Bear

by Zahra Girard

  Tonight is quickly moving off the list of ‘Worst Dates in my Life’ onto the ‘Not so bad’ dates list.

  In the show, Bob’s girlfriend is helping him sort out the day’s jobs and is generally being the glue that keeps Bob’s business in order.

  “Wendy isn’t half bad, either,” I say.

  “No, she isn’t,” Nash says, nodding. He pats my leg idly and, even with all that’s happened between us tonight, it feels kind of good. “That’s how it’s got to be if you’re going to make it. You can get pretty far on your own, but if you can find an old lady that knows her shit and you two can work together, there’s nothing that can stop you. Fuck, I love this show.”

  We’ve drained the bottle of wine and he gets up for a minute to get us something more from the kitchen. He comes back with a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of coke, and some water. “In case you want to slow down,” he says, motioning to the water and coke and then lifting my leg to sit back down with my feet in his lap.

  I rotate between all three beverages. I’ve got a good buzz going, and it’s perfect for losing myself in the adventures going on in Bobsville. I want to keep it going, to enjoy this strange bit of comfort as long as I can.

  Eventually, I doze off into an easy sleep, my eyes half-closed, and animated voices dancing in the back of my head. It’s a peaceful sleep. It takes me to my childhood, to innocent Saturday mornings, to feeling comfortable, safe, innocent. It’s a feeling I never thought I’d have so soon after my breakup with Erick and my kidnapping.

  “Oh, what the fuck,” Nash blurts out, sitting forward, blue eyes blazing at the TV.

  I jolt. Awake. Alert. My heart pounding in my chest.

  “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

  “You see that son of a bitch right there?” he says, pointing at the TV.

  “What is that? He looks like Snidley Whiplash crossed with a potato.”

  “That fucker’s name is Spud. He’s a scarecrow. And that son of a bitch needs to die.”

  “What? Why do you want to kill an anthropomorphic potato?”

  “Ok, I’ll catch you up: Bob is out there fixing the roof of Farmer Pickle’s shed, and this son of a bitch Spud steals Bob’s ladder — while he’s up there — so he can go pick apples and lay around in the fucking grass,” he says, his fists clenching. It’s cute how worked up he’s getting. “Bob is stranded. Don’t you see? When he finally gets down, he needs to murder Spud and then use that talking backhoe to bury that asshole Spud in the farmer’s field.”

  “You think Bob needs to murder the scarecrow? That doesn’t sound very appropriate for a children’s show.”

  “Bob’s been stranded up there for hours. And now Spud gets let off because he got sick from eating too many apples, so they feel he’s learned his lesson.”

  “Maybe that’s a better lesson for Abigail. Being selfish and short-sighted doesn’t work out. Bob still got down from the shed, he’s still the big man in town running his business with Wendy. I’d say he’s doing just fine.”

  He looks over at me. “Maybe you’re right.” Then, after a pause, “how would you take care of Spud?”

  I look at him, unsure if he’s serious. “Take care of him?”

  “Yes. Say you needed to get Spud out of the way, what would you do?”

  “Talk to him.”

  “Stop fucking around with me. You’ve seen Spud, you know he won’t listen.”

  I think for a second. I put myself in Bob’s shoes — stuck up a ladder while some miscreant is off picking apples. Then, it hits me. “I’d still talk to Spud. I’d pull him politely aside, and I’d explain to him that it wouldn’t be hard for me to build Farmer Pickle a better scarecrow. That I’d do it for free, unless Spud cuts his shit out.”

  “So, you’d threaten to make Spud homeless?”

  “I guess,” I say. “I mean, I’d tell him there are consequences for his actions — he was stealing, after all — but I’d give him the chance to change his behavior.”

  “That’s cold. I like it.”

  I sit up and frown. When I move my tongue around in my mouth, it feels like scratchy velvet’s started growing on my teeth. “I need to call it a night. And I need to brush my teeth.”

  Eyes still on the TV, he nods. “Your toothbrush is in the medicine cabinet. I’m going to be up a bit, still. And don’t try anything — this show’s good stuff, my little Abigail has good taste — and if you make me miss an episode having to chase you down, I won’t be happy.”

  “I’ll be back,” I say.

  He turns and looks at me, and I hold up my hands. “I promise.”

  I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. Sure enough, there’s a toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, still in it’s package, just for me. I open it, take it in my tied hands, and learn just how weird it feels to double-fist pump a toothbrush in my mouth. It feels like I’m doing something else entirely — something that, if things were different, I’d gladly do with Nash.

  Mouth clean, I step back into the hallway and look around.

  Where the hell am I going to sleep?

  My kidnapping-room is out of the question. I can’t go to Nash’s bed, because he’s still my kidnapper and, as far as I know, I don’t have Stockholm Syndrome. Which leaves me with the couch.

  Slowly, I walk back out to the living room and lie down next to him. The TV’s still going, he’s still engrossed in the show — paying attention to every story, every theme, every character — and I make myself comfortable on the couch.

  My eyes shut and I drift to sleep as Bob and Wendy ride a talking dump truck into the sunset.

  Tonight definitely isn’t the worst date I’ve ever been on.

  Chapter Eight

  Nash

  A little sigh escapes her full lips. Her shoulders relax, her expression softens, her eyelids flicker as she surveys her dreams.

  She’s not half bad to look at. Not bad at all.

  The world feels peaceful, still. This is the most comfortable I’ve been since I got out of prison.

  I rub her feet gently, settle back, and turn my attention to the TV.

  I can’t wait to share a moment like this with my daughter.

  I watch cartoons until my eyelids get heavy. When I finally get to see my little girl, I’m going to get to share this show with her and know it inside out. We’ll talk about our favorite characters, our favorite adventures of Bob and Wendy, and maybe we’ll build something together; a birdhouse or something small. But it’ll be a start, and just the thought of it gives me a thrill as great as any I’ve ever had. I’ll give her the things I never got growing up.

  Beside me, Roxanna shivers. Once, then again. It’s not enough to wake her up, but she doesn’t look comfortable. Nights in Chicago this time of year can get cold and the heating in this no-questions-asked apartment doesn’t work worth a damn.

  I get up and go looking around the apartment for something that’ll pass as a blanket. There’s not much. I’ve got a bare mattress in the master bedroom, and a handful of the clothes that I took with me when they put me in prison. I’ve been out for a week and didn’t have plans to stay in Chicago any longer than I had to to get what I want.

  The only thing I find is hanging in my closet. Leather. Patches. My cut. It’s part of who I am and who I always will be. I’ve kept it hung there each time I’ve gone out to stake out Roxanna in order to keep a lower profile. No sense in tipping my target off.

  I take it out and carry it with me to the couch and spread it over her. Her shivering eases. She pulls it tighter around her body and lets out a little sigh.

  It’s a beautiful sight; I can’t hold back a smile.

  “Good night, Houdini.”

  * * * * *

  “Rise and shine, Houdini,” I say, loud enough to wake Roxanna.

  I’ve been up for an hour at least. Making coffee, and whipping up a better-than-decent breakfast. After a few years in the joint, dealing with meals of gray slop on a tray — where the only thin
g that tells you whether you’re eating breakfast, lunch, or dinner is what side you get to go along with your slop — I’ve earned a new appreciation for good food.

  I’ve got crispy bacon, eggs, pancakes, and a few potatoes that I dice up and turn into homemade hashbrowns. I might be an ex-con, a degenerate, and a biker, but I have self-respect and I know how to cook some decent grub when I have to.

  Roxanna sits up, looks around confused, then down at my cut. The remains of our dinner — an empty box of chocolates, an empty bottle of wine, and the whiskey and coke — sits on the coffee table in front of her. She sniffs once and makes a face.

  “I am hung over as hell,” she mumbles. “Did we really spend hours last night watching British children’s cartoons and getting hammered? What the hell?”

  “We did. I don’t know why you’re complaining. You had your choice.”

  “Choice? It was either be tied to a chair, or get drunk with you and watch some British carpenter talk to trucks and bulldozers and some asshole scarecrow.”

  I chuckle and set a mug of coffee down on the table in front of her, followed by a plate of food. “Drink up. Eat. You’ll feel better.”

  She takes a long drink of coffee, clutching it in both hands, a smile rising over her face. Her eyes drift down to the makeshift blanket and then she looks back to me.

  “So, what’s this?”

  “My cut.”

  “Gang thing?”

  “Motorcycle club. My club. My family,” I answer. I take a sip of coffee and let the warmth fill me. I take a bite of bacon and can’t help but smile myself. It’s been years since I’ve had good bacon. Now, I can’t get enough of the stuff. “Every one of the guys that wears this jacket is a brother. Every one of their old ladies is a sister.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Some are in prison. Some are back home. Some are on the road, I’d imagine.”

  “What are they in prison for?” she says, taking another drink of coffee.

  “Different things. Guns charges, assault, theft, murder.”

  “That sounds like a gang to me. Did they do those things?”

  “Some of it, yeah.”

  “Sounds even more like a gang.”

  I give her a look that tells her to tread lightly. “You didn’t ask who they did these things to. Or why.”

  “Does it matter? It’s still murder.”

  “We did what we had to do to keep ourselves, our families, and our town safe.”

  “Oh, so you’re noble murderers,” she says, rolling her eyes and putting her empty coffee mug down on the table with a loud thud. “It’s a real ends justify the means kind of thing for you, isn’t it? If that’s how you operate, I probably shouldn’t expect that I’m really going to make it out of this mess alive, right?”

  “I’ll do whatever I have to do,” I answer. “When they put me away, I didn’t know I had a kid. She wasn’t born until after I’d been behind bars for months.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  My knuckles turn white around the spatula as I finish up the hash. “I only saw her once — once — because her mother and I didn’t see eye to eye. We weren’t married, and I wouldn’t marry her — she was just some piece of ass I’d picked up while out on a ride. But when she brought my little girl in to see me and I held that little bundle in my arms, my world fucking changed. She had my eyes. My eyes. And this smile that was the happiest, most trusting, most loving thing I’d ever seen. It made me wonder how something that good ever came from me. And I knew in that instant that there wasn’t room in my heart for anything else but her.”

  I pause, looking into my empty coffee cup. For a second, I think about pouring myself another and making it Irish. Digging up these memories and the twisted feelings that comes with ‘em makes me want to drink. “I didn’t see her again after that day. Her mother had enough problems and bringing an infant to a prison to see her convict dad didn’t need to be one of them. Two months ago, when I was just weeks away from being released, I find out she’s died.”

  “That’s horrible. I am so sorry, Nash.” Her voice is whisper-quiet.

  “They hauled me out of my cell in the middle of the night. Took me to some interrogation room. Sat me down across from some smug son of a bitch who knew exactly when I was getting released. This prick cheerfully told me that my little girl’s mother just died in a car accident, run off the road, and that my little girl was going to be put into some kind of protective foster care,” I say. My voice surges with anger and it’s all I can do to not punch the fucking wall right now.

  My little girl is out there alone.

  Her mother’s in the ground, she’s in the hands of some strangers, and I’m halfway across the fucking country.

  My blood is boiling.

  “And you think my dad has a hand in this?”

  “Hand in it? I think he’s got more than that. They told me that unless I came up with a hundred fucking grand within two weeks of getting out, they’d have the judge — your father — rule to permanently place her in the system. Seal her records, change her name. She’ll disappear and I’ll never see her again.”

  “That’s a big jump to assuming he’s the center of some criminal ring,” she says, pointedly. “I know him — he’s my fucking dad — and he doesn’t live like some guy making tens of thousands in extortion. He doesn’t even make that much money. He drives a 2008 Volvo that he bought used. I still had to take out student loans to go to college.”

  “He’s the one lead I’ve got,” I answer. I know it’s flimsy, but it’s worked so far, and it’s the only thing I have to grab on to. I’m not giving up. “And I don’t give a shit just how involved he is — nobody disrespects me like that, nobody threatens my fucking family and gets away with it. My littler girl is out there, alone, and people are threatening to make her disappear. I will do whatever I have to do to keep her safe.”

  She pauses a little while. “If he doesn’t co-operate, are you really going to kill me?”

  I shrug. “Not if I don’t have to. I’m not looking forward to it. But I love her. She’s the center of my fucking world. She’s the best thing that’s come out of my fucked up life, and there’s nothing I won’t do for her.”

  “So what’s next?” she says, her voice heavy, but thoughtful. “I suppose you’ll want to trade me. Forgive me for not knowing how this whole kidnapping, blackmail, extortion thing goes. I’m new at it.”

  “You’re the only leverage I got, and there’s no way in hell I’m giving you up. I don’t trust these guys — some of them are cops. They have to be. Which means they’re going to be as dirty as hell. We’re heading west. I’m taking you home with me, Houdini.”

  “Home? When? Where?”

  “Today. Stony Shores, Washington. And we can do do this road trip with you cooperating, or you spend a few days tied up, gagged, and blindfolded in the back seat of my truck. I’m happy with either, because you don’t look half bad when you’re tied up.”

  “A truck? You’re a biker, aren’t you supposed to have a bike?”

  “Trust me, I’d rather have my bike. But I can’t really cross the country, unnoticed, if you’re trussed up and strapped to the back of my bike. A woman like you tends to get noticed enough as it is.”

  She blushes. “Fine. I’ll go the easy way. But I need a favor.”

  “You’re not in any position to ask for favors. I’m already making a big leap here, considering you fucking stabbed me last night.”

  “You kidnapped me, remember? What am I supposed to do? Besides, you’re getting what you want. I just need to go by my place, get some things for work, and let my friend Maria know I’m ok.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to let you do any of this?”

  “Because, not only do I have the threat of being shot hanging over my head — which will keep me honest – but, if you don’t let me do this stuff, I’ll lose my job. My dream job. You aren’t the type of monumental asshole that would not only k
idnap someone, but also ruin their life, are you?”

  She gets on my nerves with her damn stubbornness, but I can’t say it’s not hot how she stands up for herself. The way her eyes flash and she sits up straighter and puffs her chest out is more than enough to get my blood pumping straight to my cock.

  I got to hand it to her, this little woman is something else.

  And there’s not a damn thing in her voice that tells me she isn’t sincere about cooperating. Yeah, she might not believe me that her dad is mixed up in all this, and she might only be going because she doesn’t want to get shot, but I don’t think she’ll try anything.

  “Fair enough.”

  She nods. “Great. Then let’s get this whole kidnapping show on the road.”

  Chapter Nine

  Roxanna

  My head is spinning from the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  Kidnapping. Death threats. Zip ties. Wine. Chocolate. Cartoons.

  And then he makes me breakfast.

  There’s so much uncertainty, but the few things I’m sure of are that my dad is not the man this criminal says he is, and that, though I think his methods are totally off-the-rails crazy, I can understand Nash’s motives. He loves his daughter. More than he loves himself. More than he loves anything.

  It’s un-selfish and all-consuming.

  Deep inside, I get that. I’ve lived that. I want that. Family’s always been important to me. I wouldn’t be where I am without my dad, I wouldn’t make it through the rough times without the support of Maria — who’s as close to me as a sister — and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for the people in my life that I love.

  It’s the kind of love I dream to have for my own kids, some day. For my husband, some day. I’m building the career I want — assuming I live through this whole mess — and I look forward to having a partner and kids to share it with.

  There’s a part of me that can’t help but look past the kidnapping, a part of me that wants to help Nash. To give him the chance to have the family that he’s so fiercely fighting for.