Devil's Ruin

by Bijou Hunter

  “Alani has more friends now that we live in town,” Makoa says while bouncing a basketball.

  I walk next to him and keep an eye out for trouble. Annie perhaps? “Okay.”

  “Now I have to play alone.”

  Worrying the dark-haired boy will cry, I offer, “I can play basketball.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “No.”

  “Perfect,” he says, snickering.

  The park is three blocks from our Pasadena Townhomes. On the way, Makoa and I stop at a gas station. I buy two bottles of Gatorade and fun-size bags of M&M’S—minis for me, peanut filled for him. At the park, we find dog walkers, moms with rowdy kids, moms with calm kids, a few men running on the paths, and a cop car parked at the curb.

  Of the six available basketball courts, three remain open. I throw the basketball at the hoop, but the ball misses by a few feet. Makoa laughs every time I fail to make a basket but finally decides he maybe should teach me to dribble better. He’s like a little Oz—kind of a jerk but mostly sweet.

  Missing my shots is fun until I notice a man from another court moving in our direction. Assuming he’s a pervert, I take a deep breath and prepare to ignore his behavior. Clove said ignoring perverts is the best solution when I’m in public surrounded by witnesses.

  “Hey, I’ve never seen you around here,” he says to me.

  Refusing to look at him, I focus on dribbling the ball. Then it hits my foot and goes flying. Makoa runs after the ball while the pervert stands a little closer to me.

  “I’m Jeff.”

  After his gaze flashes to the pervert, Makoa hands me the ball. I concentrate hard on dribbling rather than the pervert standing less than a foot from me. Focus on the ball and not on the pervert talking about how he likes to play basketball. Just focus on my time with Makoa. Then Pervert Jeff ruins my concentration by striking up a conversation with the boy.

  “No,” I say when he asks Makoa’s name.

  Jeff smiles. “So, you can talk.”

  I bounce the ball to Makoa who bounces it back to me. I’m about to walk away because the pervert’s too obnoxious to ignore. He keeps smiling in an overly friendly way, and I suspect he thinks I’m shy rather than completely disinterested. Clove has the same problem.

  “There’s a stereotype about Asian women being submissive,” Clove said during one of the crew’s weekly card games. “A stereotype that’s led to many bleeding men who thought they could bring me out of my shell.”

  Gesturing to Makoa to head out, I move to leave. My plan is to leave Jeff unharmed. I’m looking to control my temper and make the right decision. Except the pervert won’t take no for an answer.

  “Hey, don’t be a bitch,” he says and grabs my arm.

  I don’t lose control. Not even angry, I know I can’t have him touching me and cussing in front of the children. No, that wouldn’t be right.

  Understandably, I slam the basketball into his face, knocking him to the ground. Such a simple, almost harmless move. In fact, I’ve seen Clove and Pepper hit each other harder during arguments. Except Pervert Jeff bleeds easy and yells super loud. Then I spot the cop running from his car and notice the gun in his hand.

  Now I wish I’d lost my temper and really gone wild. Being a mature adult isn’t worth the boredom if I’ll end up in the same place as if I went nuts.

  ➸ Blackjack ★

  I crave damaged women. The more fucked up, the better. Or at least that’s what I thought until Annie. She wasn’t damaged as much as mentally ill and in need of medication. None of her problems are real, but I thought they were when we met. That night at Rusty Cage, I’d gotten attached once she grew teary-eyed about how the world did her wrong.

  Messed-up women are both my crack and kryptonite. Though forever drawn to them, they destroy me every time.

  I wasn’t always this way. I’d been a normal teenage boy until the day I stumbled upon a violent sight that changed my life.

  Out of juvenile hall years later, I’d just wanted to get laid. It wasn’t that easy, though. Nothing would ever be easy after what I’d seen and done.

  That’s why damaged, batshit crazy women aren’t in the cards for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dream of finding the right one. Sure, the attempt with Annie bit me on the ass—literally in the case of the fucking raccoons she let loose in my place—but I never learn.

  Now I have Yarrow under my skin, digging her way past my common sense and fear of pain, death, and damnation. She offers literally nothing in the ways of a woman. I don’t even know if she understands how bad I am for her. Yarrow is a kid really. I think she is anyway. I don’t know a damn thing about her.

  The Everything Nice Crew came to Rawlins with a reputation—former whores turned killers. The foxes reeked of damaged goods, so I kept my distance. They’re dangerous to a man with my weaknesses. It was easy with Pepper and Bay—the lesbians wanted nothing to do with me or any man. I doubt they’ve even learned my name in the last two months since they arrived. Ginger was claimed on day one by Oz who eye-fucked her upon meeting.

  The rest were just women. Beautiful, fucked-up women that I wanted to stay far, far away from which wasn’t easy since the crew and my club are a package deal.

  Until yesterday, I remained ahead of the curve, more focused on dodging Annie than falling hard for another messed-up girl of my dreams.

  Now I’m in deep with Yarrow. She can’t give me what I need because I’m not even certain what the fuck that is. Even if I did know, she is barely keeping her head above water. If I grab onto her, no doubt we’ll both drown.

  But I refuse to walk away. My desires are selfish and cruel, but I don’t care. I’m not the kid I was before that day in the woods. I’m an asshole now, and I’m not looking to change. Even if I wanted to, I can no more change for Yarrow than she could for me.

  But that’s cold, hard logic talking, and I’m no longer a man ruled by his common sense. Instead, my primal urges demand I claim Yarrow even if she kills me in the process.

  Convinced I need to protect her from hidden threats; I hang around the townhomes even when I can’t go inside. I don’t care if someone might call this behavior stalking. Fuck them! What do I care what anyone thinks? If I did, I wouldn’t be in the Heretics. I long ago learned I wasn’t suited to live by society’s bullshit rules.

  The entire time I’m sitting on my Harley and staring at the townhomes, I think of Yarrow. Did she once sell her body? I can’t imagine she did so willingly. She’s younger than the other women—barely legal even. No, someone forced her, and I wish I could hunt that person down. No doubt, Ginger and her crew fucked up that asshole worse than I’d manage. Even at my most violent, I’ve never been quick to slice off dicks the way the foxes are rumored to.

  I do a double-take when Yarrow and Makoa step through the front gate. I hadn’t expected to see her outside. Following her makes sense, but I can’t use the Harley, or she’ll notice. I figure she must be heading to the park nearby, so I decide to park and follow her on foot. I am a half a block behind them until they enter the gas station.

  Once they’re walking with their snacks, I linger a block back for the rest of the trip to the park. I find a spot near the playground with a solid view of the basketball courts. Partially hidden behind a tree, I stare at Yarrow like a skeevy douche. All while hoping none of the parents in the park call the cops on me for being a skeevy douche.

  Nearby, Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex—as Glitch calls him—sits in his patrol car. The cops enjoy hanging around the park and pretending to work. In reality, the douches are on the phone or reading. Hell, I once caught a fucker napping.

  I’m too far away to see if Douchebagasaurus Rex is catching some shuteye, but I figure he’ll ensure people feel safe.

  On the courts, Makoa patiently instructs Yarrow on how to dribble, but no amount of help gets the ball in the hoop. I don’t even know if she’s aiming for the hoop based on how badly her shots are. She’d probably see better if her g
ray and pink “Arkansas Forever” cap wasn’t pulled so far over her eyes.

  I find her lack of athleticism intoxicating. Her vulnerability addicts me. Yarrow doesn’t fit right in the world, but here she is anyway.

  Yarrow looks especially beautiful in her faded blue jeans, tattered at the ankles with material hanging over her pink Converse shoes. To brace against the chill, she only wears a long-sleeve gray thermal shirt with a heart printed on the chest along with a light red windbreaker. I notice she doesn’t bundle up as much as some of the other Everything Nice foxes. She and Clove are the least affected by the chilly, autumn weather.

  My mother, on the other hand, is a typical woman and always cold. I guess that’s why I always wonder about those women who don’t get chilly. What’s different about them?

  Curious about her body heat, I ponder a dozen questions I have about the beautiful brunette fox. Too busy daydreaming, I don’t register a gangly man on the court with Yarrow and Makoa. A second after I notice him, the asshole’s on the ground with blood pouring from his nose.

  I’m on the move toward the basketball courts, but Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex is closer, and he’s already yelling commands at Yarrow. People run from the scene while the man on the ground wails about a broken nose. Makoa freezes when the cop pulls his gun and points it at Yarrow, but her hand slowly reaches for what I suspect is a handgun hidden in a back holster under her windbreaker.

  “Yarrow!” I yell while jumping over a kid’s abandoned riding toy.

  I already see Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex pulling his trigger and her body responding to the shot. The Rawlins cops are too quick to shoot. Once the first bullet flies, they tend to unload on a person before finally stopping.

  “Yarrow!” I holler again while slowing down as Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex turns his gun in my direction. “Put up your hands.”

  Her gaze remains laser-focused on the cop, and her fingers twitch as if already feeling the gun in her hand. I stand still with my hands up so Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex will settle down.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her even if I’m unsure she’s listening. “Makoa is okay. You are okay. Just put your hands up, so the asshole cop doesn’t get spooked and shoot you in front of these kids.”

  Yarrow finally blinks as if awakening from a dream I assume involves shooting the cop and probably the guy on the ground. I don’t know what the bleeding asshole did, but his nose is most definitely broken.

  “Makoa, put your hands up, okay, kid? Show Yarrow it’s okay to do that.”

  A sharp little fucker, Makoa doesn’t hesitate. He senses where things are headed. The cop hasn’t said a word since I arrived, but his finger is dying to tug on his trigger. He just needs Yarrow to make a move.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Yarrow says and slowly lifts her hands. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “Don’t fucking move,” Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex tells me before stepping closer to Yarrow.

  “Everything is fine,” I say, and Yarrow finally looks at me. “Whatever the cop thinks you’ve done doesn’t matter. You just let him think that while I get Ginger, okay?”

  “What about Makoa?”

  “I’ll take him home.”

  “I haven’t said anyone can leave,” Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex snaps.

  “You have no reason to keep me, and I know you won’t harass a kid in front of all these nice tax-paying parents, will you?”

  “Just go,” he says before yanking Yarrow to a tree where he orders her to place her hands.

  I expect her to swing around and punch him, but she remains passive. Well, more like patient. When he asks her name, she recites the Miranda warning again. Douchebagasaurus Rex finds her gun and asks if she has a permit to carry. She continues to recite the Miranda warning.

  “I thought you were taking him home,” Deputy Douchebagasaurus Rex says to me.

  “I’ll wait until you have her cuffed and in the car. Don’t want you making up a reason to shoot her.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Roy,” snaps an approaching deputy. “There are kids in the park. Watch your language.”

  With more cops around and the arrival of EMTs for the whiny fucker on the ground, I figure Yarrow is safe from harm for the time being. I gesture for Makoa to follow me.

  When Yarrow glances in our direction, I tell her, “I’ll get Ginger.”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” she replies and smiles at Makoa.

  I nod at her and then hurry the boy out of the park. Once out of earshot from the cops, I ask, “What the hell happened?”

  “Some guy came over and started talking to her. Like trying to pick her up for a date. She didn’t talk to him, and he called her a bad word. Yarrow threw the basketball at his face, and he fell down.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, but then the cop was suddenly there and yelling at her.”

  “Rawlins cops are jerks.”

  “I know. Dad told me. Is Yarrow going to jail?”

  “For now, but Ginger will fix things.”

  “Did you think the cop would shoot her?”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah,” Makoa says, sounding like he might cry.

  “Yarrow hit the guy in the face, huh?” I say, hoping to distract him. “I saw her trying to get a basket. I assume she threw the ball better at his face than in the hoop.”

  Makoa gives me a weak smile. “Yeah, she’s really not good at basketball.”

  “It’ll be cool, kid. Don’t worry. You know how tough Ginger is, and your dad won’t let anyone mess with family.”

  As confident as I sound, I wish I was back at the park with Yarrow. She looked calm when we left, but she also looked calm less than a minute before trying to disembowel me. The local cops are dicks, and they might try to scare her. If they hurt her, she could react violently and—

  No.

  Yarrow is smarter than I give her credit. She knows the drill. That’s what the Miranda warning thing is about. She isn’t a victim. She’s tough and smart, and she’ll be fine. In fact, she’ll be out of jail very soon

  No way does the sheriff’s office knows what’s about to hit them once the Everything Nice Crew gears up.

  ➸ Yarrow ☆

  After a flurry of activity at the park, someone named Deputy Slager drives me to the sheriff’s office. I lean my head against the window and enjoy the view. I’m no longer upset about what happened at the park. I trust Blackjack will protect Makoa and bring the little boy home where he’ll be safe to enjoy the spaghetti dinner Cayenne has planned.

  Inside the sheriff’s office, two middle-aged women drink coffee and gossip as we enter. Their gazes focus on me while the deputy goes through my pockets. He adds my wallet and M&M’S to the bag with my weapons. I read the wanted posters on the wall while the deputy has me sit in a chair. His muttering is only background noise. I’m more interested in the gossiping women. They’re talking about the mayor and the Everything Nice Crew. One of them says I’m a whore criminal. The other says the deputy will lose his job for arresting me. I know the first lady is only half right, but I’m very curious about the second woman’s prediction. I’ve never gotten anyone fired before.

  Studying the deputy, I imagine his face when he gets fired. Will he cry or get angry? I think maybe both. I can picture his eyes red from sobbing. The image makes me smile.

  “Stand up,” he says and walks me to another desk. “I ran your ID through the system. Says your name was Aurora Freeman before you changed it to Yarrow Jones. Why would you go and change such a pretty name?”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” I repeat just as I have whenever any of the cops speak to me. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? Yes, I understand. With these rights in mind, do you wi
sh to speak to me? No, I do not wish to speak to you.”

  Cayenne taught me to state the Miranda warning if I ever came into contact with the police. Say nothing else. Don’t offer any information. Refuse to be baited into defending my behavior. Never lose my temper. Always avoid eye contact. Give them absolutely nothing.

  Slager rolls his eyes and goes about getting my prints. The ink feels weird on my skin, but I don’t lose my temper. I think about Blackjack at the park. Why was he there? Was he watching me? Is he a pervert stalking kids? Does he have a crush on one of the moms? Or is he interested in the man runner everyone kept looking at?

  “You can wipe your hands on—”

  Slager pauses and turns his attention to voices at the front desk. Glancing at where he’s focused, I wipe my fingers on his shirt sleeve.

  “Really?” Slager cries after noticing I’ve turned him into a napkin.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” I begin again, and he waves off my speech. “Why don’t you do me a favor and scoot your Miranda warning babbling ass into a cell until it’s time for you to go to court and get a bail set.”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles and guides me to an empty jail cell like the one I saw in a movie last week.

  Once locked inside, I rest on the cot and look at the dried smudges on my fingertips. They’re as black as Blackjack’s beard. I wonder if his hair is greasy like most men’s. I should touch it the next time I see him. He won’t mind. I think he likes me. Or maybe he doesn’t, but I think he does. Oz looked at Ginger in the same way—always staring for too long. I used to think that look meant Oz wanted to kill Ginger, but now I know better. So I think I understand what Blackjack wants, and I’m curious to find out if I want it too.

  ➸ Blackjack ★

  Makoa and I run nearly the entire way back to the townhomes. I haven’t run so fast since I was a kid, but Makoa still beats me to the gate. The kid’s little legs are on full throttle even inside the complex as he runs to the backyard.