by Marata Eros
I slip my phone out of my smock pocket and look at the texts from Mick.
They're from before Thorn and I almost blew it in the alley.
Just the thought of any kind of collusion with Thorn sets my teeth on edge.
I still can't get a feel for him.
But I have different things to consider with his new information. Mick doesn't know about the laps. It doesn't get him completely off the hook with me though. I mean, he's still okay with making some of his money off pole dancers.
And I'm hypocrite enough to be pissed about it. In a roundabout way, he's providing for my mom's care.
I cringe and put my cell inside my pocket, along with the card.
My fingertips linger on the thick paper.
Can I afford my pride anymore?
What kind of game is Mick playing?
What kind am I?
I move into the freight elevator and slam it shut. It lurches down and lands at the bottom with a teeth-slamming crunch.
I flinch, step out, and high tail it to the door.
I look left and right, letting the building door close behind me. I notice my VW is sandwiched between two cars.
My off-street parking is not-going-anywhere parking today. I can't back out without ramming the yahoos who take parallel parking to a new level.
Shit.
I guess I'm going to get some exercise. I know it's not part of the protocol Doctor Matthews has in mind.
I imagine him saying, “Brain tumor patients shall not run to work.”
Well fuck it.
I run.
*
I grab Trixie’s thigh hard as she does a particularly good hamstring extension. I feel for the proper lift, hardness of muscle, and method.
It's perfect.
She grunts, staving off another with five seconds of unapproved respite.
“Come on,” I encourage, “one more.”
“It's killing me!”
I know. “Give me one more real one. Otherwise you're just going through the motions. I'd rather see five real than twenty fakers.”
“Gah!” She bellows like an enraged cow and pushes through the last set. She collapses against the weight bench underneath her, arms dangling like limp noodles.
I pat her leg.
“Don't touch me,” she barks.
“Grumpy,” I answer in a neutral tone, though I can feel the smile in my voice.
Trixie whirls around, her mousy hair and thin body like a whip that doesn't sit still.
“Where am I at, Faren?”
I hate to say, but I know what she's asking. “There's still a good amount of atrophy.”
Trixie's hazel eyes narrow at my evasion. “How. Much.”
I fold my arms. “You're organic, Trixie, not a robot. Each patient is different. I'm not here to defeat you, but to encourage you.”
“With pain?” she asks, disbelieving.
My lips twitch. I've heard that so many times I've lost count.
“Yes. We don't call this ‘the torture chamber’ for nothing.”
She stands and looks up into my face. “What do you estimate?”
Her shoulders droop, her mouth a grim line.
Yet, I deliver news that makes her face fall further. I never lie to my patients.
Only myself.
*
I slide my patient folder through the glass slot and meet Sue's eyes.
“How's Doc Matthews?” she asks, flicking a finger through the sheets page by page, swiping stickies away where they're not needed.
I say nothing at first.
Sue looks up over her eyeglasses. The bottoms of her eyes are magnified, and the tops are sharp.
Focusing on me.
Those two words—brain cancer—stick in my throat like a burr, and I want to spit them out.
Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile.
“He's great.”
Sue exhales in obvious relief. “So you're feeling better?”
I nod, also true.
Except for the terrible headache attack yesterday and fainting, I've never felt better. I smile at how easy it is for me to dismiss the horrible incident when the little ones are becoming less frequent.
Of course, it could be the calm before the storm. My smile fades with my pessimism.
I turn to go, hiding my face to shroud my thoughts.
“Oh, Faren!” Sue calls out and I turn back.
She waves a mask at me.
The twilight doesn't fail to catch the refractions the Swarovski crystals fling around the room like tiny diamonds in flight.
I can't speak. I left that stupid thing inside my apartment.
I know it.
The mask that I had misplaced, that Mick found and used as a handy message-holder. My belly does an unwieldy flop.
“Who... what?” I ask.
Sue is obviously pleased she’d remembered to give it to me. She slides it through the slot.
It sparkles as it moves. “He said it was yours.”
“Who?” I ask again, my voice fragile.
Sue's brows draw together, and she shrugs. “Some man. He says you dropped it outside the office.”
I stand there like a zombie, and my bad hand gives a vicious jerk. My good one is softly fisted around the damning mask.
“Is something wrong?” Sue looks as if she's about to dive around the partition and tackle me in full-on mother hen style.
“No!” I say, a little more harshly than I mean to.
“It's mine. Just a little leftover Halloween stuff still running around in my purse.”
Sue nods, but her eyes track me in a way they never have before.
I'm getting more attention than I want from a co-worker. But that's the least of my worries.
My stepfather has been in my house.
~ 4 ~
My body freezes outside my apartment building in fear. Strobes flare at me in greeting, red then blue, pulsing in the descending twilight.
The sunset bleeds away as I approach my building and a cop car stands sentinel by the glass doors. My thoughts fill with Ronnie. Cop cars at my apartment, dumped mask like a message... I can think of only one conclusion. Out with pessimism, in with realism. I'm not a fan of coincidence.
My hand only trembles a little when I whip out my cell and text Kiki.
Me: Holy shit, the cops are at my building
Kiki has her phone glued to her ass. Unless she's in the shower, she'll reply.
I wait until my cell pings.
I look down and give a nervous laugh.
Kiki: What in the fuckinstein is happening? Are you ok?
Am I okay? Hell no. Ronnie had my mask; he knows where I live. I'm not safe. Oh god—I'm not safe.
Me: No... Yeah, I'm okay but Kik—can you come over?
I'm finally asking for help.
Kiki: Gah! I can't, I've got poles tonight. I've got to wiggle my ass and play grab the cash... after?
Me: Yeah.
Kiki: You're not lying... are you really okay?
No. Me: Yes... just, come over, k?
Kiki: <3
I walk toward the apartment building and see cops milling around in the small foyer.
A cop walks up to me, his badge reads Tagger.
He's my height, and his watery green eyes meet my gray ones. He does that eye flick most men do when they see me. Though my sexy clinic smock gets in the way of an in-depth perusal, he still lingers for the perfunctory two-second eye rake.
“I'm sorry, miss, I can't let you enter the building.”
His hand hovers over me as if I'm going to sprint for it, slide across the tile, and make a home run as I land inside the elevator.
Right.
“I live in the building,” I say, not quite keeping the bite out of my words.
I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I'm freaked as hell about Ronnie.
Now cops are telling me to get lost?
Don't they effing know I am already? So lost.
Tears of frustration fill my vision, scorching me as I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I level a glare at the cop who's just doing his job.
Anger feels better than tears.
It's not his fault he just stepped into the pile of shit that's my life.
Tagger's brows rise, and he takes out a piece of paper and slides a finger down what I know must be a short list of tenants.
His eyes meet mine, and they have a look. It's not easy to decipher sandwiched between two buildings in a tight, narrow alleyway full of puddled shadows.
“Faren Mitchell?”
My heart pounds harder, and my hand gives a warning tremble. That's one of the “tells” Thorn spoke of. The full-on shakes might happen in a minute or two for extra fun.
“Yes.” Even to me, my voice has the quality of a squished whistle.
He lightly touches my elbow and I don't retreat. “I'm afraid we have some bad news.”
His words hollow me. I don't think I can handle any more of the evils of life.
I follow him through the door. My eyes take in my irate landlord and the splayed guts of the security code box.
“You fuckweasels didn't get here after my tenant called it in- what? Ten minutes ago?! What in the blue fuck do we pay your salary for? To goddamned respond is what!” my landlord yells.
Tagger narrows his vision to a laser beam on Humphrey. His combover stands like a filthy flag on top of his head. I can just imagine him compulsively raking his pudgy fingers through it.
Another cop has a little handheld device, his stylus poised but not touching. Apparently fuckweasel doesn't warrant note taking.
“Faren!” Humphrey stalks over to me, and all I see is the spot of mustard on his rumpled shirt collar.
Tagger steers me into the vestibule of my apartment building.
I don't miss the look he gives his partner, a significant eye jerk to Humphrey.
The other cop, Scott, calls, “Mr. Humphrey! My questions are not finished.”
Humphrey stops. He shoots me a scathing look that clearly says later.
His fists bunch, and he pivots and walks back to officer Scott in a jerky trot. His chubby body rocks importantly when he halts in front of Scott again. He’s pissed and not bothering to hide it.
Tagger shakes his head. “If it wasn't his property, we wouldn't be so lenient.”
“He's a jerk,” I say and bite my cheek.
Tagger smiles, and it changes his face, erasing hard years. “Yes, duly noted.”
We climb the stairs, and I slow. His hand takes my elbow.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Tagger stares at me. So much in his face is left unsaid, and I can feel the blood rush to my feet.
“Where?” I ask again.
He sighs explosively. “It's your apartment.”
I wrench my elbow out of his grip and sprint up the stairs.
“Miss Mitchell!” Tagger bellows.
I outpace him like an antelope on crack.
I've kept in great shape, working to get out of the hole of disability Ronnie Bunce put me in. There's only my hand now.
I can't make everything right.
I throw open the top floor door, slamming it against the wall and making another crack in the plaster for Humphrey to bitch about.
It slaps me in the ass when Tagger crowds behind me.
I groan, clutching the doorjamb, as my eyes take in my doorway.
My solid wood door hangs from its hinges like a busted tooth, and I walk forward as though in a dream.
Or a nightmare.
“Is it... safe?” I whisper. Tears spill, cutting fine pathways in my heart.
“Yeah, but, Miss Mitchell...”
“Faren,” I reply absently.
“Faren, stay with me please. I can't have you running off like that.” He's not out of breath, but his eyes are tired.
Tired of things I've never seen. And some that I will.
“Okay.” I walk toward the torn mouth of my apartment.
I step through the threshold and don't know where to look first. Everything that can be broken is.
The silent tears roll on.
I glide over to my stove. My pale green salt and pepper shakers sit untouched, the only perfect thing in the wreck of my apartment.
I hug them, my eyes taking in my tea kettle shattered on the floor.
It had been my mom's.
“Miss Mitchell...” the cop begins.
I walk over to my couch, the afghans scattered everywhere. I sit and look at the couch Mick lounges on when he breaks into my apartment. God, I miss that.
I laugh and hiccup at the same time.
I raise my eyes to Tagger, feeling like a husk.
“I'm sorry, Faren, but I have to ask you some questions.”
“Someone just came and beat the shit out of my apartment and you have to ask me some questions...” I thump my bad hand against my chest, and the salt shaker falls to the floor.
We watch the salt dump all over the rug.
Our eyes meet, and I think about luck. If weren't for the bad, I wouldn't have any at all.
Tagger slowly stoops, pinches some of the salt, and with a deliberate fling, throws it over his shoulder.
I stare at him.
“For luck,” he says without an ounce of defensiveness.
“Okay.” I sound shaky. I don't believe in luck.
His stylus comes up above his tablet, hovering like a chopper without landing.
“Ready?”
I give the barest nod. My bottom lip trembles as I try to shut off my mind—an engine that never quits.
He starts in, and I respond.
Where do I work? What are my hours?
Everywhere. Impossible.
I don't meet his eyes and that makes it easier.
Do I have any enemies?
I look up.
Tagger shrugs. I notice his dirty blond hair needs a cut, curling above his ears.
“Seems personal.”
Oh... it is.
His eyes run over me again and stutter to a stop at my scarred hand.
They lift to mine.
His question is there, though he doesn't voice it.
The cop knows the evidence of violence when he sees it, like Thorn did. He's not here to question me like a suspect, but he's suspicious. It's in the tense set of his body.
I stand, and he follows me. I take a mournful mental inventory of the things in my home.
I halt when I catch sight of my bed.
My normal clothes are hanging in the closet.
Slashed—every one.
The only things that escaped destruction are my stripper outfits. Each one of those is neatly laid out on the bed.
Gooseflesh breaks out over my body, running down my arms.
I move to my dresser and tear my drawers open.
My panties are missing.
Bras.
Oh my god.
I slowly turn, and Tagger gives me a neutral look.
I want to hit him. “You could have warned me at least.”
He shakes his head. “I needed to see your reaction.”
I wipe my eyes, brushing angry tears away.
“What?” I move into his personal space. “You some kind of sadist? You get off on some freak coming in here and wrecking all my stuff?”
Tagger's eyes narrow.
“No, I don't, Miss Mitchell.” He stares at me then glances at the bed full of stripper clothes.
“But I am mighty curious why someone would break into your apartment and wreck everything. Then they take nothing but your lingerie, and keep an assortment of very... interesting clothes in perfect condition on display for your return.”
My eyes drop from his.
I hear his frustration. “Is there something you're not telling me?” he asks.
There is.
But if I breathe a whisper about Ronnie Bunce, I have to answer questions about laps, extras... and my newest love inter
est. It could be dangerous for me.
It could hurt my mom.
Oh yeah, officer, I'm keeping billionaire Mick McKenna around to deflower me before I die, and my crazy-as-fuck stepdad wants to make good on unfinished business.
They'd keep me wrapped up so tight I'd never see my mom.
No way. I'm all she has. I can't be embroiled in some mess while her care hangs in the balance.
“No, there really isn't,” I lie. The weight of my desperation pins every word with a grain of truth. Love is a powerful motivator.
Tagger closes his tablet with a smack. “I wish I believed you.”
Me too. I stare at him, folding my arms.
He sighs in frustration. “You have a place to stay?”
I don't answer fast enough, and he explains, “You're not safe here. There's no way to secure the door.”
I can tell he thinks I'm some kind of whacko flight risk.
I open my mouth.
“She'll stay with me.”
We turn toward the door, looking out into my small living room at the man entering my wrecked apartment.
I heard his voice and, like Pavlov's dog, that ache settled right between my legs, heat spreading from my core to my toes.
From just his voice.
Tagger whirls around, his hand on the butt of his pistol.
“How did you get up here?” His hand strokes the leather holster.
My eyes move to Mick's, their root beer brown so deep I drown in them.
“Ben Franklin let me in.”
Tagger frowns.
Mick holds up a one hundred dollar bill.
~ 5 ~
“Hate to break it to you, Mr. McKenna, but you can't buy me.”
Tagger glares as Mick calmly plucks a billfold out of the interior pocket of his suit.
“No?”
Mick's brows dump above angry eyes, a tick beginning in his square jaw. “Then maybe you can explain why my girlfriend is being browbeaten by a beat cop who leaves the apartment unattended after it's been rifled through?”
Girlfriend?
I drink him in as he stuffs the money in his wallet.
Tagger's forehead furrows, his body going tense. “Where's Scott?”
Mick removes an imaginary piece of lint from his understated, tailor-cut suit. It perfectly showcases his natural elegance.