by Amy Harmon
“I’ve got you, Millie. I’ve got you. This is going to be fun. Just like riding a horse with Georgia holding the reins.”
“Okay,” she squeaked, nodding vigorously, her head bumping against my chin, and I chuckled, impressed all over again by her guts and her trust.
I placed her hands where I wanted them on the wheel and she ran her hands down and back up, as if she had never touched anything like it. Maybe she hadn’t. She turned the wheel this way and that and giggled nervously before she put them back where I’d placed them.
“You good?”
“Yeah. Okay. Good.”
“Now, I’m going to be right here to tell you what to do, and I’ll help you steer if you start running us off the road.”
I revved the gas pedal and then placed her foot on it and let her do the same. I could tell she was trying not to bail off of my lap—her body was practically vibrating with nerves—but she didn’t. She stayed, listening intently. I gave her basic instructions, and then I helped her ease onto the road, going about five miles per hour. She didn’t move her hands from two and ten o’clock, and I had to tug at the wheel slightly to straighten us out. And then we picked up speed, just a bit.
“How does that feel?”
“Like falling,” she whispered, her body rigid, her arms locked on the wheel.
“Relax. Falling is easier if you don’t fight it.”
“And driving?”
“That too. Everything is easier if you don’t fight it.”
“What if someone sees us?”
“Then I’ll tell you when to wave.”
She giggled and relaxed slightly against me. I kissed her temple where it rested against my cheek, and she was immediately stiff as a board once more.
Shit. I hadn’t thought. I’d just reacted.
“I would have patted you on the back, but your forehead was closer,” I drawled. “You’re doin’ it. You’re drivin’.”
“How fast are we going?” she said breathlessly. I hoped it was fear and not that kiss.
“Oh you’re flyin’, baby. Eight miles an hour. At this rate, we will reach Salt Lake in two days, my legs will be numb, and Henry will want a turn. Give it a little gas. Let’s see if we can push it up to ten.”
She pressed her foot down suddenly and we shot forward with a lurch.
“Whoa!” I cried, my arms shooting up to brace hers on the wheel. I saw Henry stir from the corner of my eye.
“Danika Patrick is the first female NASCAR driver to ever win a NASCAR Sprint Cup Series pole,” he said woodenly, before slumping back down in his seat. I spared him a quick glance, only to see his eyes were closed once more.
Millie obviously heard him and she hooted and pressed the gas pedal down a little harder.
“Henry just compared you to Danika Patrick. And he obviously isn’t alarmed that you’re driving because he’s already asleep again.”
“That’s because Henry knows I’m badass.”
“Oh yeah. Badass, Silly Millie. ‘Goin’ ninety miles an hour down a dead-end street,’” I sang a little Bob Dylan, enjoying myself thoroughly.
“And Henry trusts you,” Millie added, more to herself than to me, and I fought the urge not to kiss her temple again. I suddenly didn’t feel like laughing or singing anymore. I kind of felt like crying.
(End of Cassette)
Moses
THERE WAS SOMETHING about the smell of the gym. Tag loved it. He said it smelled better than fresh cut hay, a woman’s breasts, and steak combined. And those were his favorite things. Tag’s gym smelled like sweat, bleach, and a hint of fabric softener. I hadn’t decided why the fabric softener smell was so prominent until I realized that heat and sweat made the scent rise from clothing. It smelled wholesome—perspiration, soap and good intentions mixed with a healthy dose of testosterone and overconfidence. It smelled like Tag.
Tag kept music pumping all the time, but his choices were interesting—a little Merle Haggard, a little more Metallica, interspersed with songs by Michael Jackson, Neil Diamond, and The Killers, just to liven things up. He had eclectic tastes. That, and he had a short attention span.
Before Georgia had stepped onto that elevator eighteen months before and stepped back into my life, I’d lived in an apartment over the gym and worked out there with Tag almost every day. It was comfortable for me—the people, the atmosphere, all of it—and when I walked in the front doors, I was greeted on all sides with enthusiasm and obvious curiosity, which was fairly normal for me.
I spotted Axel working with a group of fighters and saw that Andy was padded up, taking punches in the octagon. As I debated who I should interrupt first, my name rippled through the gym, and they were both excusing themselves and approaching me without me having to make a move. Mikey followed on Axel’s heels, grabbing up his crutch and bearing down on me like he wanted answers too. Mikey rarely worked out with his prosthetic, and he was a one-legged wonder in more ways than one. A kid named Cory who’d been new to the team when I’d married Georgia wasn’t too far behind them.
The question in their eyes and the worry in their expressions had the tension I’d been trying to tamp down flaring once more. I didn’t have any answers. That’s why I was here.
“Any word?” Mikey asked, foregoing a greeting altogether. I noticed the people around us were waiting to hear what I had to say, and I didn’t want to discuss Millie and Tag in the middle of the gym. Axel caught my wary side glances and led the way to the little office I’d plundered two days before in an attempt to find Tag. Mikey, Cory, and Andy didn’t ask permission to come along, and I didn’t deny them. Maybe together we could figure something out. Axel didn’t wait for me to start the impromptu meeting. He pointed at the wall, at a schedule for the next month that was all filled out.
“That’s Tag’s writing. He must have come in here at some point last week and filled it in. Nobody saw him, and I didn’t think anything of it when we first talked, Moses. The schedule’s always updated, always written out a month in advance. It didn’t occur to me that he would have had to come in.” Axel shrugged. “It made me feel a little better. At least he’s not lying on the side of the road somewhere, you know?”
I nodded.
“Tell him about the papers, Axel,” Andy insisted.
Axel went to the filing cabinet, the cabinet where Millie and I had found the tapes. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and handed them to me.
“I got these this morning. Certified. They’re from Tag’s attorney.”
I scanned it as quickly as I could, and then looked at Tag’s team in horror.
“Did everyone get a copy?” I asked.
“I got a copy,” Cory said.
“Me too,” Mikey and Andy volunteered.
The papers were legal documents detailing the transfer of ownership of the gym to Axel Karlsson, with Andrew Gorman, Michael Slade and Cory Mangum listed as Tag Team co-owners and shareholders with merchandising and licensing rights.
“Has this already gone into effect?” I gasped, searching the legal jargon for dates and details.
“No. It’s a process. And I have to agree to the terms. We all do. But the groundwork is done,” Axel answered, and his expression said it all. He wasn’t euphoric about his windfall, if that’s what it was. He was devastated.
“What the feck is goin’ on?” Andy growled, his Irish so thick it changed the words but not the sentiment.
“Nobody’s seen or heard from Tag?” I had to get that out of the way again.
“Leo saw him last, but that was almost three weeks ago now,” Axel said. He’d told me as much already, but a recap wouldn’t hurt.
“Leo took him to the hospital to get some stitches after he ousted a rowdy at the bar,” I summarized. Leo also took him back home. Millie saw him after that. He spent the night there.”
The guys exchanged looks.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothin’,” Andy said. “We just like Millie. We’re happy for him.”
/> I nodded. I liked her too. I was happy for him too. I bit back a curse and plunged back in.
“He spent the next night there too, according to Millie. She said he was in a good mood and seemed to feel fine. He wasn’t overly bothered by the blow to the head, apparently.”
“Not surprised. Nobody takes a punch like Tag,” Cory spoke up, admiring. Wistful.
“He was gone before she woke up,” I continued. “There was a text waiting for her. Told her not to worry about him, that he was heading out of town to see his folks. Said it’d been too long.”
“You called his family?” Mikey asked.
“I did. He never showed up there, and he never told them he was coming in the first place, so they weren’t expecting him.”
“He was gonna drive to Dallas? That’s a long drive. Two day trip, each way. At least. Lots of miles to cover. Have you called the highway patrol?” Mikey asked.
I shook my head. “I did. But I don’t think he ever intended to go to Dallas. I think he was just buying himself time. That paperwork is dated six days ago.”
“Buying some time to do what?” Axel asked no one in particular.
“Buying some time to get his shit organized. To make sure things were covered,” I said grimly.
“Tag made Vince manager about three weeks ago, and Leo got promoted too. But Vince said Tag’s name isn’t anywhere on the bar schedule anymore. He thought it was just because Tag was tired of working so many hours. He was putting in a bunch with Morgan gone,” Axel added.
Cory let loose with a series of expletives that had the others pointing at a water jug already brimming with quarters labeled HENRY on Tag’s desk. It was the swear jar, obviously.
“Your whole paycheck is going in that thing, Mangum,” Mikey sighed, though I had the feeling no one was going to be making him pay up.
“So no one has actually talked to him or seen him for at least two weeks, and Millie saw him last?” Axel reiterated, running his hands through his hair. His blond crew cut didn’t budge.
“Looks to me like his lawyer saw him last,” I said, still reeling from the papers I clutched in my hands.
“How is Millie?” Mikey asked. “What does she say about all of this?”
“She’s a very composed mess,” I answered honestly. “She isn’t saying it, but I’m pretty sure she thinks she’s the reason he split.”
Cory repeated the same string of scalding words that he’s said a minute before.
“No,” Axel shook his head. “No. That doesn’t make any sense. I saw his face when Henry came into the bar that night. It was around closing, and I was keeping Tag company and having a few. Henry comes flying through the door, his feet bare, not wearing a coat. He’d run all the way there, and he was freaking out.”
“Why?” I asked. I hadn’t heard this story yet.
“We didn’t know. You know Henry. He speaks in sports trivia. It’s damn hard to communicate with him. But he kept saying something about Millie, and something had obviously set him off. I’ve never seen Tag look like that. He left Henry with me and was out the door in about ten seconds. You don’t leave a girl that inspires that kind of reaction. We all give Tag a bad time about his women. But Millie’s different.”
“Millie’s different,” Mikey agreed, nodding.
Cory just swore and pulled at his hair.
“What the feck is going on?” Andy asked again. But this time he didn’t sound angry. He just sounded as lost as Tag was.
“MILLIE!” THE HOUSE was pitch black. No light on the porch, no glow from the windows. I couldn’t get the damn gate to unlatch though I’d unlatched it without trouble before. I hurdled it and was up the walk in three flying steps, clearing the stairs in another one, bolting through the unlocked door, my heart playing a base drum, complete with bashing cymbals in my head.
It was so dark inside, and the darkness convinced me that when I found the light I would see something I didn’t want to see.
“Millie!”
I felt for the light, and my hand brushed against Millie’s stick, toppling it. If Millie’s stick was here, propped in its regular place, she was here too. I found the switch and light flooded the foyer, illuminating the drops of blood that tiptoed across the entryway and headed up the stairs, missing a step only to collect in a heavier pattern on another.
I was up the stairs and banging down the hall without knowing where I was going. I’d never been in this part of the house. I pushed doors open, flipping on lights until I found a room that had to be Millie’s. The walls were bare, the wooden floor neat—no strewn belongings or tossed clothing that Millie could trip over. There were drops of blood leading to a closed door across from her neatly made bed.
“Millie?” I said, but it came out a whisper. I couldn’t shout anymore. I was too afraid. I crossed the room and pushed open the door, bracing myself for the worst, only to find the bathroom dark, just like the rest of the house. Light from the bedroom spilled into the small space, and I found myself staring at Millie, perched on the edge of the tub in a tank top and shorts, her hair piled on her head like she was preparing to bathe and didn’t want to get it wet. Blood was smeared all over the sink and across the splash tiles in a macabre finger painting. I slid my hand along the wall beside the door and the light I switched on turned the burgundy blood into a cheery red.
Millie had ear buds stuck in her ears and her head bobbed like she was just chilling out instead of bleeding out. She had wrapped one set of fingers in a ratty washcloth and was gripping them tightly. Her eyes were opened, blankly staring, and she was completely unaware that I was there.
I yanked the earbuds from her ears and she yelped a little, clearly startled.
“Amelie,” I growled.
“David?” she cried, but her voice carried more surprise than pain.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“What the hell are YOU doing?” she shot back, immediately matching my angry tone.
“The house is dark, there’s a trail of blood up the stairs, this bathroom looks like you attempted suicide, and you’re sitting here zoning out to your iPod—”
“I sliced my finger open. I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s throbbing a little, but that’s all. It was bleeding a lot, so I’m just trying to get it to stop enough to put a band aid on it.”
“Let me see.” I knelt in front of her and eased the washcloth away from her fingers. The blood immediately welled and spilled over, but not before I got a decent look at the injury on the fleshy pad of her pointer finger.
“It’s pretty deep, but you could probably get away with a band aid if you aren’t afraid of a little scar.” I wrapped her finger back up tightly and instructed her to keep it raised. “Where are the bandages?
“I thought there were some in my cabinet above the sink. I couldn’t find any. But I didn’t look very long. I was bleeding and wanted to get it stopped before I made a huge mess. Henry hates blood and I didn’t want to wake him.”
“Too late.”
“What?”
“You scared him to death, Millie. Henry came into the bar in his pajamas, babbling about blood and the number of stitches on a baseball. He was completely freaked out. I thought something terrible had happened to you. I didn’t know what I’d find.” I suddenly felt the room swim around me and I sank down onto the toilet seat before I passed out and created a whole different emergency.
“Henry did?” she asked, dumbfounded. “I thought he was in bed! I didn’t hear him. I was . . .”
“Listening to music?” I barked.
“Yes! It’s not a crime, Tag. I’m in my own home! I don’t have to explain myself to you! And my house is always dark when Henry’s asleep! I’m blind, remember? I don’t need the lights on!” Her lower lip trembled, and I groaned.
“Damn it, Amelie. Don’t cry, sweetheart. I was scared. Okay?” Scared was putting it mildly. I stood and opened the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink. I could see where Amelie had searched from the
bloody fingerprints and the blood streaked items crowded on the little shelves. There were three loose band aids on the top shelf, and I pulled them down gratefully, shutting the cabinet with a mental promise to scrub it down when I was done doctoring Millie.
“Where’s Henry now?” she asked quietly.
“Axel was at the bar. He likes Axel, so I left him there until I could see what had happened. You scared the hell out of me, Amelie.” I punched a message into my phone, a quick text to Axel, letting him and Henry know that Millie was fine and I’d be back to get Henry in a little while.
“Are you calling me Amelie because you’re mad? You’re not my mother, Tag. I know it must look bad, but I’m completely capable of handling this situation. I’ve cut myself before and I’m sure I’ll cut myself again.”
“Shh, Millie. I’m not mad. I’m not mad. Just . . . come here.” I pulled her up, and positioning her in front of the sink, bandaged her finger. There were streaks of blood down her arms and some on her legs as well. I rinsed out the washcloth she’d used to stem the blood flow, wringing it out until the hot water ran clear. Then I used it to gently blot the blood away from her hands, trying not to notice the way her skin goose-pimpled as I continued up her forearms, and then up farther, wiping away a spot from her left shoulder and a smudge on the tip of her chin. The bathroom was small, the act intimate, and the frustration and fear I’d felt disappeared with the blood stains. I kept rinsing the cloth so it was warm against her skin, and when I knelt to clean her feet, she laid her hands on my shoulders for balance as I lifted one foot and washed it and then moved to the next. I stopped to rinse and warm my cloth before I moved up one lean leg and down the other and felt her fingers curl into my T-shirt, making heat curl in my stomach. I continued until every inch of her bare skin was pink from the heat of the cloth and slightly damp from my ministrations, and when I was done I wished I wasn’t. I couldn’t do anything about the blood on her black tank top or the hot pink shorts that matched her toenail polish. I touched one toenail with the pad of my thumb.