Held Against You

by Season Vining

  “Time out,” he says, interrupting me. “All those world travels and then you group Grauman’s Chinese Theater in with them?”

  “I want to try my hands and feet in all the celebrity handprints and footprints.”

  “You’ll need to change your list. It’s not called Grauman’s anymore.”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” I say, staring out the window. “I won’t get to do any of that stuff.”

  There’s a beat of silence and then, “Did you kill him?”

  After a long while, I answer quietly. “Yes.” I take a deep breath, close my eyes. “But I didn’t mean to. No one has the right to take another person’s life, no matter how vile of a person he was.”

  He nods his head and shifts his gaze to the road. “Did he deserve it?”

  “Yes.”

  I can almost see the warring going on in his head. He wants to know more. He wants to know why. I toy with the idea of leaving it there, dangling in front of him. Finally, I put Steel out of his misery.

  “Dennis was my stepfather. He used to beat my mom.” There is an instant change in Steel, a new stiffness to his shoulders, a worried line between his brows. A muscle on the side of his jaw twitches and it feels like a warning of some kind of fury lying just beneath his surface. “She’d been hospitalized so many times and she never would press charges. It was this huge secret that she kept hidden so well. Only me and my aunt Nora knew the truth. We both begged her to leave him, but she wouldn’t do it. She said she loved him.”

  I take a deep breath and push it out slowly through my nose. My mother’s bloodied face appears in my head. I can still see her broken fingers pointed in odd directions and the crisscrossed lines of purple bruises across her back.

  “She ended up back in the hospital after he came home and beat her with his golf club. I vowed that would be the last time he touched her. It was an empty promise when I made it, but it came true.”

  Silence engulfs us but it doesn’t feel confining. It’s a needed break to absorb and process my confession. Steel takes a deep breath and opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again. He repeats this a few times until the words spill out like vomit.

  “My father beat my mom too.”

  I reach out and place my hand on his shoulder, my fingers pressing in to the warm hard muscle there. Instantly, I understand the memories and the kind of childhood he must have had. I share his nightmares, his fears. It’s like belonging to a club that you wish you didn’t. Hi, my name’s Kat and I had an abusive parent.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Not as sorry as he was.”

  5. HIM

  “Sacramento,” Kat says reading the highway sign. “Isn’t that the capital of California?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, if I added ‘Visit the capital of each state’ to my bucket list, could we–”

  “No.” I interrupt her.

  Kat crosses her arms and frowns at me. She looks out the window for a few minutes, taking in the city as we pass through.

  “I don’t see what’s so special about this place. It looks kind of boring.”

  “It has more trees per capita than any other place in the U.S. And there’s a huge network of tunnels that were built during the raising of the city to avoid flooding.”

  “You know all of that and you’ve never heard of the movie Ghost? Your priorities are seriously messed up.”

  I throw my shades on and stare out at the cars in front of us. Capture and deliver. Capture and deliver. I repeat my mantra a few times just to keep my hands around the steering wheel instead of her throat.

  I exit onto Hwy 99 and decide we’ll sleep in Bakersfield tonight. It’s about four hours from here and I figure getting off the main highway will be a good idea. I know moving the GPS device to that minivan will only distract Boots for so long. He’ll figure out what I’ve done and who knows what other tricks he has up his sleeve.

  There’s a loud pop and then a flapping sound. The car pulls hard to the left.

  “Shit,” I mumble as I pull over on the shoulder.

  “What happened?” Kat asks.

  “Flat tire.”

  I hop out and inspect the rear driver’s side tire before opening the trunk in search of the spare. To my relief, I lift the bottom panel and find a tire tool and a full size spare. I pull them both out and set them on the ground. When I close the trunk, Kat is staring through the rear glass. Her face is a mask of worry, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. I handcuff her, threaten her, we run from bikers and she’s worried now? I don’t understand women, especially this one.

  The sun is setting fast and in the fading light I get started changing the tire. I remove my jacket and lay it on the roof of the car. Kat rolls down her window, stacking her forearms on the edge and placing her chin on top. She twists her lips to the side and looks on while tears hang on her eyelashes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her this quiet. It’s unnerving. I don’t understand her tears and I don’t have time to worry about whatever breakdown or revelation she’s having at this very moment.

  I use the tire tool to loosen the lug nuts and remove them. Then, I place the jack under the car and start to turn the crank. Cars race past us, the force causing the car to rock. Kat looks to the highway and back to me often, like she’s waiting for something.

  I remove the tire and throw it to the side. It’s then that I notice a matchbox-sized device attached to the backside of the tire. It looks homemade. I try to pull it off, but it’s really stuck. I stand, place my foot on top of the tire, and pull on the box with all my might. It finally comes free and I go stumbling into the closest lane of traffic.

  I hear Kat scream and turn to see a large van speeding toward me. Time doesn’t slow down like you think it does in these situations. I’m on sensory overload. Kat’s scream is only one note in the symphony of sounds surrounding me. Her voice is accompanied by the van’s horn and screeching tires, the whir of cars flying by in every other lane and my furious pulse thundering. My feet remain still as I meet the van driver’s eyes through the windshield, his confusion takes a backseat to the fear and anger displayed on his face. The van’s left headlight is out and it feels like a one-eyed beast charging toward me. Finally my feet catch up with my brain and I throw myself back onto the shoulder just as the screeching van arrives.

  He gives me the finger and speeds back up, leaving me in the dust. I lean over, resting my hands on my knees for a moment. The adrenaline racing through my body vibrates my insides. I take a few deep breaths to clear my head and look down at the contraption in my hand. There’s a spike coming out of it that looks spring loaded. I push it inside the box and it pops right back out. On the outside, there are letters crudely scratched into the metal.

  I hold it up at an angle and wait for the lights of the next car to pass over us. When they do, my eyes adjust and I read the words aloud.

  “Too easy,” it says. I wrap the box in my fist and throw it to the ground. “Fucking Boots!”

  I smash it with my heel and though I don’t do any real damage to it, I feel better. Staring down at the device, I realize that Boots means serious business. He’s not like other competition I’ve had to deal with. He knows what I’m going to do before I even do it. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he didn’t make an appearance until I’d captured Kat. He’s playing a game, manipulating the rules.

  I get the spare on quickly, the lug nuts back in place, and lower the car down.

  “Fuck!”

  Kat sticks her head out of the window and wipes the wetness from her cheeks.

  “What now?” she asks.

  “The spare is flat.”

  I pull my bag out of the trunk, slip my jacket back on and grab my pistol and phone from the front seat.

  “Are you going to call a tow truck?” Kat asks.

  I dial my assistant.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a flat tire right outside of Sacramento.”

&n
bsp; “Let me see what I can do,” he says. I hear the click of a keyboard as Brad looks through his database. “I can get you a replacement. Let me make a call and get back with you.”

  I glance at the car and find the back door thrown open and Kat running down the shoulder of the highway. She stumbles and falls forward, landing hard on the concrete.

  “Shit!”

  I take off after her. She’s back up on her feet, but moving slower now. My quick steps catch up to her soon enough. Kat turns when she hears me approaching. My arms are around her in no time and we tumble to the ground, with her body pinned beneath mine.

  Our chests heave, pushing against each other as we fight to regain control of our breaths. My hands are trapped beneath us, gravel cutting into my skin. Her glassy eyes are inches away, her parted lips exhaling against mine. In any other situation, I would take time to relish this moment—this beautiful girl and her bare vulnerability—but I’m not a complete dick.

  “Where are you running to?” I ask.

  “I can’t go to prison,” she says as tears leak from the corners of her eyes and soak into her hairline.

  Guilt stabs at my chest and I release her, sitting up. “And Boots? If he gets to you, you’ll never see prison, Kat.”

  She swipes the wetness from her cheeks and drops her chin to her chest. “Maybe that’s what I deserve.”

  I stand, dust off my hands and offer her one. “I can protect you if you stick with me.”

  Kat looks at my outstretched hand and back to my face. She nods, places her hand in mine and I help her up. I look at her tearstained face, watch her struggle not to cry.

  “Why did you freak out back there?”

  She doesn’t let go of my hand. “Sorry.”

  “We don’t have time for this, Kat. Seriously, what’s the problem?” I ask.

  She turns to look at me, her frightened eyes now enraged. “What’s the problem? I’m being taken against my will to stand trial for murder. A murder I committed, and which I’ll probably get the death penalty for. Oh, and there’s a hit man trying to get the job done before my home state can do it. And you’re asking me what my problem is? I understand you’re a man with the emotional range of a rock, but I didn’t think you were that dense.”

  I don’t take offense to her words. There are worse labels for me than emotionless.

  “No, what I mean is, why now? Why did a flat tire send you into a meltdown?”

  She shakes her head. “I guess it’s just getting to me, that’s all. The reality of it.”

  I nod.

  “And it reminded me…” More tears slide down her cheeks and she quickly wipes them away. “We were on a trip to Austin once—me, Mom, and Dennis. We got a flat tire and somehow Dennis blamed my mother for it. It was the first time he hit her in front of me.”

  “Gutless piece of shit.” And there’s another thing we have in common. Flashes of my mother’s bruised face appear behind my closed eyes. I blink those images away and focus on Kat.

  “They made me stay in the car and continued to fight outside. My mom wouldn’t even look at me as I screamed and beat on the glass. I could read Dennis’s body language, and I knew something bad was going to happen. I couldn’t hear what my mom said, but it was Dennis’s breaking point. He grabbed her by the throat and shoved her into oncoming traffic.

  “Cars were speeding toward her and he watched with this evil indifferent smirk on his face. I tried to get out to help her, but he hit me with a look that warned I better not. Horns were honking, tires screeched, all while my mom crawled from the highway back onto the shoulder of the road. Right at his feet. Just like he wanted.”

  “If he wasn’t dead already…” I said.

  “My therapist says I have post-traumatic stress disorder because of that incident. He also says I use avoidance and humor to deflect dealing with stressful situations and real emotion. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “Your therapist?”

  “Two things that all rich kids have, Elliot: an AmEx card and a therapist. My mom thought it was a good idea after my dad died. I’m kind of fucked up.”

  I place the fingers of my free hand under her chin and lift her face. “We’re all fucked up. Some of us are just better at pretending.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We can’t stay here,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “Kat,” I say leaning closer. “I’ve got you. We’ve just got to make it to that exit.”

  She nods, her gaze darts to the highway and back to our joined hands. The playful and smiling girl is a muted version of herself. I squeeze her hand and let go.

  “Oh, no. If we’re going to do this, you have to hold on to me,” she says.

  She leaps forward and slides her fingers between mine again. I’m shocked by her needy touch and want to pull away. This is different from talking her down from her escape attempt. That was on my terms and with my purpose. Kat’s eyes check the highway again.

  I grab my bag with my free hand. “Let’s go.”

  As I start to walk, her quick nervous steps help her keep up. With the city behind us, there are large open plots of land in between businesses and warehouses. Across the highway there’s a church with an empty parking lot. There aren’t many cars on the highway, but each one that passes makes Kat press herself into my side.

  “You’ve been on the run for a month. You should be used to this,” I point out.

  “I never hitchhiked on highways. I usually found rides in parking lots or truck stops.”

  I nod and pull her along.

  “Distract me,” she says.

  I kick at a pebble and watch it hop and skip its way into the nearest traffic lane.

  “Tell me about Dennis.”

  An asshole in a red Chevy blows his horn as he passes and Kat jumps. Her fingernails dig into the back of my hand. She loosens her grip, but doesn’t let go. With the ducking of her head I can tell that she’s annoyed and embarrassed by her reaction.

  Even with all the women I’ve been with, holding hands was never part of the deal. Her soft, tiny hand in mine is strange, but not unpleasant. It makes me wonder what the rest of her skin feels like. I roll my eyes and curse myself for such weak thoughts.

  “When he and my mom were dating it wasn’t bad. Or, at least, I didn’t see it. I was a kid then. So, some guy bringing me presents every time he came over was great. He could go from an endearing charmer to violence in seconds. It took nothing to set him off. He once destroyed a portrait of my dad because my mom brought him up at the dinner table. There were times when my mom would come home with bruises even back then. I confided in my Aunt Nora and she tried to persuade my mom to leave him. But she wouldn’t do it. My mom chose Dennis over her sister and her own child.”

  “Once he saw what he could get away with, I’m sure it only got worse,” I chime in, using my own memories for reference.

  “I shot Dennis with his own gun. We were fighting and it went off. The look in his eyes as he bled out on the floor of his fancy office held no remorse for the kind of man he was. I stood over him, wanting to help, but wanting it all to be over. All I could think about was him living through this and my mother still being trapped. I just wanted to set her free. And the kicker is, my mom won’t even talk to me now. She hates me for what happened. But, I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You always have a choice,” I reply.

  While I’d love to have an excuse for some of the decisions I’ve made, I don’t. The fact is we do always have a choice. In every situation there are options. With theoretical angels and demons sitting on each shoulder, it’s common to talk yourself into the easy choice as if it’s the only one. It may not be a simple decision or have the ideal outcome, but the alternatives are always there. It’s something my mother drilled into me as a young child. I’ve always carried those words with me.

  “I still think I made the right one. That bastard stole my mom from me. He beat her into someone else. Somebody I barely knew.”
>
  “Your mom holds some responsibility too.”

  “You’re right.”

  I’ve met some despicable people in my line of work—deadbeat dads, murderers, thieves, and everything in between. None of it bothered me. I never passed judgment on these people. It was only the men who abused women and children that ever saw my wrath. There was an uncontrollable force inside me that wanted to punish them and make them accountable. It was a ghost that lived in my head and demanded that I ruin them like they ruined those they touched.

  Anger fills my chest and an electric charge ignites my rage. It’s a broken dam of memories as I compare Dennis to my own piece-of-shit father. He was a stranger to me. All I knew of him was the smell of his whiskey and the sound his boots made on the front porch. His authority didn’t come from wealth, like Dennis’s, but from the messages he delivered with closed fists and backhanded threats. He wasn’t a rich man, but he held all the power.

  “Men like him make me sick,” I spit.

  I don’t know why I tell her that. I don’t know why I say anything at all. Something in Kat pries these things from me.

  “Once they were married, it got worse. Or maybe I just saw it more. We moved in with him and it was harder to hide their fights. I was getting older and eventually, I saw through the gifts he threw at me. They were bribes to keep quiet.”

  We walk a few more steps in silence. Kat’s palm sweats against mine and her fingers squeeze tighter every few seconds. It’s a Morse code S.O.S. in my hand. I feel a strange sense of irony as I keep my body between her and the highway. How can I be her protector and her captor?

  “Your father had to be better than that,” I say.

  Kat smiles up at me and nods her head.

  “He was amazing. Some of my earliest memories are of him reading stories to me in bed. No matter what book it was, he would do all these crazy voices to make me laugh. He was a great dad,” she says, her voice softening. “He’s the reason I love all things from the eighties. He never really left that decade behind. We used to have movie marathons and listen to his favorite bands on vinyl. It’s a way to still feel connected to him.”