Chasing Peace

by Foxx, Gloria

  “Thanks Luke.” I turn in his direction smiling, my composure returning. “By the way, this is Boston.”

  Boston offers his hand, nodding to Luke as they clasp thumbs, no dap or elaborate synchronization, but not a traditional handshake either. “Can we give you a lift?”

  “Naw, man. I can take the shuttle. It stops a couple of blocks up.”

  “Or we can give you a ride if you’re ready now. We have one more seat.”

  “Yeah?” His voice holds a hint of surprise at the offer. “Yeah … okay.” Nodding toward Annie, Luke asks, “What are we going do about her?”

  “I’ll carry her if you can get the doors.”

  “Sure,” Luke takes the keys from Boston.

  I feel a bit useless standing by watching as Boston pulls Annie to an almost standing position. She protests feebly but doesn’t object. Tucking his knee between her legs and ducking his head under her arm, he crouches slightly positioning her torso across his shoulders before standing with Annie draped over him like a shawl. He stabilizes one arm and one thigh with his hands while the opposite arm and leg dangle down his back. His shoulders support her body and her head lolls just past the breadth of him.

  Luke watches, his eyes large and round. “Cool.”

  I object. “You can’t carry her like that. Her skirt’s too short.”

  “So I should drag her back to the car?”

  “Of course not, but she’ll be embarrassed by this.”

  Boston moves toward the door. “She should have thought about that before she got too drunk to walk.”

  * * *

  We drop off Luke first and then Annie. She revived enough to stumble her way to her room with only a little assistance. It started raining as we left her dorm and made a dash for the car.

  I slam the door thinking I’m next and then Boston will drive off with Annie’s car. “Where will you park the car?” I ask, not wanting to leave such an expensive car at my place and not really keen on walking home in the rain, especially now that the busses have stopped running.

  Boston flicks his finger at the tag hanging from the mirror. I read the lot and space number printed on the parking permit.

  “Then you’ll walk home from the lot?”

  “Better me than you.”

  Right now we’re insulated, the sound of rain outside the car muffled, the ticking of hazard lights warning others we’re stopped, the swish of wipers clearing the window, but never getting ahead of the rain.

  “My apartment is a couple miles away. Maybe it’ll stop raining by the time we get there.”

  “Yeah maybe,” he says, doubt heavy in his voice as he pulls away from the curb.

  I give Boston directions as the wipers swish back and forth. We’d barely left Annie’s dorm when they begin to pick up speed, adjusting automatically to the rain. At first they’re hypnotic, but as their speed increases, so to does my anxiety level, as if I can’t trust myself.

  Rain pours from the sky in sheets by the time we pull into my parking lot. Boston parks in a space saying, “We should wait a couple minutes. Maybe it’ll let up.”

  Now I’m the skeptical one and I don’t want to wait. “Can you turn off the wipers?” He does and my anxiety level drops, until he turns off the car and there’s nothing but the drumming of relentless rain. My elbow rests on the passenger door armrest. I push on my hand, popping my wrist. The sound would have been explosive in the void where the engine noise used to be but for the rain pounding on the roof.

  “Cold?” He turns on the key, without starting the car and hits the button for my seat warmer. Heat seeps into me almost immediately. It’s soothing and scary at the same time like I’m melting, losing my willpower.

  “Why not you Sterling?”

  I’m massaging my wrist once again, and the question takes me by surprise. “I thought the two of you would make a good couple. You’re comfortable in her world,” I respond, not really answering the question.

  “What about your world?” he presses.

  “I’m not in the market right now.”

  “You have a boyfriend?” He rests his wrist on the top of the steering wheel, his face turned away from me as he looks out the driver’s side window.

  He’s giving me just the excuse I need, the very same excuse I’d thought about earlier, but I can hear disappointment in his voice and a sliver of hope that maybe he’s wrong. I can’t lie, so I ignore the premise. “I’m not in the market right now.”

  “You’ve been hurt?”

  “I’ve learned that all things being equal I always pick the wrong man.”

  “So you won’t pick me?”

  “I’d pick you. That’s the problem.”

  “You know Sterling,” he turns toward me, the leather of his jacket creaking against the leather upholstery. “We’re all broken and still, we pretend we’re not.”

  “You don’t even know me. You can’t imagine,” I snap. Boston’s presence fills the car, a danger to my equilibrium. He smells of leather and citrus and something warm, as if warmth is a scent. The car closes in around me, I have to get out. I can’t stay.

  Pushing open the door, I hop out, dashing across the parking lot to my apartment. I don’t have my keys handy and water pours into my purse as I rummage.

  My building is a two-story. It looks like an old motel, but without the pool in the parking lot. You’d think a roof or awning above would block the rain, but the original porch-style roof is gone and the upper walkway has been rebuilt like a deck. Rain pours off the roof onto the walkway above before running between the boards and dousing me with of water. Tonight it comes through the decking above in sheets. I find my keys and unlock the door just as Boston arrives behind me.

  “It’s like taking a shower in a waterfall,” he says, apparently not at all bothered by the icy water sluicing over his head.

  I open the door and Boston pushes in behind me, our bodies almost touching until he stops to close the door.

  The rain has reset my emotions like a glass of water to the face might wake someone who’s sleeping or startle a screaming woman, enough to make her stop. “Whew.” I run my sleeve over my face, trying to move the water from my eyes. I drop my purse, turning to look at Boston. He’s dripping water all over my floor. I guess I’m dripping too. “I’ll get you a towel.”

  Ducking into the alcove between the bath and bedroom, I grab a towel and toss it in his direction before closing the door to dry myself. In the privacy of the bath, I wonder what he thinks about my shabby apartment with the old gold carpeting, cracked vinyl floor and efficiency kitchen that has seen better days.

  I strip off my drenched shirt, the thin material nearly transparent. “This won’t do,” I whisper to myself, pulling the tee over my head and quickly toweling my hair. All my clothes are in the living room, but thankfully I have a robe on the back of the bathroom door. I pull it on before tying my wet hair back in a messy knot. My jeans are wet and my bra clammy, but I can’t take off any more while Boston is here.

  I stop short the second I step back into the living room. Boston is toweling his hair dry, the towel hanging over his head and face, but that’s not what stops me. His jacket and shirt are gone. My eyes cascade down his body, much like the rain that went before. I found his belt undone and the top button on his jeans unbuttoned.

  My head spins as I drink him in, his chest sculpted, abs mushrooming across his belly. With his jeans slouched low on his hips, I can’t help but trace that vee of muscle that disappears below his open belt.

  As my eyes roam back up toward his face, they catch on something on his bicep. It’s a raven, wings flaring, talons grabbing hold and I’ve seen it before. I find myself fighting through the dizziness, fending off a shiver. This is not supposed to happen. I had a plan to focus on school and avoid guys, remain self contained. Then the first thing I do is make a friend and meet a guy who’s attractive and fascinating and hard to resist.

  I don’t make a sound until Boston lowers the towel, his
eyes finding mine like a ship seeking a beacon of light.

  “Would you put on a shirt,” I squawk, in a voice not my own.

  “It’s too wet.”

  My clammy bra warms in the span of one breath. I’m trapped by uncertainty as his gaze clings to mine, reaching inside me and looking for answers. I’m ready to give up on my convictions, ready to take a chance, yet not nearly ready enough. “You can’t be here. You have to leave.” My words come in a whisper.

  I’m not even sure Boston hears me. He looks away, seemingly lost for a moment until his eyes find his jacket on the back of my desk chair. Pulling it loose by the collar, he slips it over his hands, arms, shoulders. The raven disappears and he’s mostly covered. The hint of his chest and belly are even more mysterious in the shadows behind the jacket. His belt hangs loose and is nearly hidden, obvious only if I look.

  He must have seen the struggle in my gaze. “It’s okay Sterling. I’m leaving now,” but he steps in my direction instead, his eyes connecting to me with amazing tensile strength that I don’t bother to test.

  I don’t cower. I’m afraid of myself, of the choices I might make. I’m not afraid of Boston, although right now my greatest wish is that he scared me silly. Life would be so much easier then.

  He stops in front of me, his hand resting lightly at my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek and fingers lingering just below my ear. I’m a jellyfish under his touch, drifting and pulsing and beautiful, lit up by some mysterious internal light.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, pulling his hand away.

  “Wh.… What?” I slam back to reality, the cold and sucking dampness of jeans that I couldn’t bear to remove, the tattered grimness of my apartment and the warmth coming from Boston, from his eyes, his skin, the feather of breath that ruffles my hair.

  “I’ll see you at work tomorrow”

  Oh ... yeah ... right, tomorrow’s Friday. My thoughts are scattered, but I manage to squeak out a response. “Yeah. Tomorrow.” He’s too close. I can feel his body, steamy from the rain, scorching me and lighting a fire within me that threatens to burst through my skin at any moment. I want to reach out and touch him, feel his skin, taste him.

  “Bye Sterling.”

  He’s gone, slipping out the door without a sound.

  I grab an oversized tee from the dresser next to my desk. I’d moved my belongings to the living room, sleeping here now and avoiding the bedroom at all costs. I pull off my still damp jeans and bra, leaving both on the floor for a moment while I yank the dry tee over my head. Thinking to hang the wet clothing over the back of my desk chair to dry, I find Boston’s shirt still hanging there. I leave it, but not before rubbing the soft fabric between my fingers. I toss my jeans over the shower door, hang my robe along with my bra on the hook behind the bathroom door and head to bed.

  Pulling my duvet up to my chin, I realize there’s no way I can set up Boston and Annie now.

  Chapter 6

  I’m frustrated by another Saturday slow enough to be boring, but busy enough that I don’t get to leave early. Of course I can’t afford the time off, but I wouldn’t mind the occasional early night.

  Boston just left, leaving me alone to find Lyla and let her know I’m leaving too. I head down the utility hallway to her office.

  “Lyla?” The lights in her office are on, shining down on papers strewn across a normally neat desk. The clutter tells me she’d been in the middle of something when she left. She can’t be far.

  Looking to the end of the hall, I spy the door marked emergency exit. It’s cracked open. “Lyla?” I call, pushing on the door. I’d never been here before.

  “Hey sweetie.” Lyla looks comfortable and familiar, leaning against the block wall of the building, right knee bent, cigarette dangling from her fingers. “It’s a dirty habit, I know, but I love it,” she confesses.

  We’re in a wide alley for hotel delivery and pick up service. It looks neat and clean for an alley, as far as I can tell, dumpsters along the length of it, trash contained, lights outside several doors dim but keeping the gloom at bay.

  I lean against the wall next to Lyla. “I don’t mind. I guess I’m used to it.”

  She shakes her head wryly as she exhales a stream of smoke in the other direction. “Don’t ever start. It’s hell to stop when you want to and impossible when you don’t, but know you should.”

  I chuckle at her assessment. “You do what you need to do. I won’t judge.” I’d seen too much judgment from people who have no idea how harshly we judge ourselves.

  “Thanks sweetie.” She dropped the finished butt, grinding it out with the toe of her shoe before bending to pick it up. That’s when I saw him.

  “Uh Oh,” I breathe. Lyla pops back up like a dolphin leaping from below the surface, turning to follow my line of sight. I’d recognize him anywhere. A shadow in the darkness, but my mind screams Logan based on his outline, his shape, his gait, and I’m not wrong.

  Lyla hollers at him, her voice gruff and protective. “You’re not allowed back here. Go on. Get outta here.”

  “It’s okay Lyla. He’ll just wait for me out front. We really need to talk and at least here we won’t have an audience.”

  “I don’t know about this Sterling. I can’t believe he’s cooled off any since last week.”

  “I’m still angry,” Logan grouched.

  “Give us a minute Lyla. He won’t hurt me.”

  Of course he’d hurt me before and then I hurt him, but not with violence, never violence.

  “I’ll be right inside the door. Just holler if you need me.” Lyla backed away with reluctance in her movement, keeping her eyes on Logan.

  I watch him too. He simmers, a barely controlled rage just beneath surface, ready to burst forth and it’s my fault. It weighs me down, the heft of it draining me.

  “What can I do Logan?”

  “I’ve lost everything, college, football, Emma, and it’s all your fault.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t fix it. I can’t go back. No matter how much I wish, how hard I try, it’s never going to be the same. You need to talk to someone, find a way to go forward.”

  Good advice I give, my eyes pleading, his seething. Too bad I don’t try it myself. I can’t talk to anyone and I hope with every fiber of my being he doesn’t really want to talk to me about this. My tenuous grip on my life will disintegrate and fall right through my fingers if I have to talk about it. Better to leave it alone, keep the door closed on that part of my life, than to lose the new life I’m building. Logan has taken enough from me. I won’t let him take my new life too.

  The despair is there just below the surface making him grim and a little gray, unless that’s the color from the alley. Clenching tight, I stiffen my spine and push it away. Hiding it behind barriers has helped me to move on, I think.

  I am yanked forward with the speed of a striking snake, his fingers wrap around my upper arms. A quick startled sound pops out of my mouth and then I am quiet and still.

  “You shut the fuck up!” he snarls, every word punctuated by a vicious shake tossing me like a rag doll. “I don’t want to talk about it with you or anyone else. I want to do something about it. I want you to lose everything like I have. I want you to feel just like I feel.” My head lolls and I chuckle hoarsely. Little does he know I’d already lost everything. Guilt gnaws at me every minute, no, every second, of every day.

  “Look at me!” His hand in my hair, meaty fingers tangled and gripping with relentless force tilt my head to meet the vengeance in his eyes. A small squeak escapes from my throat, but I’m not afraid. I deserve his rage and if this is punishment for my part in his grief, I can endure.

  My knees buckle and I slump, my right knee crashing into the pavement, my weight suspended from Logan’s hands back on my arms. It doesn’t hurt. Instead I feel relief as if the pain lets the pressure out. I can handle this and I can believe for just this second that it might take away the pain.

&
nbsp; * * *

  “Sterling?” I hear the panic in Lyla’s voice as if from a distance. I can’t tell if she’s heard the scuffle or if she just thought to check in, but she’s coming and I can’t manage even a squeak to stop her.

  Logan growls. He drags me toward the mouth of the alley as I stumble along behind him.

  “Hey, let her go.”

  In his obsession, Logan assumes the voice came from inside the building, came from Lyla. He couldn’t be more wrong and his mistake put him right in line with Boston, heading in our direction from the street, just as Logan had done minutes before.

  Logan tosses me away, the side of my head hitting the corner of a dumpster and making everything fuzzy. I try to watch, worried about Boston. They’re about the same height, but Boston isn’t near as big as Logan and the differences continue. Boston plays piano; Logan plays football. And most terrifying, Boston just stands there when Logan lunges in his direction.

  I could hear flesh smashing flesh like a thunderclap, the movement too quick for my fuzzy mind to discern.

  “Stop it!” Lyla shouts from the door and the noise stops. “Sterling? Are you okay?” I struggle to my knees intent on stopping them, but the damage is already done.

  Boston looms over me as I shuffle to a stand. Looking past him, I spot Logan across the alley, sitting with his back against the building, head slouching to his chest, legs splayed in front of him, hands limp at his sides as if discarded. “I’m sorry. Sorry Sterling. So sorry,” he blubbers.

  “I’m sorry too Logan.” I can’t tell if he hears my apology or not. My voice is thready, not from pain or weakness, but from embarrassment as I witness, yet again, the destruction I’ve caused.

  Boston turns my face away from Logan with gentle fingers at my jaw. “I think she’ll be okay Lyla,” he says.

  “I’m fine,” I snap, my voice crackling with irritation as I pull away. “I don’t need anyone to save me.” I stand on uncertain legs, making a move toward Logan.