Beautiful Torture

by Emery Jacobs

  I pull her toward the front door, but she’s not budging.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re leaving that soon?”

  I lift my eyebrows and smile before saying, “Yeah, I’m ready to get back to work. That’s one thing I’ve missed….my art. You knew I was leaving, right?”

  “Sure, but I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon. I figured we’d have a couple of weeks to catch up and visit.”

  “I’m gonna miss you, but I promise things will be different this time. It won’t be like the seven years in Vegas. I won’t put you through that again,” I reassure her.

  She used to drive herself crazy with worry over me back when I was living in Vegas. Honestly, it’s a part of my life I’d rather forget.

  She covers my hand with hers before saying, “I believe you have changed. Rehab was the best decision we’ve ever made. I only wish I would have known how bad Piper’s death affected you.”

  “All of that is in the past. And I’m not living that life anymore. Nobody is responsible for my actions but me. And I intend to focus on my art and keeping me well,” I tell her.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she says.

  “It’s not like you’re never going to see me again. I’m gonna be less than six hours away,” I remind her.

  She nods before saying, “Let’s get you loaded up. I know you’re ready to get started with your new life.”

  Tonight will be the last time I call Houston my home. Tomorrow, I say good-bye to my past. And walk into my future with a clear mind, a positive attitude, and my eyes wide open.

  Chapter 4

  Henley

  Thunder rolls through the night air as rain hammers unmercifully onto the streets of New Orleans. My feet move quickly along the edge of the sidewalk that meets the overhang of the shops that line Toulouse Street. The case that houses my guitar is taking a beating from the downpour. I can only pray that it’s waterproof and keeps my baby dry. Baby being my vintage Gibson. It’s not only one of the few things I own, but it’s by far the nearest to my heart.

  My two-hour performance with my Gibson a couple of streets over was completely worth it until Mother Nature screwed it up. Rain? The skies were a beautiful blue all day with a mild breeze. Perfect weather for a late September day. If I haven’t learned anything else after living in Louisiana for the last couple of years, it’s that nothing changes faster than the weather. Lightning dances across the dark sky and is followed by a loud clap of thunder. Holy shit. The combination of my body jerking and the heavy case causes me to lose my balance and tumble face first into the wet sidewalk. Mistake number one, not checking the damn weather forecast before coming out tonight.

  I watch a couple of taxi’s fly down the wet street as I push myself up to my feet and scurry underneath the overhang. Mistake number two—well, not really a mistake, but right now, it seems like it—giving all the money I collected while performing tonight to two homeless men right before the rain started—which leaves me with nothing for a taxi. I take a deep breath and then tuck my ponytail securely underneath the beanie I’m wearing. Then I make sure it’s secure before pulling the hood of my jacket over it. The sound of voices behind me reminds me that I’m not alone. Safety is something usually second nature to me when walking the dark streets at—I look at my watch—3 a.m., but the storm is somewhat all consuming right now. After buttoning up my jacket, I run my hand along the lone pocket that secures a small baton I’ve had to use on a couple of occasions to fight off drunks. I grab my Gibson before my feet start moving again.

  In only a few more steps, I come to a stop—tilting my head back looking upward. My vision blurs momentarily, but it doesn’t matter because I know exactly where I am. After a few seconds, my eyes regain focus and lock onto the sign hanging low in the entryway of the tattoo shop. The Drunken Peacock has never looked so good.

  “Finally,” I mumble.

  I move swiftly around the corner to find the stairwell that leads to my shelter for the night. A resurgence of energy finds my tired body as I sprint up the stairs two at a time until I reach my destination. My lips curl up into a smile as happiness takes over my current emotional state. I breathe in deeply while staring at the door to the apartment that sits over Smitty’s place.

  I met Smitty, the scary looking guy who owns The Drunken Peacock Tattoo Parlor, a couple of weeks after moving to New Orleans. I had been wandering the streets of the French Quarter with my guitar in hand and looking for a place to perform when I saw him leaning against the outside wall of his shop taking a smoke break. He stopped me mid-step and told me to play something for him. I took out my Gibson with shaky hands as Smitty pushed off the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and took a wide, intimidating stance. I closed my eyes and strummed Poison’s hit ‘Every Rose has its Thorn.’ When I finished, my eyes fluttered open, and I found myself surrounded by a small group of smiling faces. After that, he told me I was welcome to play in front of his shop anytime. Then, a few weeks later, he told me about the apartment and that I could sleep there if I ever needed to. I often think about that first experience of letting go through my music. It was by far the most amazing.

  It’s been months since I’ve found myself standing in this very spot. Now that I have a place of my own, I rarely ever need somewhere to lay my head. After sitting my guitar next to the door, I drop to the ground and lift the loose board. Running my hand underneath it in the dark sends chills over my body. I really hope the key is all I find. Not a big fan of things that crawl around in the night. My fingers wrap around the cool piece of metal before I slide it out from underneath the board. Still on my knees, I slip the key into the lock while turning the doorknob. The door sticks a little, but I’m able to force it open.

  I step into the dry, dark room. Something is different. The smell, the shadows of furniture that’s been rearranged, and…the fucking light that just lit up the bedroom that’s located on the far end of the living room. The pounding of my rapid heartbeat is the only sound I hear. The rain has become a subtle background noise of no importance. My eyes scan the room until they land on the silhouette of a huge figure that appears in the bedroom door. I can only assume this silhouette is of a guy because I haven’t seen many females who stand over six feet tall with broad shoulders, a flat chest, and wearing nothing but shorts.

  “Hey,” he yells so loudly that you would think I was three streets over instead of standing just steps away from him.

  I need to move, but my body is in shock or something because it feels like I am made of lead. This is supposed to be a place of safety for me. Smitty always said it was mine if I ever needed it, but obviously, somebody else either found the key or lives here. While I’m lost in thought, the guy charges toward me. As he gets closer, I go into protection mode. This is the time when I know it’s either him or me. And right now, it’s all about me.

  I grab my baton out of my pocket and grip it tightly. This poor guy has no idea what’s about to hit him. And even though I’m in the wrong here, I still can’t let some random guy put his hands on me.

  He reaches for my arm to block the blow, but is unsuccessful. My baton makes contact with his stomach, his chest, and finally his face.

  “Shit!” he hollers as he bends over clutching his stomach with one hand and rubbing his jaw with the other.

  Before I can turn to run out the door, he lunges for my legs. Luckily, he misses but is able to knock my right foot out from under me. My body makes a loud thud as it hits the floor. I’m wedged between the door and the wall, but not for long. I let out a grunt as I bend my knee and then push forward thrusting a kick into his chest, wishing like hell that I had on my boots with three-inch heels. Obviously, the kick does nothing to slow him down, because he grabs my right wrist and lifts it up staring at the piece of wood. I wish I could make out his face, but I can’t because there’s not a whole lot of light and my focus is for shit.

  “Is this a fucking billy club?” he grunts. His voice gravelly,
different from before when he was yelling. It’s the sound of disbelief.

  Ignoring his question, I bend my right knee and then use every ounce of strength I have left in my body to push my foot forward. It’s a direct hit to his balls, or man bits, or whatever the fuck he wants to call them. The good news is he’s down, but the worst fucking news is that he’s on top of me. I scramble to maneuver my way out from under him, using my hands and fingernails to push and scratch my way free.

  Once I’m on my feet, I close my eyes and pray silently that, this time, I’ll be able to escape. It’s the end of the line. Either I get out, or he will return what I’ve been giving him over the last few minutes because my adrenaline is drained and my body wiped out. All the fight is gone. Jumping over his large frame, I’m able to make it out the door. I grab my guitar and hurry down the stairs to the sidewalk. Rain is still falling, but it’s let up a little. My soaked red Toms have seen better days, but right now, my only other choice is going barefoot.

  My feet move quickly as I think about all the shit that happened over the last hour. This night was bad. One of the worst I’ve had since living in this city. Worry sets in as I take my final few steps before reaching my apartment. What if he’s following me? I twist my neck around as far as possible to be sure no one is lurking behind me. Surely, I would’ve heard his footsteps. Plus, he wasn’t dressed. Stop letting this consume you, Henley. He’s not following you. But if he were to follow me, he could easily break down my door. How would anybody know? No real friends. No family who knows where I am. Only Mrs. Fowler from work. Shit. This guy could murder me in my own home, and no one would know until the smell of death seeped through the walls.

  I find the key to my apartment still safely tucked away in my back pocket. As I reach my small porch, I inhale deeply and close my eyes. My trembling hands find the wooden door and inch their way up slowly until I feel the coolness of the brass numbers. I slowly trace each number with my fingers. One, three, and two. I open my eyes and slowly exhale. I’m finally home.

  Chapter 5

  Caleb

  “Rough night?” Rex’s much too loud voice travels from across the lobby. A year ago, the answer to his question would’ve been yes. Because every night was a fucking rough night. But since moving to New Orleans two months ago, life has been good. Except for last night. No. Last night was definitely not one of my best. But at least I remember it. Is being beat down by a small girl with a billy club considered a bad night?

  With my elbows resting on the counter and my face still buried in my hands, I mumble, “What would make you ask that?”

  He throws back his head and laughs.

  Rex is one of three other artists who works here at The Drunken Peacock. None of us are from New Orleans. But we each have a reason that brought us here. Rex moved here almost seven years ago from Baltimore. Said this was the best decision he’s ever made. He’s kind of an asshole with a bad attitude, but hey, we all have our issues. He’s a good artist, and that’s what’s important.

  “No reason other than you have a fucking huge bruise and claw marks on your neck. And your ass hasn’t moved from that spot in over thirty minutes.”

  My damn head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, but I’m able to lift it from my hands and look across the room at Rex. He’s leaning against the wall staring at his phone.

  “Didn’t sleep well. You know, with the storm.” I spit out the words, hoping like hell his client shows up soon because I’m not really feeling this question and answer session we’ve got going on.

  “Do I know her?” he asks before looking up from his phone.

  Nosey fucker. Should’ve just come out and asked me instead of beating around the damn bush. I can imagine the thoughts that are running through his mind. I’m sure he thinks I got a beat down during sex, but in reality, I did get a beat down, but it didn’t involve fucking.

  “No,” I answer quickly before standing and heading toward the back of the shop.

  “Wait. I’m not done,” he says jokingly.

  “Look, Rex. I had a misunderstanding with someone last night. It wasn’t about sex or anything you would be interested in hearing, so I’m just gonna head to the back and get my station ready. Hopefully, I’ll get a walk-in or two later.”

  “You know I’m just fucking around, man. What you do in the privacy of your own apartment is your business. Just don’t bring that shit to the shop because Smitty will kick your ass out faster…well, just don’t do it.” Still laughing, he shakes his head before walking around me and moving toward his station.

  This is exactly what I do not want…to be labeled as a freak. I raise my arms above my head and stretch, slowly. The pain is some better after the Ibuprofen, but my fucking ribs are still killing me. Damn crazy bitch. Hope she shows up again tonight because I’ll be ready. I decided a taser might slow down my billy club carrying guest, so I stopped by the pawn shop just down the street this morning on the way back from my AA meeting. And lucky for me, they had several to choose from.

  “Hey, is Smitty here today?” The sound of a husky female voice grabs my attention. I look over my shoulder so I can put a face with that sexy voice, but it doesn’t do her justice because she’s fucking off the charts. My eyes watch her every movement as she steps inside the shop. Her long dirty blonde hair rests just below her shoulders, her cheekbones are set high on her face, and her lips are pink, full, and pouty. Perfect. Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of light colored aviator shades. But I imagine them to be either green or a dark brown.

  She shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans as she stands in front of me waiting. I guess she wants an answer to…

  My voice catches in my throat, but I’m able to mumble, “Smitty?” My response—a question instead of the answer she was looking for.

  She stretches her neck, looking around me. I guess she’s trying to see if there is anybody here who can actually give her an answer to the question she asked

  “Hey, Henley. What’s up?” Rex asks as he walks up behind me.

  “I’m looking for Smitty,” she says.

  “Not here. It’s Saturday, and you know he never shows his face in here on Saturdays. Family day. Or at least that’s what he tells us.” Rex chuckles before he continues, “Do you need something that one of us can help you with?” He looks over at me and nods before directing his attention back to her.

  She shrugs. “No, not really. Just needed to talk to him, but I’ll catch up with him Monday.”

  She spins around and walks toward the door.

  The only part of my body that has moved since she walked into the shop are my eyes. She most likely thinks I’m some kind of weirdo who stares and barely speaks. I’ve been with my share of hot chicks over the years, and I usually never have a problem, but since I’ve been sober, everything has changed. I’m not the same asshole I used to be. Before, I didn’t have a problem sticking my cock in any willing and wanting pussy. But now, I almost shudder at the thought of being an ass just to get what I want.

  “You about to set up shop and play for a while?” Rex asks before she makes it to the door.

  “Yeah, I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve played here. I miss this street a lot. Oh, and of course, you guys, too.” She looks back at Rex and smiles before she pushes her way out the door.

  “Now that,” he motions toward Henley once she’s outside, “I would gladly slam against the wall and fuck senseless.”

  His words piss me off. Not because I know anything about her, but because he’s always such a dick. He made the same comment the other day about one of his clients—which is so fucking inappropriate, but being a jerk is what he seems to do best.

  “Who is she?” I ask.

  “Henley is all I know. She’s a friend of Smitty’s. Used to play in front of the shop every day, but I haven’t seen her in a while. Maybe she found somewhere else to play—with bigger crowds and more money.” He shrugs before grabbing the lighter from the counter. Then he slides
his shades over his eyes and sticks a cigarette between his lips.

  “Be back in ten,” he says as he walks out the door.

  * * * * *

  The final shade of red settles on Ray’s shoulder, bringing together the arrangement of flowers that has taken three separate visits to complete. When she jumps up from the table, I grab the mirror and pass it to her. Her eyes are bright with excitement, and she has a smile plastered on her face. Ray turns to look at me, her back pointing toward the mirror on the wall. Her small body twists and turns until she has the view she wants.

  “Oh my God, Caleb. Thank you. It’s so pretty,” she squeals.

  I love moments like this. A happy customer gives me a sense of pride. It motivates me and makes me want to do better. I don’t let the fact she describes my work as ‘so pretty’ bother me. She’s an eighteen-year-old girl and ‘so pretty’ is equal to ‘fucking unbelievable’ in my book.

  “I have to agree, Ray. It’s so pretty.” I throw my head back and laugh.

  “Stop it, Caleb. You know what I mean. I love it.” She gently slaps my shoulder.

  “I know. I know. Just giving you a hard time. But I’m really glad you love it.” I take the mirror from her, and she skips over to her bag. She grabs her phone and heads back to the mirror.

  “I’ve gotta share. Because you know that it didn’t really happen if five hundred of my closest friends don’t see the finished product.” She adjusts her phone to the perfect angle for the photo before saying, “Even you know that—right, old man?” She smiles while her fingers move a million miles a minute posting the picture to most likely every social media site.

  “Old man?” I balk. “I hate to disappoint you, sweetheart, but twenty-six does not make me an old man.”

  She tosses the phone into her bag before she adds, “I hear what you say, old man.” She lifts her right eyebrow and smiles.