Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “Okay,” I whisper, grabbing my purse off the top of my desk.

  “Really?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  He pauses for a moment as I watch him take his hands out of his pockets “Okay then,” he says, holding out his arm. “Let’s go.”

  I loop my arm through his and when we get to the bank of elevators, I don’t let go. In fact, we walk two blocks arm in arm to a little trattoria. I pretend the bodyguard isn’t trailing behind us and when we walk into the restaurant and everyone gawks at my brother, I don’t roll my eyes. He’s a regular here with a table reserved in the corner at all times. We’re quickly seated and handed menus but Rocco never opens his. A waiter comes and fills our glasses with Rocco’s favorite wine and I try to take it all in stride.

  “The calamari is delicious here,” he says. “So is the spaghetti and meatballs, the sauce reminds me of moms,” he adds.

  “Moms sauce,” I repeat. “Wow, I didn’t realize how much I missed it until you just said it.”

  “Really? I fucking dream of her meatballs. You know you really should’ve learned how she made them. You could’ve carried on the recipe, instead we have to rely on Gino’s,” he says, pointing a thumb toward the kitchen.

  “You used to devour them before she even put them in the sauce,” I recall, and as if on cue Gino emerges from the kitchen with a plate of fried meatballs.

  “For you, Mr. Rocco,” he says, placing the plate between us. “Buon appetito!”

  My brother flashes me a smile and again my eyes water. What the hell is wrong with me? He reaches over, handing me a fork and nods to the plate in front of us.

  “Dig in,” he says.

  I break off a piece of one meatball and stab it with my fork before bringing it to my mouth for a taste. Rocco goes for the gusto and pops half the meatball into his mouth.

  “Oh my God,” I say, through a mouthful of ground beef.

  “Fucking delicious, no?” he asks as he pops the other half into his mouth.

  “They do taste like moms,” I agree, reaching for the wine.

  “Wait until they’re in the sauce,” he says. “I come here once a week, sometimes twice.”

  “It’s funny, this place is two blocks from my office and this is the first time I ever realized it was here.”

  “Probably because it’s not an overpriced joint where you can woo your clients,” he points out. I think he’s attempting to make a joke but sadly it’s the truth. I place the glass down and look across the table at my brother, watching as he splits the last meatball in half, placing one half in my dish and the other in his.

  Like he used to do with the final cookie.

  “Rocco?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you happy?”

  He lifts his gaze to mine contemplating his answer.

  “For now,” he answers truthfully as he leans back against the wooden chair and observes at me. “You’re not.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “You miss biker boy.”

  “I guess I do,” I mutter, sighing as I reach for the wine again.

  Throwing down his napkin, he lets out an exasperated breath and leans forward.

  “You’re right, I’m an asshole. I never should’ve let him handle my business,” he points a finger toward me. “You’re my business, Gina. We might not be the same kids we used to be but you’re my sister and you’re all I’ve got in this world. I should’ve kept Johnny watching over you, but the truth is I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. I’m flying blind here. I went from running Uncle Vic’s nightclub in Miami to this,” he spreads his arms wide then flicks the lapels of his suit. “I jumped on Stryker’s offer because I figured he was more experienced in this shit, he had a whole fucking club to back him should anything happen. That’s more than I’ve got. I don’t know who I can trust right now.”

  Sliding down my cheeks, the tears give way and Rocco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silk handkerchief.

  “I was wondering when the fuck these things would come in handy,” he mutters, handing it over to me.

  “I miss you,” I admit, drying my eyes. “I miss my brother.”

  “I’m right here, Gina.”

  Gino emerges from the kitchen once again balancing two heaping plates full of spaghetti and meatballs, placing them in front of us.

  “Mangia, mangia!”

  Rocco tips his head to the plate in front of me.

  “Go on, get a fix of mom.”

  He was right, the dinner reminded me of my mother’s cooking and I’d like to think she was with us in that little trattoria. I’d like to think she was smiling, finally proud of her two children, if for no other reason except they had found their way to common ground through their love of her meatballs.

  Rocco had parked his car in the garage across the street so after we finished dinner, and had the best cheesecake ever, we headed back toward my office. I realized I had left my briefcase back in my office and he was about to walk me back up to get it when his phone rang. Instantly his whole demeanor changed, the smile he had been sporting on the way here vanished.

  “I’ve got to run,” he declared, turning to the guard standing ten feet away from us and beckoned him to his side. “Make sure my sister gets home safely.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, dragging his attention back to me.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” he leans forward and gives my cheek a peck. “It's fine,” he repeats and I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me or himself. “We’ll do this again, next week,” he promises.

  “I’d like that,” I tell him. “Be careful.”

  “Always,” he mutters. Turning around he gives his guard a steady look before disappearing out the door.

  “I’m just going to run up and get my briefcase and then we can head out,” I tell the bodyguard. “You don’t have to come with me, you need the passcode for the elevators. It’s safe.”

  “As you wish Miss Spinelli.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Richie,” he supplies, crossing one hand over the other as he stands as still as a soldier.

  “I’ll be right down, Richie.”

  He nods as the elevator doors open and I step inside, watching as he takes his place in front of the doors as they close. I enter the passcode, press the button to my floor and quickly make my way to my office. I grab a stack of papers from the top of my desk and shove them into the briefcase. Giving the room a once over, I shut the lights and head back downstairs.

  The elevator doors open but Richie isn’t standing in front of the doors like I figured he’d be.

  “Richie?”

  Figuring he must be outside when my voice echoes in the vestibule, I step outside the glass doors of the firm and look around for Richie.

  Nothing.

  I glance across the street at the parking garage but there’s no sign of him anywhere. I guess I’m assed out of a ride and taking the bus. Shrugging my shoulders, I start down the street toward the bus stop.

  Then it happens.

  I get a weird feeling.

  Dread.

  Something’s not right.

  Where did Richie go?

  Stryker’s voice looms in my ear reminding me to be wary of my surroundings and to trust my instincts. I stop walking.

  Richie wouldn’t have just left me.

  Something happened.

  I’m about to turn around and head back to my office when an arm snakes around my face and a hand closes over my mouth.

  I scream. I scream at the top of my lungs but then a gun is brought to my temple and a man’s voice sounds against my ear.

  “One more word and I’ll kill you.”

  Something terrible is about to happen.

  I want to tell you that everything fades and I don’t remember a thing but what happens next is something I’ll never forget.

  Wh
at happens next will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Thirty

  They’re strangers.

  Women you read about in a newspaper or watch as their story unfolds in sixty seconds on the news. You gasp in horror, feel sorry for them for a moment but then you forget them. You forget the girl said no. You never hear her cry, never hear her scream for help or beg God to make it stop. Maybe if you had, then you’d remember her.

  Maybe you’d remember her if you knew there were three of them torturing her. One who punched her in the face and smashed the back of her head against the concrete. Another who dragged her by her bare feet down a deserted alleyway and positioned her behind a dumpster. A third who held a gun to her head and promised to kill her.

  Maybe then you’d remember her.

  Would she be a second thought in your head if you knew she had closed her eyes and thought of her mother as they ripped her panties down her legs? That she wished for her mother’s spirit to save her as they tore her shirt from her body and pulled her breasts out of her bra.

  If you knew they forced their tongues into her mouth and vowed to cut hers out if she didn’t respond. Would you remember her?

  Or if you knew of the godawful things they whispered into her ear as they bruised, bloodied and shamed her body—maybe then you’d remember her.

  You want it.

  A girl dressed like you always wants it.

  Open your mouth.

  Spread your legs.

  Do it or your brother will die.

  Would you remember her?

  She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize their accents; never saw their faces until they were between her legs and inside of her.

  Her.

  Would you remember her?

  Would you remember the girl who cried as they shoved foreign objects inside of her, penetrated her with their dirty fingers all the while tearing her apart both physically and emotionally?

  You’re so wet.

  Would you remember the girl who heard those words and felt like her own body betrayed her?

  The girl whose bare skin and scalp had been rubbed against the ground behind a dumpster while three erect men raped her repeatedly.

  Her.

  Would you remember that girl?

  Would you remember me?

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Pain.

  It’s how I know I’m alive.

  Alive, wishing I was dead or at least able to crawl out of my skin, out of my body that feels no longer mine. I fight to open my eyes but they are so severely swollen that even the tears escaping the corners of them hurt.

  I hear a noise and my already trembling body twitches in fear—they’ve come back. I’m not scared of dying but I’m terrified of living…living through that again. What if they came back for more?

  No.

  I don’t speak the word. I don’t scream it and I don’t cry it. It’s a meaningless word that didn’t save me. The only thing that will save me is lying here pretending I’m dead, maybe then they’ll leave my broken body alone.

  Struggling, I sanction whatever will I have left inside me and force my quivering body to remain still.

  Don’t cry.

  Don’t make a sound.

  You’re dead.

  I repeat those three things over and over in my head as the sound draws closer and I’m able to tell that it’s someone walking. The footsteps stop and another noise I can’t quite decipher takes root. The next sound I hear is humming, and it’s like the angels are calling for me.

  Help.

  I say the word in my head but it never escapes my lips. Groaning through the red hot pain that sears through my body as I try to move, I open my dry mouth again and force it to formulate the one word that may save me.

  “Help,” I croak.

  The noise stops and by some miracle of God I manage to open one eye. Worn and tattered boots come into my line of sight.

  “Holy hell,” the person grumbles.

  Remembering that my clothes have been torn from my body, I struggle to cover myself with one arm. I’m sure it doesn’t help, that I’m not actually hiding anything, but still I try. I try to cover what they took and shield the scars I’ll carry for the rest of my life.

  The soles of the boots flap as the stranger takes a retreating step backward.

  “Please,” I beg, dropping the hand that poorly covers my chest and reach for the laces on his boots.

  “I was just looking for food,” he mutters.

  “Please, help me,” I cry, holding onto the laces as if they’re a lifeline. “Please,” I whimper.

  The man crouches down beside me, his face comes into view and through the dirt covering his face I see remorse, pity. He removes his old coat and lays it over my body.

  “It’s not much,” he mumbles.

  Tears burn my cheeks as my fingers loosen over the laces and I stare at him with one eye.

  “Thank you,” I cry.

  “I don’t have a phone to call for help and the longer I stand here the more I chance being found next to you. They’re going to think I did this to you,” he rambles, hurrying to his feet. “I’ve got to go.”

  “No,” I beg weakly. Exhaustion weighs heavily over me and I push through, grabbing onto the laces of his boots again.

  “My bag…it's somewhere…there’s money…and a phone.”

  “I can’t,” he tells me.

  “Please! You won’t get in trouble…” My voice trails off as my eye closes. I may have temporarily passed out, I’m not certain, but when I open my eyes again all that’s left of the homeless stranger is the coat covering my battered body.

  Then I hear his voice.

  “I found the bag,” he grunts, kneeling beside me. “If I call 911 the cops are going to think it was me,” he rattles off again.

  “No cops,” I choke out, forcing one eye open again. Blinking as I try to focus, I reach out my hand for the phone.

  “Dial and I’ll talk,” I rasp, my body threatening to shut down on me as each word is a strangled breath.

  “Dial who?”

  I tell myself to hang in there, all I have to do is give the homeless man a name and then I can let go.

  One name. One prayer. One hero.

  “Stryker.”

  I close my eye as I say the name, pray he answers the phone because if anyone can save me it’s him.

  One name. One prayer. One hero.

  Then I give into the aching body that betrayed me and fade into an unconscious state. My soldier, in his dress uniform greets me and I wonder if he’s there to rescue me or if I’ve joined him in hell.

  My saddlebags are packed and I’ve got a full tank of gas. All that’s left to do is say goodbye to Wolf.

  He’s the one who brought me here and handed me my patch after I was voted in. It’s only fair I turn my patch back to him. I tried to live up to his expectations. Hand to God I tried to, but I’m too fucked up to be anything other than a wounded soldier.

  Too fucked up to even kill myself.

  Since I left Rocco, I’ve been sitting in my filthy room at the motel trying to find the courage to end this fucking nightmare. I lifted the gun to my temple a total of thirty-six times, and every time I closed my eyes I saw her face. Her green eyes pleaded with me every damn time, begging me to stay and suffer, not to give up and be a statistic.

  Choosing not to pull the trigger is the last thing I gave her.

  That and the bruises on her neck.

  I gave her those too.

  Put a shit ton of fear in her eyes as well.

  Another present from me to her.

  Before I do anymore damage, like go to her house and beg her to forgive me or take her up on the fucking offer to get a dog, I need to drag my ass far away from here, far away from her.

  I know how it goes, seen my own mother do it a thousand times.

  I’ll apologize and Gina will accept my apo
logy.

  We’ll have some good days and we’ll both forget what I’ve done. We’ll pretend we’re a normal couple, that there aren’t demons beating down the front door looking to tear us apart.

  Then it will happen again.

  I won’t know it’s happening, won’t be able to stop it and I’ll lose control.

  I’ll hurt her.

  This time it’s a couple of bruises, but who’s to say I won’t break her wrist like I did her cousin’s. That’s putting it mildly, I can kill her and not even realize I’m doing so until I’m lying on the floor with her lifeless body in my arms, touching her with the same hands that took her life.

  I won’t do that. I won’t allow her to be the victim.

  Knocking on the door, I step inside and find Wolf standing beside his bed packing his shit.

  “Going somewhere?” I ask as I lean against the wall.

  He glances over his shoulder at me and grins widely.

  “Haven’t you heard, boy? I’m getting the fuck out of here tomorrow,” he boasts, bringing his fist to his chest. “Heart’s good as new.”

  “Glad to hear,” I say as I draw in a deep breath and push myself off the wall. Reaching into my jacket I feel his eyes on me as I pull the patch from inside my pocket.

  “Whatcha got there?” he questions as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed. His eyes tell me he knows what I hold in my hand and he also knows the words that follow once I hand him my patch.

  “I—”

  “Don’t do it, boy,” he warns, cutting me off as he places his hands on his knees and glares back at me. “Besides, I’m not going to be the one who takes that patch from you.”

  I’m about to object and give him a list of reasons why I can’t do this anymore but my phone rings. Reaching into my pocket to silence it, it stops ringing on its own and I turn my attention back to Wolf.

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask him, rubbing a hand over my head. “I’m sorry, Wolf—”

  “Answer your goddamn phone,” he hisses as it rings again, interrupting the conversation.