by Mike McCrary
The second the bus stopped moving I knew this was going to be the hard part. I’m learning entrances and exits are tough in situations like this. They’re everything, really.
You’re vulnerable both ways.
They can get you coming and going. It’s two times you may not know some very crucial details. The vital info of what you’re walking into or what’s waiting for you as you leave. People have a tendency to let down their guard as they exit. False sense of freedom in reach.
Anything can happen during this little stroll.
A lot of bad is possible during these few steps.
It’s a long walk through drunk men who are friends of Gordo, not to mention, we have to dodge stripper poles, bottles, feet and the occasional sex toy. The Nastys could also pull something along the way. There could be shit hidden in the bus we don’t know about. A gun under a seat. Something, anything, can be turned into a weapon at the hands of the Nastys. There are a lot of variables here, and none of them favor Sandy and me.
I hold my breath, my eyes jumping between the Nasty Brothers, the men to the left and right of us, and the open door ahead.
My back is stiff as a board. My shoulders are up around my ears.
I’ve got my hostile bitch face turned up on high. Pegged at ten. Found that a stern look keeps a lot of folks off me. Funny, nobody is grabbing at me now. Everyone is keeping their hands to themselves. Maybe it’s because the music stopped. The sexy, fun mood has dissipated. Perhaps because the lights are on and the boys don’t feel as brave. Or maybe, just maybe, it could be the gun, knife and weaponized sex toy we’re packing.
Not much farther. The door is in spitting distance.
“Easy, gentlemen,” I say. “We’re almost there.”
I hope to God that Skinny Drake and Rondo are standing out there with guns in hand. Haven’t had a chance to check my phone.
“Rosie,” White Nasty says to Black Nasty as if answering an unasked question.
“No doubt,” Black Nasty says back.
My heart drops. It just hit me. I’ve put Rose in danger. Me being here. Me going to her for information has compromised her safety. I was so blinded by my own shit I didn’t stop to think about the danger I’m putting her in. If one of these monsters almost cut her head off before, what will they do now?
“You get her name out of your mouth,” I say.
They glance back to me then turn facing forward.
Sandy whacks them both in the back of the head.
About four feet until freedom.
I can feel the night air drifting in from outside. It’s welcome as hell. This potpourri and pussy scented joyride is killing me.
Three feet.
I stumble, feel my ankle turn. Lost focus for a fraction of a second and caught a bottle the wrong way, rolling my ankle. I’m quick to find my footing, but I realize something pretty quick.
My knife has cut Gordo.
“Shit,” I stammer. “Sorry.”
Gordo holds his bleeding neck. I can see blood seeping through his fingers. Everything is flashing before my eyes.
My plan.
Skinny Drake’s and me?
Our lives are going poof.
Just like that. In that single moment, this whole thing is coming undone by a simple misstep. My house, gone. My chance, over. I’ve just slit Gordo’s throat and that cannot be fixed. No redo. Can’t undo that one. As much as I want this piece of shit dead, now is not the time.
Shit.
Shit.
What have I done?
“What the hell, Teddy?” he yelps.
Frantic, I pull his hand back inspecting the wound, as if I can do anything about it. I see it’s not horrible. Not great, but not life-threatening. I snag a semi-clean G-string off the seat and press it to his neck.
“Here. Hold it,” I say. “It’ll be fine. Don’t bitch.”
“Unbelievable,” he says, pressing the pink lace to his wound.
Now two feet to the door.
I’ve never been more focused in my life. Life gave me a reminder to keep my shit tight. This thing of ours is fragile as hell, lady.
A hand lands on my shoulder from behind me. I whip my elbow back with a crack. I hear bone crunch coupled with a cry of pain. I don’t even look back, only hear the body fall to the floor. I’m going out that damn door with this asshole. I don’t give a single shit about anything else.
One foot.
We’ve bottled up a bit as the Nastys make the turn down the stairs and out the door. My heart skips a whole row of beats as I watch White exit, then Black, with Sandy close behind. We’re so damn close I can taste it. I finally let myself breathe.
I push Gordo down the stairs and out into the night.
I watch Sandy toss the dildo to the side of the highway.
It lands flopping next to Rondo and Skinny Drake. They are sitting on the ground with their hands on their heads and fingers locked. Two burly dudes have guns on them.
White and Black Nasty smile like assholes as their burly friends hand them each a gun. White Nasty presses one to Sandy’s forehead. Black Nasty presses one to the top of Skinny Drake’s head.
White curls his finger for me and Gordo to join them.
Black waves off the bus driver.
The faces of the men and women on the bus stare out the windows at us.
Chapter 24
Shit.
Chapter 25
The door closes behind me. The bus pulls away.
I’d like to go back to that nerd holding my boob, please. Not that it was the proudest moment in my life, but it was better than this shit.
I’ve still got the knife at Gordo’s throat with my gun out in front of me, but I have no move to make here. Skinny Drake and Rondo are down, sitting on the shoulder of a desert highway, unarmed and useless. The Nasty Brothers have made their statement loud and clear by putting guns on the two people I care about most in this little party of ours.
Sandy and Skinny Drake.
Can’t let them get hurt. Not because of me.
The cold desert air cuts through me. Chills me to the bone. I can’t help but notice the stars burning bright as hell in the clear night sky. I’ve heard a lot about the starry nights in the desert in books and poetry. This is completely the wrong time to admire the stillness and beauty of it all. It’s like my defense mechanisms are trying to focus on anything but what is actually happening. I’m waiting for the globs.
I know they are coming.
“Teddy,” Gordo says, holding the G-string to his wound while turning his head toward me the best he can. “You need to drop the knife, drop the gun before something goes horribly wrong here.”
I almost want the globs to come.
“You don’t have a move here,” he continues. I can feel him shake.
I want to pass out. Of course, I should have known. The one time I want to check out I can’t do it. Figures.
“Please, Teddy. Let’s at least talk about all this before one of us gets killed.”
“Wouldn’t know where to start, bro,” I say, alternating my gun’s aim between the Nastys.
The other two burly dudes now have their guns on me. Simple math tells me this is not in my favor at all. A gun on Skinny Drake, one on Sandy, and two on me. I might get off a shot before I’m dead on the side of a Nevada highway. Not much to gain in that. After I’m dead they will more than likely kill Skinny Drake and Rondo and do unthinkable shit to Sandy.
Then they’ll go after Rosie.
Don’t have a PhD, but I’m fairly certain that’s exactly how things will go down.
No doubt.
A white glob forms in the corner of my eye. I know more are on their way. I can feel it. My knees are vibrating, not from the cold, but from pure fear. I’ve been afraid a lot lately, but this is different. This is sharper, this is a paralyzing brand of fear. I’m the cause of this sticky situation. Times before I was thrown into it, forced into scary situations, but now I’m driving the show and
I’d like for it to end. Please.
Two more globs skip across my vision. Another is growing fast.
I’m the reason we are here.
“Teddy,” Gordo says with more urgency, “you need to stand down.”
The globs are seconds away from taking over.
“Teddy…”
What do I do?
“No,” I manage to get out.
“Please, Teddy, don’t do this.”
“No,” I say, knowing I’m talking to the globs and not Gordo. “No.”
Do I open fire before I pass out and hope for the best?
Solutions are difficult for a broken-brained girl like me.
A blinding beam of headlights comes screaming in, flooding the night with light. Tires squeal. Guns blast. I drop to my knees, as the globs now allow me only slivers of vision. Like looking through an iced-over windshield with a few slices and holes thawed enough to see through.
A burly dude’s head explodes. Then another. Those were clear as hell.
I hear footsteps running away, then some stomping toward me.
More gunfire. Yelling. Car doors slamming.
A loud thunk. A thunk I recognize. I can make out the sight of a baseball bat destroying a burly dude’s face. A flurry of rose tattoos blur into a color-whirling mess of reds and yellows as the bat swings with brutal precision. As if the bat is being worked by a crazy, raging supernatural force. White Nasty’s jaw goes sideways. A tooth flies from his mouth. His body drops. The crazed, raging beast screams out into the night like a primal warrior goddess from hell. Her bat comes down again and again.
I make out a spray of blood framed in the light of blazing headlights. The world has slowed to a crawl. Can’t make out anything clearly anymore.
I’m seconds from passing out, I know it. It’s a familiar feeling.
My brain is slipping into the familiar milky safety of oblivion.
Won’t be long now.
I feel two slick hands, slick with blood I’m guessing, touch the sides of my face. A touch that’s as gentle as can be.
Can’t see, but I can feel.
I feel myself being lowered down to the road.
“You’re okay,” Rosie whispers to me. “Rest now, Sweet Angel.”
Part 3
“I always wanted to be somebody, but now I realize I should have been more specific.” - Lily Tomlin
Chapter 26
My world fades to black.
A calm comes over me.
A slide into nothingness.
This is the first time I’ve been able to feel the blackout. The first time I’ve been aware of what is happening, and can actually pick apart what it’s like after the fall. Is this positive? Is this a step toward understanding it and making it go away, or is it a hiccup before shit gets much worse?
A flash of an image burns across my vision. I’m being carried.
Moving fast, but I’m still cold. I call out. We move faster. I scream-grunt something out. Even I don’t know what I was trying to say. Gunshots ring out. Several quick bursts from a gun barrel flash.
Black.
Nothing.
I jolt awake.
Screams.
Repetitive, rhythmic chings. Sounds like the dings and chings of a slot machine. I’m in a seat. I’m sliding down. I’m adjusted by hands. I catch a blurred look of what seems like a blackjack table. Rondo and Skinny Drake are smoking cigars and drinking brown booze from short, stout glasses. They are laughing. Laughing hard. Faces red. Surrounded by women in tight dresses and heaving cleavage. Those pieces of shit.
Black.
Nothing.
I catch a flash-look of Rondo in a pile of arms and legs. Swinging fists and kicking feet. Profanity spits. He’s fighting wildly with much larger men. A topless woman kicks him in the face.
“What in the hell?” screams Rosie.
Black.
Nothing.
Chapter 27
One lid cracks open.
My mouth feels like a cat crapped in it.
Not sure what in the hell is going on. Not sure what day it is or where I am. I blacked out. That much I do know. I know it was brought on by the normal horribleness. I was under violence-induced stress. That’s what does it all right. That’s my trigger. Sprinkle me with some bodily harm and I drop like a sack of potatoes. It’s not that bad, actually. I’ve got a pretty high tolerance, compared to most. I can go awhile, and I’ve gotten better at controlling it, no question, but I’ve got a long way to go.
Here’s an idea. Perhaps the answer is to stay clear of violence. Hmmm. Fairly sure most folks do that most of their lives.
Maybe I can too.
Just a thought.
Maybe subconsciously that’s what I’m trying to do. That’s what my real goal is in coming out to Los Angeles, to Las Vegas. For tracking down Gordo and dragging Skinny Drake along. That’s probably true. Makes sense. That, in addition to trying to remember my life, get Jonathan and his assholes out of my house and, oh yeah, get my damn money back.
Sorry, our damn money.
Skinny Drake is sitting at the end of the bed with his back to me.
He’s watching Full House and eating off a stack of plates on a room service cart. Working that fork like the meaning of life was attached to the end of it. I can see another cart off to the side that looks like it’s been attacked by a hungry bear cub. This scene looks oddly familiar.
Damn familiar.
This is exactly how I woke up at that hotel in Austin. When Gordo dropped the bomb about who Jonathan really was and, oh yeah, that Skinny Drake and I were brother and sister.
When we tried to kidnap Gordo. When I almost killed Gordo.
When I should have killed Gordo.
When he and Skinny Drake took a dive out the window.
When I blacked out.
That seems like years ago, when it was actually only a few days, maybe a week or so ago. Sandy helped us trap Gordo at that hotel. Gordo likes Sandy. Really likes Sandy. Sandy was in the bus. Everything is connecting now, but not in a great way.
How the hell did Sandy get to Vegas and get knee-deep with Gordo?
“Where’s Sandy?” I ask Skinny Drake.
He shrugs. He chews. He stabs some more at some food on some cart in some hotel room I don’t recognize.
“Where’s Gordo?”
Shrugs again.
I close my eyes. Starting to prefer the darkness. I think about laying into my brother, my Skinny Drake, but I decide there’s no use in it. No upside. Won’t do a damn thing, and could actually hurt. Like his feelings.
My head is starting to clear. The pounding is drifting into the background. I’m pretty damn thankful to simply be alive. Also pretty damn thankful to be in this bed. It’s really nice. Like I’m laid out on a firm marshmallow. The room looks pretty swank too. Can’t tell you how great it is to wake up to at least one familiar sight—Skinny Drake watching Full House and chowing down like his life depended on it. Consistency in life would be nice.
I am hungry. Hope that piglet left me something. I open my eyes wider and watch Uncle Jesse do something charming yet stupid and let the canned laughter echo into my throbbing earholes. Watching Skinny Drake giggle makes me happy. This feels nice. Oddly like home.
My fingers fumble next to me and I find something else.
My bat.
He laid my bat next to me while I slept, as if it were some stuffed animal for a child. My eyes water for a second. The unspoken kindness of my new brother is working up a good cry that I’d rather not have right now. I should let my emotions flood and get it over with. I’ve been through a lot and I’m entitled to cry like a child. I should just do it.
“Shit! Twat! Fuck!”
I fire straight up in bed. The blood rush to my head almost causes me to pass out again. Skinny Drake, without looking away from the TV, extends his arm, pointing to the couch against the far wall.
Rondo is out cold, laid out like a slab of potty-mouthed bee
f.
His face looks like a demented three-year-old’s vision of a water-colored nightmare. It’s bruised with shades of blacks, reds and purples. Scratched and torn, with a massive shiner and a lump on his forehead you could jump a skateboard off of.
Wait.
It’s coming back.
The fragments of images and sounds I caught earlier flood into my brain. The streams of clips and cuts from last night on the side of the highway. The fog in my brain is thick, but it is clearing. Things are loading, rendering and coming back online. I remember flickers of things. The feeling of being carried. The cold air. The screams. The sounds and smells of gunshots. Damn it was cold. I remember a flash of being barely conscious at a blackjack table. Rondo and Skinny Drake partying with large-breasted chicks. Rondo fighting a lot of people. Big people. Rosie screaming at them.
Now I’m pissed. I think about using this bat on my sweet, new brother.
“Hey, “ I say to Skinny Drake.
No response. He giggles more at the TV. I bite my lip.
“You need to tell me what the hell happened, man.”
Nothing.
I’m done.
I kick the shit out of him. Felt like I wasn’t even controlling my leg. It just happened involuntarily, like a sneeze. One, two heel strikes to his skinny-ass back. Skinny Drake lurches forward, then slides off the end of the bed, banging his face on the room service cart before he slides down to the floor. A fork goes sailing up and clanks against the wall, leaving a stain of what looks like syrup.
“Dammit, Teddy,” he whines from the carpet.
“You gonna tell me what the hell you two assholes did last night?” I bark. “I remember some things that seem like, I don’t know, like you’re a complete dick.”
Skinny Drake goes quiet.
I can’t see him on the floor, but I can imagine an amazing, blank, dumb expression plastered across his blank, dumb face.
“Waiting,” I say. “Love to hear about it.”
“How much do you remember?” he finally asks.