The Play

by Karina Halle

  Jesus. I’m floored by the size of this man’s heart.

  “Who are you?” I can’t help but whisper.

  “Just a man,” he replies. “Come on.”

  He turns and walks off through the darkness, the pit bull pulling on the belt but reluctantly following, limping as he goes. The scruffy dog is right on his tail.

  “Is he going to be okay?” I ask.

  Lachlan eyes the dog. “Seems minor. I’ll get him to a vet tomorrow.”

  I walk beside Lachlan on the other side, careful not to vibe out the dogs since they seem so taken with him. Hell, I can’t blame them. I’d also follow him anywhere, whether he had food or not. I mean, I guess I did just that when he ran off into the forest.

  He keeps talking to them in his low voice, and my brain is going wild. It’s hard to know what time it is or even what direction we’re going along the path now. I wonder how the hell he’s going to get home, let alone me. I wonder if I should bring up the fact that we made out, just in case he’s already forgotten. Cuz I sure as hell have not.

  Finally we see the trees thin out and the rise of buildings and lights. The road, Lincoln Way, cuts along the edge of the park, and there are still a handful of concertgoers straggling along the sidewalk.

  “This seems busy enough,” Lachlan says as we come to a stop a few yards from the road. “You can hail a cab from here. Do you need any money?”

  I stare at him blankly. “No. Where are you going?”

  He gestures with his head down the street, where it disappears into the heart of the city. “Cabs don’t let you take dogs.”

  “An Uber might.”

  He raises his brow. “This Uber thing, you need a phone for that, aye?”

  “So you’re just going to walk?” I ask, incredulous. “That’s like miles and miles from here. That’s the whole freaking city. It will take hours.”

  He shrugs. “That’s fine. Will give me time to get to know the dogs better. If the pit’s leg gets worse, I’ll carry him. If he lets me.”

  I know I’m staring at him like he’s crazy, but I can’t help it. “It’s not safe to walk the streets this late at night,” I tell him.

  He rubs at his beard and gives me a small smile. “Listen, love, I can handle it.” He gazes down at the dogs. “Plus, I have a pit bull now. I’m sure I’ll be given a wide berth.”

  The fact is, anyone looking for trouble would give him a wide berth anyway. Those mountainous traps and shoulders, those hard, wild eyes, they warn everyone to stay away.

  Everyone but me.

  “I’ll go with you,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head. “You just said yourself that it’s a long walk.”

  I cross my arms and attempt a commanding stance. “That’s true, but you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

  In the distance, a siren wails. Lachlan looks off, chewing on his lower lip, that lip I’d give anything to chew on again. Finally his eyes slide to mine, amused and kind. “All right,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Yup.”

  “You really are something aren’t you?” He takes a step closer to me. “Stubborn as shit.”

  I grin at him and my grin widens when he reaches out and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “Shall we?” he asks.

  I squeeze right back, my palm pressed against his, skin on skin, electricity buzzing up my arm. I don’t know when I of all people started finding kissing and hand-holding to be insanely erotic, but I did. All because of him.

  Hand in hand, we head off across the city.

  I talk the entire time.

  About my mother.

  My brothers.

  My father.

  My ex-fiancé.

  My job.

  He listens intently to every single word that comes out of my mouth. It’s an amazing feeling to actually be heard. More than that, he seems to understand.

  We pass sketchy characters, but all Lachlan has to do is look at them and they shrink away. We pass parks where he spots other stray dogs, and it breaks his heart—and mine—that he can’t save them all. We walk through blocks and blocks of harsh city life, and Lachlan seems more at ease than ever. He’s alert but comfortable, even as we pass the fringes of the dangerous Tenderloin district. And I never feel unsafe.

  The dogs stay by our side the whole time, with Lachlan feeding them from another packet of beef jerky that I ran into a 7-11 to get. They seem more comfortable, and Lachlan tells me that he can tell they both had homes at one point, which will make it easier for them to get adopted.

  When we get to his apartment building, my feet are burning and the sky seems to be growing lighter in the east, and I hope it’s a trick of my eyes because I still have to go to work when day breaks.

  I hope the dawn never comes.

  I want the night to go on forever.

  It’s a bit of a struggle to get the scruffy dog inside, especially as we’re trying not to attract attention to ourselves—Lachlan’s not sure about the building’s pet policy. Finally he takes off his Henley shirt and wraps one of the long sleeves around the dog’s neck until we get him in the door.

  At least I think that’s what he does because I’m staring at his shirtless body with my mouth open. I don’t even have the decency to look away. I’m tired and sleep-deprived and sore, and the sight of all those muscles, all those tattoos, lifts me up like a tonic.

  But if Lachlan can tell I’m staring deliriously at him, he doesn’t show it. We eventually get up the elevator, the dogs freaking out now, and into his apartment. He immediately gets a bowl of water for them while they wander around the place sniffing everything. He puts his shirt back on—dammit—and starts rummaging through his kitchen.

  “Can I help with anything?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head and takes some raw ground beef out of the fridge. “It’s lucky I eat a lot of protein,” he says, putting the meat into two bowls and setting them down. “This should do.”

  The dogs sniff it warily then launch into it, devouring it quickly.

  I watch Lachlan as he stares down at them, arms folded across his wide chest, a quiet smile on his lips. His eyes are lit up, the corners of them crinkling slightly. The way he looks at the dogs is completely different from the way he looks at anyone else, myself included. There’s real love there.

  That’s a look I’d die to have.

  Take it easy, crazy pants, I quickly admonish myself. One kiss and a night of hand-holding and you’d think you were going to marry the guy.

  I don’t even have to remind myself that he’s leaving next week.

  As if sensing the finality of it all, Lachlan looks at me. “I guess I should call you a cab.”

  “Oh, okay.” I look around for the time and spy the clock on his wall. It’s fucking 4:05 a.m. “Holy shit. I have to be up for work in three hours.”

  He looks apologetic and unplugs his cell that was charging on the wall. “Time flies when you’re walking across San Francisco.”

  He makes the call and tells me a cab is on the way.

  I gesture to the dogs who are sniffing in the kitchen. “Are you going to be okay with these guys?”

  “Aye, we’ll be fine. Come, let me walk you downstairs.”

  He opens the door for me and we head down the hall. Once in the elevator, it’s awkward without the dogs there. We aren’t speaking and I’m not sure what we should be saying. There’s a lot I want to say to him. There’s even more that I want to do.

  So many, many things.

  But as we stand outside the building, I keep my eyes on the street, scanning for the cab. I want to stare at him. I want to take him in like a cool glass of water. It’s just that I’m so wired and tired that I’m afraid I’ll do something stupid.

  “Thank you,” he says to me, and at that I finally meet his eyes.

  “For what?”

  “For being there,” he says. “Tonight. It was nice to not have to do it alone.” He pauses, licking h
is lips. “Sometimes…solitude can be blinding.”

  God. I know this. I feel those words in my soul. My throat closes up with some flash of strange emotion.

  He reaches for my face with his hand, grazes my cheekbone with his rough fingers. His brows knit together and his mouth opens like he wants to say something. I hold my breath, waiting, wondering, wanting.

  The cab pulls up and honks, making me jump. Lachlan’s hand drops away.

  I give the cabbie my death stare, sighing in frustration.

  Rude.

  I look back at Lachlan, wishing I could have those seconds back.

  “So…” I say, fumbling for words.

  “So,” he says. “We should get coffee this week. If you want, that is.”

  “Coffee would be great,” I say.

  Dick would be better, though.

  He leans forward and kisses me softly on the lips. “See you soon, love.”

  Fucking. Swoon.

  When the cab finally drops me off at home, I stagger over to my bed and collapse on it, remembering at the last moment to set my alarm. I’m going to feel like absolute shit in the morning. I didn’t even get laid.

  But, god, it was absolutely worth it.

  I know I fall asleep with a smile on my face, because when the alarm rings a few hours later, blaring and unwelcoming in the dawn, I’m still smiling.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lachlan

  In the dream I’m five years old again. Walking down Princess Street in Edinburgh, alone, naked in the falling snow. Everything is the same and everything is different. The junkies I pass on the street are my friends. I see Eddie with his fingerless gloves, nails thick and yellow with nicotine. I see Thomas and his sobriety bracelets he never takes off, even though he’s too drunk to stand. I see Jenny with her peeling skin and matted hair held back with a plaid headband.

  And they see me. But they don’t wave, they don’t smile. They scream as I pass them, until the noise is too loud, until their screams wrap their hands around my head and squeeze.

  “Where’s Charlie?” Eddie yells, spit flying out of his decaying mouth. “Where is he? What did you do to him?”

  I don’t answer. I run through the snow and then I’m back at the old flat.

  I’m no longer five.

  I’m thirteen. Tall, skinny, underdeveloped. My anger has just started to eat at me, and the world is poison. Mr. Arnold has me cornered in my mother’s old bedroom. She’s lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like I’m not there.

  She didn’t save me when I was five. She wouldn’t save me now.

  I face the wall, too afraid, too disgusted to look at my foster parent as he approaches with greedy hands.

  “Don’t tell Pamela,” he says to me, voice dripping with lust. “It’s our secret.”

  His hands close over my throat but I don’t turn around.

  I cry.

  I haven’t learned to hit back yet.

  When I do learn, he’s sent to the hospital.

  His wife Pamela says I’m a black seed. That I made her husband do it to me.

  And I’m sent away again.

  Now I’m at the Hillside Orphanage.

  I’m twenty years old.

  My bony arms are covered with scratches.

  I scratch them some more.

  I’m dying on the inside.

  My teeth are being ground away, falling out of my mouth like sugar.

  In front of me, at the headmaster’s desk, sits Charlie.

  His back is to me.

  He’s not twitching.

  He is deadly still.

  Charlie is never ever still.

  “Charlie,” I hiss at him. “Charlie, do you have any?”

  But Charlie doesn’t move.

  I step toward him, my limbs jerking, uncontrollable.

  Charlie has what I need to make it stop.

  The craving.

  The ache.

  The emptiness.

  Everything that resides deep in my bones.

  I put my hand—ghostly white and peppered with bruises—on his shoulder and spin him around in the chair.

  He stares at me with dead, glassy eyes, blood running from his nose.

  It drips onto the stuffed lion he holds in his hand.

  In a flash, he moves. Charlie is in my face. Empty eyes. Bared, rotting teeth.

  “You’re not just going to leave me here,” he utters, sounding like a child. “You cannae do that, Lachlan.”

  The next moment I’m lying in an alley.

  Charlie is crumpled beside me. One of the dogs is sniffing his face. Gives him a tentative lick. Charlie doesn’t stir.

  Charlie is dead.

  I close my eyes.

  And I am dead too.

  ***

  When I wake up, I’m drenched in sweat and clawing at my sheets. My breathing is shallow, and I’m hungry and desperate for air, as if it could clean out all the dirt inside.

  I smell urine. For a moment I think I’ve pissed myself—how about that for regression—but then I remember the dogs. I remember last night. I remember where I am.

  Who I am.

  I sit up and try to get a hold of myself. I haven’t dreamed like that for months and its return unhinges me.

  Inhaling deeply, I swing my feet out of bed and wince when they land in something wet. I groan and look down to see a faint yellow puddle. I wonder which one of them did it. I’d told Kayla that they must have had homes at some point, but that doesn’t mean they are housebroken.

  “Hello,” I call out softly, walking to the door and peering out into the living room. There’s a pile of shit on the carpet and another in the kitchen.

  Both dogs are sleeping on the couch, entwined with each other. That sight alone makes up for the fact that I’m going to be in shit myself if I continue to let them destroy the place.

  I put on a pot of coffee and absently scratch at my arm, a bad leftover from the dream. I pull my hand away and force my brain into a better place. I saved those dogs last night. There is hope for them, hope that I’ve given them.

  But, of course, that’s not the only thing that happened last night.

  Kayla.

  That tiny sprite.

  I kissed her.

  I fought and I fought and I fought against it.

  But there was nothing I could do.

  She’s a riptide.

  I’m just a man without oars.

  And she…bloody hell, she had started to get under my skin far before last night. I’ve been thinking about her ever since the impromptu rugby match, ever since she left my flat in my clothes, ever since I saw her at the bar. The way she looks at me…it’s not just that she wants me, because I know she does. It’s that…I feel she might see me, too. Beneath the layers.

  Not that she ever could, ever would, see all. But just to have someone scratch the surface—to want to see me for more than me, is enough.

  Scary as fuck. But enough.

  Then there’s the fact that she’s this gorgeous wild little thing. Those eyes that implore me to tell her all my secrets, that beg me to have my way with her. Those eyes that promise I’ll never forget her, if I just give her a second, give her a chance.

  I gave her a chance last night.

  But I didn’t do it for her.

  I did it for me.

  Because I fucking needed it. I needed that touch, that comfort.

  Hope. Somewhere in there was hope.

  I felt it when I put my arm around her, like I was containing it against me.

  Hope before death.

  It’s tattooed on my side.

  I got that a few years after Charlie, to remind me of why I cleaned up and how I moved on.

  Or, at least, tried to.

  Kayla felt like that hope, even though I know how foolish it is to even think like that over a girl I barely know. But just for that moment, it felt good to have even a glimpse of it.

  Of course, when that damn song came on, it threw me back
into reality. Of who I was and the parts that made me. The events. The battles. The ugly fucking truth.

  That didn’t mesh very well with the here and now.

  I panicked. I got up and left—to escape the song, escape the past that liked to show itself on lonely nights. Which is every night. But it had no place right then, not with her there.

  I had no idea she would follow me, and when I first heard her call my name, my stomach did a backflip. And then she was there, by my side, her hair messy from running through the crowds, face beautifully flushed.

  She came after me.

  She worried about me.

  I can’t remember the last time someone worried about me. Everyone by now knows not to bother, knows not to ask. Lachlan is a lone soldier, they say. He’s survived. He’ll be fine.

  But this girl, this woman with the smiling eyes and the teasing lips, she knew I wasn’t fine.

  And when she wanted to come with me, after the dogs, into the dark woods, well fuck. She wasn’t afraid of anything. We share the same tenacity.

  And with that same resolve, I could have kissed her all night. Her lips, her mouth, the warmth of her tongue—we fit together like a lock and key. I wanted nothing more than to lay her on her back in the dirt and leaves, explore her body with my hands, my teeth, my tongue, and feel all of her in the dark. Her body promised to take me far away. I wanted to fuck the war out of me.

  I had to admit that I wanted Kayla more than anything.

  Naturally that didn’t happen. I can’t say I’m disappointed, because in the end I saved the dogs. And I almost got the girl. The peace. And there’s still time. Less than a week now until I’m flying back to Edinburgh, ready to jump into training, ready to shift my whole life to rugby.

  There’s still time.

  Isn’t there?

  By the time the dogs stir, I’ve cleaned up their piss and shit and put defrosted ground beef down for them. I have some collars in my dresser —I know Kayla thought it was strange to be so prepared, but I’ve never not found a stray—so I put them on the dogs and make leashes out of rope.

  We go for a quick walk. The pit bull is still headstrong under the leash and seems to shy away from loud noises and quick movements. But with some love and obedience training, he’ll be a good pet for someone. I can tell by the eyes. A dog’s eyes don’t lie. A dog doesn’t lie. If you see the good in them, there is good in them. Last night when I was cleaning his paw, finding the debris imbedded in a cut, the cause of the limping, he looked at me with thanks. I felt that deep, deep inside.