by Ashley Harma
At that moment, Barrett grabbed behind Jackson’s head, his fist passing in front of his face and breaking his eye contact with Lila, and slammed Jackson’s face into his knee. Jackson hit the mat again after a nauseating squish filled the air of the arena, and he didn’t move. The ref counted one—Jackson didn’t move. The ref counted two—Jackson didn’t move. The ref counted three—no movement. The bell rang—Barrett had won.
At this point, the crowd erupted, half in uproarious cheering, half in hate-filled damnation. Lila couldn’t tear her eyes away from the ring, but she heard a couple patrons nearby yelling about the match.
“Oh my fucking god! Oh my god! Barrett won!?”
“That’s insane! That’s fucking insane!”
“The odds were 80 to 1! 80 to 1!”
But she couldn’t think about anything. Barrett was out of the ring, heading towards her with a large, black briefcase. He looked pained, not because of anything physical, but because of how he assumed Lila must be feeling.
“I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. We’re not supposed to—“
“I know,” Lila cut him off, dazed, still staring at the ring. Jackson hadn’t moved yet.
“Lila,” Barrett put his hands on her shoulders. “Lila, I’m sorry. Do you hate me? Please don’t hate me.” She could hear him, could understand what he was saying, but she wasn’t thinking anything. Jackson still hadn’t moved.
“No, Barrett,” she said airily. “I don’t hate you.”
“Lila,” he whispered to her, holding up the briefcase, “I put money on myself. I put $27,000 fucking dollars on myself. I—holy shit, that’s so much money.” He stroked an edge of the briefcase. “Lila, there is so much money in this briefcase.”
Cassandra and Lyle had made it to the ring now and the ref was saying something to them in low, secretive tones. With a sharp yelp, Cassandra’s hand flew up to her mouth, and both she and Lyle stared at Jackson on the ground, who hadn’t shifted at all.
“Oh my god,” Barrett breathed. The sudden death match had suddenly become very literal.
Lila blacked out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Sheriff hung up the phone. His contact at the Club had called him immediately and told him the horrible news.
“He’s dead, Bill. That boy is dead.” The contact hadn’t know what he was saying, who he was saying it to, and the Sheriff had done his best to keep his cool. But now he was off the phone. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t feel tears yet, didn’t feel sadness, he only felt rage. Blind, unadulterated rage for the motherfucker that had done this, that Barrett fellow he’d heard about before. He gripped his hands, knuckles turning white. He’d pay. Bill didn’t care what it meant about his job, about his life, about anything—that fucker was going to pay.
Being a sheriff had its perks at a time like this. He had Barrett’s address in no time and was flying down the highway with his sirens on. He had his gun and his knife on his hip like he always did, though he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to plan what he was going to do to him when he got there. He just knew it was going to be merciless. “And you, too, Lyle, you’re fucking finished,” Bill said out loud in his car. He cursed the day he’d met her, ever become involved with her. She’d gotten the easy way out—death—and he’d had to stick around here and watch it all unravel after that. In that moment, he hated her.
He knew the turn was coming up, so he screeched to a halt on the side of the road and parked his car. He’d travel the rest of the way by foot, so as not to awake anyone with the sound of a car. He crept up the driveway, gun drawn, just in case. The lights were off in the little one-story home. Perfect. Soundlessly, he made it to the front door and pulled the lock-picking kit he’d lifted from the evidence room, working it like a pro and letting himself in. He shut the door behind him without a noise and slipped his shoes off. Living room here, kitchen off to the right, so the bedroom must be the door in the back left corner there. Slowly, so carefully, he made his way along the wall until he reached the door, where he breathed a soft sigh of relief. The door hadn’t been shut all the way, had been left just slightly ajar, making his entry a lot easier. Hopefully the door wouldn’t creak, but even if Barrett woke up now, Bill had him where he wanted him.
He pushed the door open, which gave way without so much as a squeak, and leveled his gun at the bed. He took a few steps closer, took a closer look, and nearly dropped his firearm. There, in bed, was not only Barrett but, curled up in his arms, Lila.
Bill didn’t know what to do, now confused between his overpowering rage for Barrett and his profound love for Lila. He couldn’t kill him now, not with this revelation—but oh, he still wanted to, and wanted to badly. He’d let this whole thing spin so far out of control. He should’ve quelled it when he found out she was working at Club Malevolence. There were so, so many things he should have done.
He dropped his gun. He couldn’t do it. He’d have to figure out something else instead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After she’d blacked out at Club Malevolence, Lila woke up in her passenger seat, Barrett smacking her face lightly. Jackson’s dead was her first thought, and at that moment, no feelings came to her. She felt cold, dead, numbed to the realization. Barrett’s eyes were wide and frantic, like maybe Lila was either going to pass out again or, worse, she was going to blame him. She wanted to blame him, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. He hadn’t set out to kill Jackson, he just had. Those fights were so dangerous, no rules, no boundaries, it was a wonder more guys didn’t die in them. These were all thoughts bouncing around Lila’s head while they sat in her car. Then, suddenly, it clicked. Jackson’s dead. She burst into awful, craggy sobs that continued nonstop the whole drive back to Barrett’s place.
At his house, a numbness had set in. She couldn’t cry anymore. She couldn’t feel anything. She didn’t want Barrett to touch her, so, for awhile, they sat across from each other on the couch, not talking. Lila wasn’t sure how to feel. Jackson had felt so much more important to her than he had actually been. They’d known each other such a short time. But she’d experienced a connection with him like she never had before and, now, she was certain, she’d never experience again. Ultimately, she just couldn’t believe it: Jackson was dead.
Barrett was heartbroken. He watched Lila with tears in his eyes, while she withdrew and stared at the floor like a zombie for what seemed like hours, but might have only been a few minutes. He didn’t even know what to say for himself. How could he? He’d fought a fight, like he would any fight, and he’d won, and won big. But it had come at a terrible cost. Eventually Lila returned to the room and saw Barrett again, crying. Thankfully that’s when their silence and their distance was broken. Around 4AM, they’d had emotional, sorrowful sex, both of them crying a little, both clinging to each other, both afraid to let the other one’s mouth get away, and then they’d fallen asleep. Lila hadn’t dreamed.
Now, she was awake, and she wished it was all a dream, but she knew it wasn’t. She put a hand on Barrett’s chest, warm and rising softly, and examined his face. She couldn’t imagine why she wasn’t furious at, disgusted by the man before her, whom she’d seen kill someone, in the flesh, the night before. But she wasn’t. If anything, she knew that Barrett was going to need her now more than ever, and vice versa. They only had each other. She didn’t want to think about the money, though, that ominous black briefcase sitting in the corner on the floor. That made her stomach cramp. She winced and shook her head lightly, trying to shake out thoughts of the capital gain Barrett had reaped from Jackson’s untimely death.
Barrett stirred, eyes fluttering open. They locked onto Lila’s and held them, his brows furrowed. He swallowed hard, and she realized he was hanging on her every reaction, her every shift. He wanted to know she was okay, or that shewasn’t, or that she hated him, or that she didn’t. He waited for her to say something, but what could she say? She kissed him instead, slow, soft.
“I should go home,” she
said quietly. He started.
“No. Why?” Panic tinged his voice.
“Because I need to shower, get some clean clothes. I think maybe I need to be alone for a little while, too.” She said it all simply, that’s what she was feeling now.
“I understand,” Barrett traced a finger along her cheekbone. “Just please promise me you’ll come back later,” he begged her. She cupped his face.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, “of course I’m coming back. I—“ she broke off. What she was going to finish the sentence with surprised her, and she knew she couldn’t say it. “I’ll come back in a couple hours, swear.” She kissed him again, then got out of bed. Barrett rubbed his eyes, sitting up. Lila put her clothes on and crawled back over to him, not ready to leave without a couple more kisses.
“Okay,” Barrett murmured finally. “Go. So you can come back sooner.”
Lila walked out the front door and got in her car.
Her dad was sitting at the kitchen table when she got home. She came through the back door and he looked at her like a ghost. His eyes were bloodshot and he seemed haggard and afraid, and Lila noticed that his hands were shaking.
“Dad,” she said, staying close to the door. “What’s wrong?”
Her dad cracked a bizarre smile and laughed. He brought his shivering fingers up to his hair and ran them through a couple times. Abruptly he began to cough, a body-shaking hack that startled Lila. “I thought you’d be someone else,” he finally wheezed.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“No,” he chuckled, “just sober.” That explained the terrifying eyes, the tremors, the cough. Lila relaxed a little, but not much.
“Bet Hell’s cold tonight,” she muttered. Rick’s eyes snapped to hers, staring at her with something like regret on his face.
“I been a real fuck-up, Lila.” It was the first simple, honest thing her dad had said to her in years. She didn’t have a response. He nodded slowly, studying the tabletop now. “Yep. I fucked up a lot of things, for a lot of people, and I wish to God I hadn’t.” Lila’s stomach began to churn again, the same feeling she’d had the last few days. He looked up at her, pausing to see if she had anything to say, but she couldn’t muster up any words, didn’t know what to respond to first, or how to proceed. “Well,” he shrugged, “I guess that don’t matter now.”
“What are you talking about, Dad?” she finally sputtered.
He limped up from the table, grabbing his can and starting towards her. Out of habit she countered his movements, walking further into the kitchen, a leftover defense tactic from many nights spent avoiding him. He didn’t care. He hobbled to the door, but when he got there, he turned to face her again.
“I did love your mother, though. That’s the one thing I want you to remember, Lila. I loved her.” He dropped his head. “I really did.” He looked so small to Lila now, so beaten, so decayed. She felt a strong pang of pity for him, and hated that she did. More than anything, she still didn’t know what was going on. He put his hand on the doorknob. “Well, I’ll be damned if I’m just going to sit here and wait for ‘em to come get me,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
“Who?” she asked, but he didn’t seem to hear her. He turned the knob and opened the door. “Who, Dad? Who are you talking about?”
But he was already gone, clumping down the back stairs. She sighed. She couldn’t deal with this right now, didn’t have the energy. She needed a shower, and she needed to get back to Barrett.
A few minutes after Lila left, there was a knock on Barrett’s front door. He groaned, heaving himself out of bed and slipping athletic clothes on. Another knock.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” he called out. He padded to the front door and looked out his peephole. The Sheriff was standing on his doorstep. “Oh fuck,” Barrett said to himself. He hadn’t even thought about any legal action. He reeled back a bit, unsure of what to do. He’d spoken, so the Sheriff knew he was in here. But it was just the one Sheriff—surely if anything serious were happening, there’d be more officers? Should he do something with the briefcase? It was tucked away in his room, at least, but would that be enough?
“Barrett,” said the Sheriff from his side of the door, “Don’t worry, son. I just need to talk to you.” If only that kid knew how hard it was for Bill to act so cool, so kind. Well, he’d know soon enough.
Barrett took a deep breath and opened the door, not quite inviting the Sheriff in yet. “What, what’s up, Bill?”
“Need to come inside,” the Sheriff said, taking a step towards Barrett, who held his position for a moment, probing the Sheriff’s face for a reason but unwilling to ask, before opening the door wider and stepping aside. Bill blew past him, standing in the living room. “Sit,” he motioned Barrett to the couches.
“What’s all this about?” Barrett asked.
“Sit. I’m going to tell you.” The Sheriff’s tone convinced him. “Got anything like beer in your fridge?” he asked casually. Barrett faltered.
“Um, yeah, I think so, want me to—“
“No, no, s’okay. I’ll get it. You just sit.”
Bill waltzed into the kitchen, grabbing two brews from the fridge and breathing deeply. He hadn’t felt much yet, had gone into a zone planning things that kept him relatively detached. He didn’t want to start feeling things now. He cracked one, took a big sip, and headed back into the living room.
“Here you are, son.” He tossed one to Barrett, who caught it.
“Uh, thanks.” Barrett opened his. Bill understood the confusion on his face.
“Where to begin, Barrett? Where to begin,” mused the Sheriff. “D’you ever know I was married and supposed to have kids?” he asked suddenly.
“No, I didn’t know that,” Barrett responded quietly. He watched the Sheriff very closely, who behaved as if he were in some kind of trance.
“Yep, yep. I’d just become Sheriff, she’d just moved here, met her one night at the Dirty Pint, actually. Deborah. Kind of a wild girl, but goddamn, did she have some fire.” Bill took another sip. “Anyway, fast forward, we fall in love, get hitched, and I come to find out her wild side runs a little deeper than I suspected. Turns out she’s pretty involved in this mob scene ‘round town. When I found out, things were okay—she had a couple debts but was already workin’ to pay ‘em back. She didn’t want to get me involved though, on account a’ my job, so she promised me she’d take care of it, and get outta there for good.” He paused, looking at his beer can. “S’tough to be in love with a liar, Barrett,” Bill said quietly.
Barrett was rapt on the couch. He’d barely had any of his beer. “I had one for a mother, so I sort of know what you’re talking about.” The Sheriff looked at him hard, but softened after a moment, as if he’d turned something over and saw Barrett differently.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s rough.” Suddenly the Sheriff looked at his watch. “Shit, this is taking longer than I got. Okay, Bill, get to the important stuff.” He laughed, somewhat manic, and Barrett got a touch worried.
“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, boy,” the Sheriff laughed, rubbing one of his eyebrows with a finger. “I don’t even know how to tell you any of this! Kept it secret for so long, ain’t sure what’s vital information, how to tell it.” He sat down on the couch with a big sigh, holding his beer between his knees and breathing deeply again. “It don’t sound real, out loud. None of it sounds real,” he murmured. Barrett slid a little closer to him.
“What are you trying to tell me, Bill?” he asked.
“She was pregnant—little twin babies, we’d only just found out—when they came for her. Owed ‘em too much, they said, only way out. So they took her, and the only time I saw her after that was out in public, ‘cross a crowded room, that sorta thing. Rick had wanted her, and he got her. We told the town it was an affair, kids were Rick’s. Got served my divorce papers by one their baldheaded lackeys in sunglasses.”
“Who’s they?” Barrett asked
. The Sheriff turned like he’d just realized someone else was in the room, staring at Barrett with wide, vacant eyes.
“Why, the syndicate, Barrett—Lyle Moran and the syndicate.” Barrett nearly swallowed his tongue. The Sheriff took a deep swig of his beer. “They gave me a long list of requirements, too. I couldn’t tell nobody why Deb really left me, couldn’t say anything about the undergrounds, and couldn’t ever, ever reach out to my children—or they’d kill ‘em. If the syndicate came under investigation, they’d kill my children. If I lost or resigned from my job, they’d kill my children. Lots a’ things I couldn’t do. Lots of possibilities to send my children to their deaths.”
Barrett’s mouth was dry, and no amount of beer could wet it. He kept trying to swallow, and it kept getting lodged in his throat, a big wad of shock and disbelief and fear. He’d known the syndicate wasn’t exactly legal, but he’d never dreamed it ran this dirty.
“How they got him, I had to piece together from a couple sources. Seems Rick was on his way up the ladder when he got Deb, and that was the last good thing that happened to him. Racked up too many of his own debts from drinking and gambling, and needed to give ‘em something for payoff. Kids’d just been born then—a beautiful baby girl and a strong baby boy—and Rick, that weasel, somehow worked it out so that he got a little of everything. They weren’t his anyway, so I doubt he cared, but I’ll never know how she lived with herself.”