  “Are you a fucking idiot? She stayed here last night because she was afraid her husband might kill her. Might kill all three of us.”

  “I know. It’s—”

  “A suicide mission? I already rescued you once. I’m not itching to do it again.”

  Marco pleaded for understanding.

  “Look at that body, bro. I never stand a chance with chicks like her.”

  Greg didn’t want to admit it, but he definitely understood. He’d made far worse decisions with women who ended up ruining his life in one way or another. But this time was different, mainly because it was Marco instead of him. Come to think of it, maybe I am a little jealous.

  “Get dressed. We’ve got a huge mess to clean up.”

  h

  Greg sped along the coast as Gabriella sat in the passenger seat with a scowl on her face. He couldn’t tell if she hated the music or the way the wind made a mess of her hair. The sun was up in the sky and the smell of salt water swirled all around them. He had the El Camino’s windows down and the stereo turned up. TSOL’s “Code Blue” came on, but he hit forward before the chorus. The next track was “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies. Greg rolled up his window so she could hear him over the roar of the engine.

  “What’s the matter, don’t like punk rock?”

  She turned to face him, rolling her eyes.

  “It all sounds exactly the same. It’s boring as fuck.”

  “I could say the same thing about the dance trash you probably listen to.”

  “Whatever, old man. I’m into hip-hop anyway. The real shit, like you even know what that is.”

  “Give me a little credit. You’re talking about The Beastie Boys and Eminem, right?”

  Even she cracked a smile at that one.

  “A lot has happened in music since you graduated college. How old are you anyway?”

  “Same age as Marco.”

  He thought that might shut her up, but she came right back at him.

  “Well at least he fucks like he’s young.”

  Greg followed the road to the right, driving up along the cliffs. It was a clear day and he could see Catalina Island in the distance out the passenger window. Sparkling sunlight danced off of the ocean in between, creating a warm glow that softened Gabriella’s hard edges.

  “Why don’t you leave your husband instead of cheating all the time?”

  She shot daggers.

  “It’s not that easy. You don’t just leave Tony Flores. Besides, he does plenty of screwing around on his own. Ask his ex-wife if you don’t believe me.”

  Tony Flores. It sounded familiar to Greg, but he couldn’t place it.

  “How’d you two meet?

  “He signed me to his record label. Make a left up here.”

  Greg followed her detailed directions for the next couple of miles, navigating a maze of streets specifically designed to keep people like him out of this neighborhood. She finally told him to pull over when they reached the end of a cul de sac.

  “It’s that one.”

  The house she pointed to looked like something from a gangster rap video. Not exactly a mansion, but much bigger than anything Greg was used to. It must have been at least eight thousand square feet, judging by the enormous façade, with a star-shaped fountain in the circular driveway. A mobile car washing team was out there at the moment, carefully detailing several already shiny luxury cars. To top it all off, a helicopter sat on the enormous front lawn.

  Greg almost couldn’t believe people actually lived like this only a few miles from his own house.

  “Need me to walk you in?”

  She groaned dismissively, swinging the door open.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. It’s gonna to be hard enough getting through the jackals without explaining who you are.”

  Greg looked over to the front gate. A few cameramen were milling around outside.

  “They here for you?”

  “I wish. Tony’s got a studio in the pool house where he records a lot of Latina pop stars. Where those girls go, these scumbags go. Thanks for the ride.”

  Gabriella climbed out, slamming the door. He watched her walk across the street, pushing through the small crowd of sleazy reporters. The engine revved and his hands were on the wheel when he noticed her purse on the seat next to him. He jumped out, calling her name.

  She stopped and turned around. He held the purse up, jogging over to give it to her. It’d barely touched her outstretched hand when the cameras started going off. Greg froze for a split second before realizing he needed to get the hell out of there. He sprinted back over to the El Camino, threw it in drive and sped off.

  h

  Greg got back to South Bay thirty minutes later, thankful he still had most of the day to finish planning the tour. Unfortunately, a BCPD cruiser waited for him in his usual parking spot out back. Greg and his unexpected guest climbed out of their cars at the same time.

  “Sorry to drop in unannounced.”

  “Kinda seems like your MO.”

  “Watch your mouth, smartass.”

  “What do you want?”

  Detective Bowers pulled out a leather-bound notepad and flipped a few pages.

  “I’ll cut to the chase. We got a little more information about the victim from the club—”

  “I don’t want to know his name.”

  “Too bad. It’s Tim Granger. Sound familiar?”

  Greg folded his arms across his chest.

  “Nope.”

  “We searched his apartment over in North Bay. He was a big fan of your band, had posters all over the walls and a few of your albums. What are you guys called again?”

  “Bad Citizen Corporation. Where’s Officer Bob?”

  “Busy. Let’s step inside. I have a few more questions to ask you.”

  Greg opened the back gate and motioned for him to take a seat at the patio table.
He could hear the baby crying inside of the house, like always.

  “Make it quick.”

  “I understand you’ve had some problems with your fans in the past. I read something about a BCPD parking enforcement officer in your file.”

  “‘Some problems’ would be a huge understatement. But it sounds like you know all about me. I need to get inside to help my wife.”

  “Have you read the book your friend wrote about you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “We found a copy at Mr. Granger’s apartment. Several of the pages about you and your brother were bookmarked.”

  Detective Bowers pushed the chair back, stood up and went to the back gate.

  “I’ll have to listen to your band one of these days. Might help me understand why everybody around here thinks you’re such a big deal.”

  Chapter 5

  The rehearsal space smelled like dirty socks and fresh skunk. Greg left the roll-up door wide open for as long as he could, but they eventually had to close it to play at full volume. It turns out their new guitarist, Jerry, was a secret stoner and terrible at hiding it. His tight-fitting clothes reeked from the moment he arrived, and the pungent odor always lingered for a while after he left. Greg couldn’t imagine how potent his stash must be, but judging by the vacant look on his long face and permanently red eyes, he guessed it must be practically lethal.

  This presented an interesting challenge for the rest of the band, all of whom were clean and sober—including Chris, at the tender age of thirteen. Even JJ had sworn off weed, which was nothing short of a miracle. Worse than creating temptation, the smell reminded both Greg and Marco of the time they had spent at Grizzly Flats. Those memories were still too new—and the scars too fresh—for either of them to want to relive them. Even for a cheap contact high.

  So Greg did his best to ignore Jerry and focus on the music, which came with its own ghosts. Not much had changed in the rehearsal space since he inherited it from his dead friend, Ricky. It was hard for him not to think of the time the two of them spent there together, but nobody haunted the BCC catalog quite like Greg’s older brother, Tim. He formed the band back when Greg was still a kid. And he was the one who wrote most of the songs the band would be playing on this upcoming tour.