Broken, Bruised, and Brave

by L. A. Zoe

  What really worries me:

  What’s he see in me?

  Your sister first and foremost,

  SeeJai

  Chapter Fourteen

  Greco Wants to Turn Out SeeJai

  Greco pointed to a cage against the wall close to where Rhinegold stood in Greco’s office. A long, slender bright, blue lizard with an ugly head too big for its skinny body rested on a tree branch.

  “What’d you think of it?” Greco asked. His voice vibrated as though forced through the lizard’s throat. “My newest pet.”

  “It’s pretty below the neck.” Rhinegold just wanted the cash Greco owed him.

  “You’re talking about Jacinda, my latest bitch, not my pet. That blue lizard’s an anole, only found in Columbia. It’s rare, threatened. So don’t kill it, that’d be against the law.”

  “Nobody breaks the law around here,” Rhinegold said.

  “Ami and talked it over. We’ll pay you a finder’s fee of five hundred dollars to help us turn out your girlfriend.”

  Rhinegold forced himself to take a deep breath of the overheated steamy air. Rank.

  And remain calm. Hands unclenched.

  “She’s her own woman, Greco. And I’m not sleeping with her either.”

  Greco stood up, came out from around his desk to the blue lizard’s cage and stared at it. “It’s not poisonous,” the pimp said. “Just beautiful. And rare.”

  “Look, she’s got a civilian job. She doesn’t want you—or Ami.”

  Greco put his hands behind his back and didn’t look at Rhinegold as he stared at the anole. “And threatened.”

  “You and Ami partners now?”

  “Fifty days,” Greco said.

  “What?”

  “Fifty days before the first day of baseball. One of these days I’m going to find out who to pay off, and I’ll get to throw the first pitch of the season.”

  Only in Cromwell would a cape-wearing street pimp aspire to start off the baseball season.

  “Great, but SeeJai doesn’t want to be your catcher.”

  Pink snot dribbled from Greco’s nose, and he wiped it away. “Ami and I have always cooperated, if not been best buddies. Cromwell’s finest have told me they don’t want a war. And neither do I. Think, Rhinegold. If I wanted to die young, I’d be a drug dealer like all my childhood hermanos I never see no more.”

  “It’s a high risk profession,” I admitted. “Even the Mexican bigshots, you watch, are going to get taken out by drones pretty soon. Their rivals or the DEA.”

  “Precisely,” Greco said. “Whether it’s powder, rocks, weed, or capsules—dope is so much easier to deal with, except for the associated violence. It doesn’t talk back, whine for more money, bitch about the weather, consume too much fast food and other drugs, watch TV while you turn over and go to sleep, or have a period every month.”

  “I wouldn’t want your problems,” Rhinegold said.

  “Ami, she has some sophisticated customers. Women probably friends of your family’s. Maybe even your stepmother, Ami don’t tell me. Married to rich dudes. Like the country club life. Their fancy mansions, their two point four chilluns, and servants kissing their ass. Trouble is, they still got that pussy jones. Need it worse than you and me.”

  “Hypocrites,” Rhinegold said.

  “But who can blame them? In this twisted world, everybody’s got to do what they have to do to survive, right?”

  A snake’s philosophy. Rhinegold just nodded. “That’s one point of view.”

  “SeeJai’s a special taste. Your hard-on knows that well as I do. We just want to make our customers happy, that’s all. Strictly business.”

  “Right. I told you, she’s got a straight job.”

  Greco snorted, then wiped his nose again. “That Arkady—Ami and I’re both lucky he decided to stick with the restaurant business. He’s got friends could make us both disappear forever, and flood the streets with low-rent Russian babes. They’re so used to this cold weather shit, they wear hot pants when it’s zero degrees out. Drive all the American whores back to their welfare checks. But the cops don’t want the Stroll turned into Moscow Square. Buy American, you know?”

  “Could they stop the Russian mob if they wanted?”

  Greco drained his Dewars on the rocks. “Could be, or Arkady would probably still be in the game.”

  Honesty couldn’t play a role. Nahhh, not in Greco’s world.

  “Look, man, I’ve got to go pick up SeeJai.”

  Greco reached into a desk drawer, and threw my cash down. “You can’t protect her all the time, Rhinegold. You can’t be with her all the time.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Not from me. I’m a pacifist peacemonger, remember? That’s why I’m an old man. If I sold drugs, I’d already be dead or in the Big Pen. I hate violence. That’s why I have to pay a rich white lawyer’s son to protect my bitches from street scum and psychomaniacs.”

  “I thought it was so you could sit around safe in here, getting drunk on White Label and snorting blow until your nose falls off.”

  Greco flashed him a look that nearly made Rhinegold crouch into a defensive posture, but then laughed. “And when it’s baseball season, I watch the Wizards play. Don’t forget that.”

  “If you, Ami, and SeeJai all went to bed together, who’d play the man?”

  “Fuck you, Rhinegold. You really mean, who’d play the woman?”

  “You got me with that one.”

  As he rode the bus, more disturbed than he wanted to admit to himself, Rhinegold replayed the conversation with Greco.

  Greco had no shortage of female crack addicts willing to turn tricks for rocks. He just had to screen out the ones looked too worn out and old to appeal to guys cruising by them standing on street corners.

  And to keep them intimidated enough to turn over their earnings when he demanded it. Not so easy when a woman could live anywhere and let any man screw her. And no doubt the smarter women got by from Internet customers, totally off Greco and Ami’s radar.

  Still, lots of guys wanted to see the merchandise first, and the Stroll was the well-known area for that.

  And women walking the Stroll without paying Greco quickly wound up in jail. He didn’t need to touch them. The police enforced his monopoly for him.

  And when he read the newspaper the next morning, Joe Citizen was glad to see Cromwell’s finest cracking down on that den of iniquity.

  To kidnap, rape, and then turn out SeeJai wasn’t his style. Or Ami’s.

  Did he plan on contracting the job out? Still risky. Too much like old movies, making the victim a drug addict, brainwashing them.

  Hard to picture SeeJai putting up with it.

  She might play along with them, then run when she could. More likely, fight them so much they gave up on her. Realizing what they would do then sent cold waves through Rhinegold’s stomach.

  Good thing he continued to live with her.

  He arrived at the Sunshine Garden and took up his usual position across the street just in time to spot Helena and Keara go inside together, just the two of them.

  Close together, although both half-hidden behind their winter coats, they looked more than ever like twins.

  So why, then, didn’t Helena attract him more strongly?

  Because Keara’s (like SeeJai’s) beauty didn’t depend solely on physical attributes. It came from the inner connection each had with the magical spiritual universe.

  Helena lacked that, except when playing the violin.

  Rhinegold didn’t understand. He didn’t have to. He was a knight. A defender of fair damsels and other innocents, not a wizard. Not a mage.

  He just recognized the Light when he saw it.

  When Keara moved in along with her mother, after Sybille married Father, it took time for Rhinegold to see. Until he met and lived with Keara, he never knew anybody like her. He thought such visions existed only in fantasy. In the books he read and the movies he watched.

  At
first, he figured Keara for just another shy, shallow girl. It took months until he finally perceived the truth beneath the thin surface of what the Percy Jackson books called The Mist—the illusion that kept most mortals from realizing gods, demigods, monsters, and magic forces existed all around them.

  So, not knowing why Rhinegold had to leave the family mansion, Helena seemed to be pursuing Keara as a friend, hoping his stepsister would lead Helena to Rhinegold.

  He couldn’t help it. He laughed at loud.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reunion With a High School Friend

  As I approached the booth where they sat across from each other, I saw only two blonde female customers.

  Two customers seated at one of my tables, menus ignored. I focused only on the need to take their orders, to be as pleasant and helpful as possible. To provide great service to earn a big tip.

  The background music helped me concentrate. Yanni, or some other silly New Age musician. In private, Arkady joked about hippie music, and let the cleanup crew listen to Metallica and Nelly, but the customers enjoyed pleasant instrumentals.

  So I blocked out the noise of other customers talking and laughing, dishes clanging, and kitchen tools clattering.

  Also the odors of bay leaves, basil, cilantro, cinnamon, curry, oregano, paprika, turmeric, thyme, and other spices the cooks used to jazz up the taste of steamed vegetables and brown rice.

  One good thing about working in a vegetarian restaurant was the lack of heavy animal fat hanging in the air, like you feel in a typical Kentucky Fried Chicken, where you walk out smelling like grease and your hair looking like you emptied a jar of styling gel on it. But the cooks do use butter, and vegetable oils such as safflower, olive, canola, coconut, and peanut.

  As I set the pitcher of ice water down at the table, it’s funny, but I registered how much alike they looked—even thought they might be twins—before I realized one was Helena.

  Tall, and sitting erect, shoulders back, as taught in upper class charm schools. Her dirty blonde hair tied back in one large braid slung forward over her shoulder, flashing streaks of highlights.

  Tasteful, understated makeup with pale red lipstick.

  Blue eyes glowing like turquoise on fire.

  Tasteful, modest upper class clothing, not showy. Just a dark green wool top that displayed the bra-bound outline of her breasts beneath. A nice gold necklace to go with earrings and several rings. High quality, but nothing screaming for attention.

  My mouth dried as though swallowing vinegar. My groin clenched. My heart beat as fast as a bow string thrummed.

  Lovely, Helena glowed with startling beauty, even stronger than in high school.

  My ears buzzed with ocean waves crashing. My stomach quivered. My brain tumbled around.

  I ground my teeth and pursed my lips. Drawing on weeks of habit, I placed the serving tray under my left arm, so I could hold my order pad in my left hand, and write with my right.

  I turned to face the other woman. Maybe I could get her order down before Helena recognized me.

  This one looked a touch younger. A few inches shorter, a few pounds lighter. Less makeup. Silver blonde hair combed straight back, falling to her shoulders. Blue eyes with flecks of silver. A small gold cross hung below her throat.

  Magnificently lovely.

  “Are you ready to order yet?” I asked.

  She smiled at me. “I’ll have the toasted veggiola for an appetizer, the tofu and broccolini, and hot Darjeeling tea, please.”

  Helena had opened her menu and, with eyes reading a list of entrees, still hadn’t looked up at me.

  Keep your eyes down. I’m just a waitress. Nobody important like you. Don’t look at me.

  “Oh, that tofu looks good, Keara,” she said to her companion. “But I can’t resist the stir fry curry. And a Greek salad.”

  “Anything to drink?” I asked, staring at my order pad, throat tension distorting my voice.

  “Hot green tea, please,” she said. “With honey.”

  “Of course,” I said, automatically lowering the pad and slipping the pencil into an apron pocket, and reaching for their menus.

  She noticed my face as she handed me the menu.

  Her jaw dropped, making her mouth form an O. Her hand froze halfway up. I refused to stop returning her stare.

  The other woman—Keara?—said, “Helena, what is it? Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

  Noticing Helena first allowed me to get over the shock before her. I turned to her friend. “Helena and I were good friends in high school,” I said. “According to her, we were—”

  “SeeJai!”

  “VERY good friends. The best.” I turned to her. “Are you still playing the violin?”

  That jolted her friend. “Oh, Helena’s terrific! The Cromwell Symphony Orchestra wants her right after she graduates from college.”

  Bitter green jealousy coated my tongue. “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. Not totally lying. I still admired her talent and her dedication. If she did nothing but play the violin, eat, and sleep, she’d be a good person.

  Helena recovered from the shock, and forced herself to smile. Big and wide. “SeeJai! How nice to see you again.”

  Before I could respond, she said to her friend, “Keara, SeeJai’s an old friend from high school.”

  “But —” Keara said.

  “Before we moved out west and met you,” Helena said.

  I’d heard Helena’s family’s went far away into the suburbs.

  Keara surprised me by reaching her hand up and toward me, as she rose to her feet. “Nice to meet you, SeeJai,” she said. “I hope this means our order will arrive right away. I’m hungry, and everything here is so delish.”

  She wore a modest green plaid skirt to go with her top, so she looked like a model out of a Land’s End catalog. So demure, yet appealing to some boys.

  Sons of wealthy lawyers, such as Rhinegold. They might even know each other.

  The inner picture of Rhinegold with either one of them made me want to empty my stomach onto their table.

  “I don’t cook anything, but I’ll try to prod them into moving fast on your order,” I said, making go-away movements.

  Helena caught on. “It’s so nice to see you again, SeeJai. And I hope your mother is well.”

  “Still hanging in,” I said to Helena, then smiled at Keara. “I hope you keep up with your Facebook News Feed.”

  “Facebook?” she muttered.

  “Oh, yes. Helena’s a big star on Facebook.”

  I sped away.

  Stomach roiling. Brain churning. Barely remembering who I was, where I was, what I was supposed to be doing. I turned in their orders like an automaton, running only on programmed habit.

  One of the cooks, Valerie, said, “Girl, you okay?”

  Lost in mush, I managed to remember I had other tables, other customers, other things demanding attention.

  Memories I wanted to forget erupted in my brain, popping like angry boils, spewing filth and corruption. Embarrassment. A heart scorched by friendship. Shame.

  Everyone I knew, friends and nodded acquaintances alike, laughed at me.

  Knowing people all over the country, maybe even the entire world, were watching Helena’s video—and laughing at me.

  I couldn’t live it down. I dropped out of high school and hid in the apartment with my mother, hating to leave to buy groceries, pick up her prescriptions, or withdraw cash from an ATM.

  Thinking every stranger getting a glimpse of me recognized me. Remembered. Laughed along with Helena and the other kids.

  So I went overboard. Three years later, I realized most people didn’t know or care. Or they’d forgotten.

  Seeing Helena erased the last three years, so my world revolved around her—and she wiped me out with a supernova explosion that made me the most famous student at our high school. Everybody’s class clown.

  And there she was, with another beautiful woman. Just another “good friend?” P
robably. She looked so much like Helena, for Helena loving Keara would be like loving herself. She could have herself and eat herself too. A narcissist’s dream come true. How could she resist?

  Although my stomach felt like imploding, I managed to keep doing my job. Ignore them. Just ignore them. Work, just work.

  Nobody spoke when I served their appetizers and, later, took the dirty dishes away.

  Soon Helena and Keara’s orders were up. I loaded the food onto a serving tray and, on unsteady feet, returned to their table.

  A long line of departing customers made me swerve over to an aisle farther left, so I approached their table from Helena’s rear. Holding the serving tray high, I zeroed in on them like a cruise missile, noticing other customers seated around tables just enough to avoid bumping them.

  Keara listened to Helena with rapt attention, eyes concentrating on Helena so much she didn’t notice my approach.

  Despite the dull roar of so many background sounds: Yanni, conversation, and forks tinging thick china plates—I heard only Helena’s voice.

  “Almost everytime I went over to her place, her mother didn’t even notice. Didn’t care what we did. We could have done anything. Anything.”

  Keara laughed a little, which made me hate her, but also restrained herself, which made me love her, so after I set the tray onto their table, I served her first. One tofu and broccolini, coming right up. And hot Darjeeling tea.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell her everything we did and didn’t do,” I said as I set down Helena’s green tea. “Later tonight.”

  They both frowned.

  I turned to Keara. “And tell what you two do together, on a Facebook video.”

  Keara frowned - sincerely, I believe—as she said, “We don’t—”

  “That’s enough,” Helena said in a sharp tone of voice I recognized across three years of shame. “Stop lying!”

  That false accusation shocked me into an abnormal state of mind. Those three syllables not only recalled our shared past, but, as with the push of a button, retriggered in my heart every drop of anger, shame, sadness, and depression I suffered when Helena’s Facebook video about our relationship went public.