Trouble

by Nadene Seiters

  “My parents and I were never very close. I remember on my fifth birthday my father was out working, never made it home.” I sip on some more of the alcohol. It’ll take about five minutes for me to feel the effects.

  “What did he do for a living?” Daisy curls her legs under her as if she’s in it for the long haul, and I feel my heartbeat drop.

  “He was a pilot. Retired when I was fourteen.” She looks confused. “He retired because he injured his leg in a motorcycle accident and had to take pain pills during therapy. He couldn’t fly anymore.” I put my sneakered feet up on the table in front of me, leaning back and listening to the hum of a mower outside.

  “So he was home when you were fourteen, what happened then?” She prods me verbally, like a collie herding a sheep. Daisy’s persistent when she wants to be.

  “I meant Ronald Needle when I was eight. When he was thirteen his parents got him a dirt bike, not too long after Dad’s accident. Both of us loved that bike. We rode it everywhere and started racing about six months later. There were a few other kids with them, and we’d organized races through the state park, outmaneuvering the forest rangers through dirt roads and trails.” I smile at the memories, skidding over rocks and trying not to break Ronnie’s most treasured toy. The dirt bike had been old when his parents got it for him, but with some tweaking and parts from Craigslist we had managed to get it in good working condition again.

  “My Dad hated that thing. Both my parents banned me from riding it, but that never stopped me. At fifteen, Ronnie had his first serious accident. He tumbled over the bars of the bike headfirst into a tree. His concussion lasted two weeks, and the bike was scrapped.” The thought of that dirt bike being scrapped still breaks my heart, but it wasn’t the end for either of us. “I begged my parents for a motorcycle when I was sixteen, but neither one of them would allow it. Ronnie’s parents said no too, and we were stuck with old beaters from the junkyard.” Daisy giggles and I look over at her with a serious look. But I grin when she smiles at me.

  “It was awful, you shouldn’t laugh!” I tell her, finishing off my drink. “We borrowed our dirt bike buddy’s bikes to race instead. We started street racing when we were seventeen, and even though we had some shit bikes, we were pretty good. And then Ronnie meant Chico.” The empty glass clatters onto the table as I set it down and I stay leaning forward, this is the hard part.

  “I know it sounds like the guy was some sort of Spanish, but he wasn’t. He just liked the name Chico, pretty lame if you ask me. He was part of a gang, and swept Ronnie right off his feet after he kicked his ass in a race. If I wanted to hang with my best friend I had to hang with Chico, so I was really an outsider there.” Daisy stiffens at the mention of a gang and when I look over she’s not smiling anymore. I have this sinking feeling she hates me now, like I’m something dirty and gross on the bottom of her pretty flats.

  “They didn’t have women or drugs; they were just some hard guys out looking for a good time. Most of the time they stayed out of trouble, but occasionally they were banned from a bar for fighting amongst themselves. But when my parents realized where I was going, I was kicked out of their house. They feared the worst, and I don’t blame them. Carl, our boss, was one of those guys. He broke off from hanging with them when he started his tattoo shop, needing a more responsible life.” I take a deep breath, trying not to look at her. I should have told her this before we ever got involved before she started working for Carl.

  “Carl took me in, let me live above the shop with him for a year before I had enough money and credit to get my own apartment. He knew I had an interest in drawing, but when he saw how I could put those drawings on flesh even better, he took me in like a son. Ronnie just seemed to be along for the ride, coming in and doing tattoos when he was available. But he was even better than me, just not as reliable.

  I had enough money to get a better bike; he got himself a faster one. We were out one night, about a month ago, and he egged me into a race. He wanted to prove to me that his bike was faster, and I wanted to stomp on his ego.” I stop, staring down at the carpet between my knees and feeling the adrenaline pumping through my veins. My feet are flat against the floor now, trying not to vibrate. I feel disgusted with myself, nervous to tell Daisy what happened, and afraid. I’ve never been so afraid in my life.

  “We –” I choke on my next words, clear my throat, and feel a hand on my upper back. I won’t look at her, I don’t want her to show me just has disgusted she is with me. “We went out onto the nearest highway. It was dark, but it was a full moon and it hadn’t rained in days. Ronnie was confident it was a perfect racing night, and I was hyped up. I wanted to kick ass on my new bike.

  We were on the upper part of the highway, about a five foot drop down to the opposite side separated by nothing but grass. Neither one of us knew there had been an accident a few hours before, and oil had been spilled on the road. The cleanup crew did their best, but they missed a spot. A spot about a foot in diameter, but any amount on a bike is enough. There was a truck coming on the opposite side of the road, a big one hauling ass to get to his delivery point.” I crack, pinching the bridge of my nose and trying not to let the tears fall.

  “If the deer hadn’t been standing in the right hand lane of the truck and caused him to get into the left lane. If Ronnie hadn’t hit that oil spot on a slight corner doing a hundred and thirty miles per hour and if we hadn’t been stupid and out at night time, he might still be alive. If I had been in the left hand lane and not the right, it would be me buried in the grill of an eighteen wheeler, not my best friend.” My eyes are dry, but I feel like I’m choking. “The deer lived, and so did I.”

  Chapter Eleven

  My heart’s beating in my chest like the fast moving pistons in a car, my pulse standing out on my neck. I keep my fingers pinched on the bridge of my nose and take in deep breaths. Maybe I’ll have a heart attack and die, like I should have that night. It should have been me; I wasn’t as talented with drawings or as outgoing as Ronnie. He was smarter, had a future ahead of him. His parents still talked to him and allowed him to see his younger brother.

  “Caleb,” I hear my name spoken hesitantly and my ears physically prick. My fingers fall away from the bridge of my nose, and I take in a deep breath before I look up to see the condemnation in her eyes. “It was an accident, Caleb.” She’s looking at me with pity, which is almost worse than the condemnation everyone else looked at me with. I don’t want pity, either.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her, grabbing the glass and using it as an excuse to get away. I rinse it in the sink with shaking hands and try to hold back the vomit. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that drink.

  “What else do you want me to look at you with? Anger, hate, fear?” Daisy’s standing in the doorway with her shoulder against the doorframe. She’s run her hand through her hair, and it’s falling down around her face in funny ways, tantalizing ways.

  “I just don’t want you to look at me,” I growl, looking over her shoulder, anywhere but at her. “I’m a monster, Daisy. I killed my best friend because he flattened my ego and I wanted to do the same to him. Instead, he ended up dead! You should be disgusted!” She sucks in a sharp breath and uncrosses her arms, standing up straight.

  I look at her at the last second, when she’s stomped up in front of me and on her tiptoes, and see the determination in her eyes. She’s like a cobra ready to strike, deadly and swift. “What I’m disgusted with is the fact that no one’s been there for you when they should have been!” Daisy grabs my face with her hands and pulls me down until I’m almost touching her lips.

  “The man I love didn’t murder his best friend,” she whispers against my lips. I put my hands on her shoulders lightly and push her back down onto the flats of her feet, looking down at her with furrowed eyebrows. I’m not sure I just heard her right.

  “What did you just say?” I ask huskily, full of an emotion I’ve never felt for anyone before.

  “You did
n’t murder him?” She asks her hands on my narrow hips. I shake my head. I must have heard her wrong.

  “No, the other part,” I say, frustrated.

  “That I love you?” She asks in a heady voice, her eyes sparkling with humor and want. I see a hint of fear there, too. Is she afraid I’ll reject her?

  “That part,” I say in a low, rumbling voice. My throat feels thick with emotion, and my heart is beating fast in my chest for an entirely different reason. I lean down and kiss her, as soft as I possibly can, my lips brushing against hers. I let my hands fall down her arms until they’re resting on her hips. Then I start pushing back out of the kitchen, kissing her as lightly as possible until she’s pushing back for a deeper kiss.

  I smile down at her when she’s leaning against the closed bedroom door, her eyes alight with excitement. I lean down until my nose is touching the special spot on her neck and I kiss her gently there, trailing them up her neck until I’m at her ear. “I love you, too, Daisy.” I tell her, feeling her tremble under my hands.

  Just as I’m about to open up the door and shove her into my room, a room I want her to always be in, the doorbell rings. It slices through my mind and makes me stiff, but then I go back to kissing her neck. The doorbell rings again and Daisy seems to come back to her senses.

  “You have to get that, it’s probably your Dad.” She tells me, trying to push me back. I growl and kiss her harshly on the lips, a punishing kiss. But her eyes are sparkling with humor when I pull away. “We have the rest of the day. Get your keys and talk to your father. I’ll still be here afterwards.” My mind is in auto pilot, and I can’t seem to bring it back. I kiss her again, and for the third time the doorbell rings. My father’s being a little too persistent.

  I’m irritated now as I stomp towards the door and don’t bother to look out the peephole before I wrench it open. It takes me a second to realize that the man standing outside my apartment is not my father; he’s too tall for that. He’s about my height with slicked back hair and a goatee that makes my lip curl in revulsion. He’s grinning from ear to ear, one hand behind his back.

  “Ms. Daisy, it’s time to come home. Big Man’s tired of you playing house with this scrawny piece of meat.” My eyes narrow and I put an arm up to stop him from entering my apartment.

  “Daisy isn’t available for Big Man anymore, and you’ve got some big balls coming to my home.” I growl at him, real low. I want him to know just how infuriated he’s made me.

  “She’s his property.” The greasy bulldog says it so matter of fact that I think he actually believes other people can actually be property.

  “Daisy is no one’s property!” I’m pulling my right fist back to punch him in the face, so full of adrenaline I’ve forgotten about the recently dislocated shoulder. The man is faster than me, ducks out of my way, and pulls a gun from behind his back. It’s a long barrel pistol, with the safety off. I have no doubt that it’s loaded.

  Daisy whimpers and the man pushes me back with the barrel of the gun. His foot comes into my apartment, sending chills down my spine. I feel violated. I see his eyes dart towards Daisy. Taking advantage of his brief distraction, I reach out and grab his wrist. The gun points to the left. His trigger finger tries to pull, but I hear the snap, it’s broken. He’s screaming, and I pull my fist back just to shut him up.

  My fist collides with his nose and a crunching noise ensues. It makes me even more irate, and I follow him down to the concrete sidewalk just outside my home. I’m straddling him, punching him in the face repeatedly when the cop car pulls up, lights and sirens ablaze. I immediately stand up off the man and take a few steps back. He’s not moving.

  “Put your hands in the air!” I’m breathing so hard my nostrils are flaring, my hands covered in blood, and I’m vibrating all over. But I listen to the short officer in uniform. His gun is pointed at me. I see his hand shake and wonder if he’s ever had to draw the weapon before on the actual job.

  “Daisy!” I shout, turning around to see if she’s alright. My hands are still in the air, and the cop takes advantage of the position. He grabs my wrists and cuffs me like I’m the criminal, reciting the Miranda Rights.

  The object of my concern and affection is standing in the doorway with her hands to her mouth, shaking. She’s looking down at the man on the ground with horror, and I wonder if she thinks I’m a monster now. Because I might be a murderer now, I think I may have killed him. I hear the officer get on his little radio behind me and call for an ambulance, one hand still on the cuffs.

  “Daisy, I need you to call Carl and tell him what happened! Pack your stuff, and stay with him until this is sorted out!” She’s nodding along, but I don’t think she’s listening. I think it’s just a reflex, like the rapid amounts of swallowing she’s doing. I wish I could put my arms around her, but the officer is dragging me backwards. Some of my neighbors are coming out of their apartments, and Mrs. Feistergeist is standing on the sidewalk breathing like a frightened animal.

  “I saw it! I saw everything!” She shouts at me and the cop. I don’t hear the rest of what she says because the officer slams the door of the cruiser shut and I put my forehead to the back of the passenger side front seat. I’m still breathing fast, cold sweat on my forehead. I’m not sure if I’m going to flip out or vomit all over the back of the cruiser.

  The cop takes Mrs. Feistergeist’s statement. Then Mr. Ishkner hobbles over and starts telling the cop something. He takes his statement as well, and finally another officer arrives. I assume it’s to take Daisy’s statement, but I’m not sure. The ambulance is pulling in just as we pull out of the apartment complex, and I’m not sure what I’m hoping right now. For Daisy, I hope the man is dead. But for my sake, I hope he’s alive. Because if I killed him, it might be considered manslaughter. I didn’t have to push him out the door and pummel him until he was lifeless. I could have stepped inside to protect myself instead.

  But I wasn’t worried about me, I was worried about Daisy.

  The ride to the station isn’t long, but it feels like a lifetime. I don’t bother saying a word until I’m seated in a metal chair at a metal table inside a white room with bright lights. It’s like a scene out of a movie, and now I’ll always know what it feels like to be the one treated like a criminal on the opposite side of a cop. He has a moustache and a cup of coffee in front of him, a tape recorder on the table.

  “Do you understand your rights?” He asks me, and I nod. He points at the tape recorder, and I clear my throat, my shoulder aching and my fists raw.

  “I do,” I finally say, staring at the little object on the table that could change my life forever if I answer incorrectly. I don’t say I want a lawyer. I shouldn’t need one.

  “Start at the beginning, son, and tell me what happened step by step.” The officer tries to be the nice cop, and I want to bang my forehead on the metal table. This feels wrong. They haven’t tested my blood yet for drugs or alcohol, but I had a breathalyzer test on the way in and I’m sure it registered. I’m in deep.

  “I was in my apartment, and the doorbell rang.” The officer puts up his hand and looks down at his papers, a pen in his hand.

  “What were you doing in the apartment?” The officer asks his dark gray eyes boring into mine. I don’t know what he sees there, fear, hurt, anger?

  “I was kissing Daisy,” I admit sheepishly, looking down at the cold metal. My foot taps on the floor nervously, the adrenaline rush still there. I didn’t know they could last this long.

  “And when you opened the door, what happened?” I blink and try to remember, what exactly happened? My memory is starting get foggy.

  “The doorbell rang two more times. I thought it was my father dropping off my keys for my Mustang. He was supposed to be coming by today,” my heart thumps hard as I realize that if he had been there, he could have gotten hurt. “I opened up the door, and the man said that he was there for Daisy.” I think about it for a few seconds, trying to recall his exact words.

  �
�He said to Daisy that it was time for her to go home, that Big Man was tired of her playing house with me.” My hands curl into fists as I remember, my vision starting to cloud over with red.

  “And that’s what led up to you punching him?” The officer prods.

  “No, no he said Daisy was property, and when I told him that she wasn’t property and going nowhere with him, he pulled out a gun. It was some type of pistol. He looked away from me at something, distracted, and I grabbed his hand with the gun. When I twisted it broke his finger, and he couldn’t shoot, but I can tell he was trying.” My voice becomes low, and I try to breathe deeply, normally.

  “And?” The officer sits back in his chair and stares at me. I’m bigger than him by about half a foot, and I can imagine that he’s becoming agitated since I’m about to hyperventilate. I probably look insane right now.

  “I pushed him out of my apartment, fell onto him, and started punching him in the face. I-” I pause, if I tell him I lost control, I’ll end up in a psychiatric hospital or in jail. Either way, it won’t be with Daisy.

  “I didn’t want him to get up again and hurt Daisy.” That’s the truth, just sugarcoated. The officer nods jots down some notes on the paper and looks up at me. I realize he wants me to keep going. “That’s when one of the officers arrived, told me to put up my hands, and cuffed me. End of story.” I’m staring at the tape recorder. My eyes narrow, and my heart growing eerily calm in my chest.

  “Alright, now let me tell you what we know, son.” That doesn’t sound good. I look up at the officer, and he’s staring at me with narrowed eyes. “Your blood alcohol level registered at .06, just below the legal limit of .08. Your neighbors say that they heard a man screaming, came to their windows, and saw you pushing a man out of your door. We have a man unconscious in the hospital because he was almost beaten to death, probably going to be in a medical induced coma for a time while the surgeons try to fix his face.” I don’t move, staring at the officer in front of me. Maybe he’s trying to invoke guilt, but I don’t feel any. Part of me wishes I had killed him. I’m lying; my entire being wishes I had killed him.