Keeping Allie (Breaking Away #3)

by Raine, Meli

  Mom’s already dead, though.

  But not really.

  Oh, my head hurts figuring this all out.

  She gets me in her shirt and jeans and then turns around. “Zip me up.”

  I try to lift my arms. I have to lift one up with the other arm, grasp the top of the dress, and then use a lot of effort to properly zip her. I do it. Magically, I do it.

  “There,” she declares, and starts curling her hair like she curled mine.

  “Mom, you’re wearing boots with that dress,” I say. If I weren’t about to die or be raped, I’d find this all funny.

  “So what? You heard what I said to Frenchie, right? I’ll wear them and carry the sandals.” She looks at my feet. “The problem is, you have no shoes.”

  “I think that’s the least of my problems.”

  Her face freezes. Her eyes widen. The curling iron is in her hand and curling a long strand of hair. “It’ll be fine. You have to pull together all the strength you have. You’ll find it in the moment, honey. You will.” She lets go of a long curl and starts a new one. If we weren’t in this horror show it would be beautiful. Her ringlet curls match mine right now.

  Like when I was little and we’d dress alike. Mother and daughter twins.

  “How do you know?” I ask. I’m running out of steam. My energy is gone and I just want to curl up into a ball and sleep for a week or two. I’m starting not to care whether I live. I don’t think I have it in me to do all the stuff Chase and Mom need me to do to get out alive.

  She sighs and changes to another long strand of hair, rolling it up in the iron. “When Jeff made me go with El Brujo, I was like a tuning fork on the inside. I couldn’t hear or feel anything but this vibration of panic. It was constant. Nonstop. Twenty-four seven. All I could do was worry about you and Marissa. Worry that Jeff wouldn’t keep his promise.”

  “His promise?” I shift my weight from my hip and lean against the bed. It gives a little, and my muscles groan, but at least my knees don’t ache for a minute.

  “He promised he wouldn’t hurt you. Or Marissa. Thank God I let her move before he...did this to me. Is she okay?” Hope and eagerness in Mom’s eyes make my chest go tight.

  “I didn’t see her for two years, Mom,” I explain. “I finally saw her when I met Chase. A couple of weeks ago? I don’t know. I’ve lost track of time.”

  Mom’s hand is frozen in midair, the curling iron attached to her by a thick layer of hair pulled up a few inches from her head. “Two years? What?”

  “Jeff threatened to hurt her. Or worse, if she tried to come get me. She wanted to have me live with her and he wouldn’t let it happen.”

  “That fucker.”

  “Yeah. So Marissa never came home.”

  “You spent two years alone?” she asks, shaking her head.

  Tears come to life in my eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” She finishes the final curl and grabs a can of hair spray. As she’s spraying her head, the roar of two or three motorcycle engines splits the air.

  “Oh, God,” I moan, then vomit on the floor. Except nothing comes out.

  I am so empty.

  “No! No, no. You are not falling apart. You are strong. We can do this,” Mom hisses.

  Footsteps outside clack down the hall.

  “Get under the bed!” Mom snaps.

  “What?”

  She grabs me and folds me into a flat person, the shirt riding up as she shoves me, hard, under the bed. There is nowhere she touches that isn’t bruised. It feels like she’s hurting me on purpose. I know she’s not, but still. It hurts. Maybe it hurts a little bit more because she’s my mom. Mothers aren’t supposed to hurt their kids.

  I see her shove the helmet on her half-done head and grab the strappy high heels just as Frenchie comes thumping in.

  “Where’s Jackie?” he asks.

  My heart is pounding so hard against the tile floor I’m sure it sounds like someone’s banging it with a hammer. But no.

  Hurdle number one has been crossed: he assumes Mom is me.

  Mom makes a grunting sound. Frenchie grabs her arm and says, “You got yourself all prettied up for getting the fucking of your life, Girlie Girl. You ready to become a real woman?” His barking laughter makes my heart stop. Just stop. Can it do that? I thought you die if your heart doesn’t beat.

  But I don’t die.

  And Mom’s boots skitter along the tile floor in front of Frenchie as he forces her out of the room.

  I am alone.

  Completely alone, in hiding, and my Mom is about to go into El Brujo’s hell.

  What have we just done?

  Chapter Eleven

  I wait. And wait, the cool tile against my cheek and the seconds of aloneness giving me time to take inventory. I could spend hours figuring out all the injuries I have. The worst is the big gash on my hip. Even now, I can feel it bleeding. My skin sticks to the cloth of Mom’s jeans and pulls away, ripping with pain when I move.

  My arms are the worst. I can’t even lift them to make a small pillow under my head. They are too weak.

  What should I do now? Mom is gone, pretending to be me. I am here, pretending to be Jackie. Who is really Helen. It’s all too much.

  I start to hyperventilate. No one is telling me what to do. No one has me bound. No one is here.

  What do I do?

  How do I escape?

  Boots. The clack of heels. A man runs into the room.

  “Shit,” he mutters. “Where the fuck is she?”

  His voice sounds like Chase. I look up at his head. He’s wearing a helmet, but blonde hair pokes out underneath. Close enough? Chase told me to go with a man who looks like him.

  I slide out from under the bed. If this is my one chance, I have to try.

  “You Allie?” he asks, pulling the helmet off, his hair standing up on end like a blonde chicken’s. If I weren’t about to die, I’d laugh.

  He really does look like Chase. Like they could be brothers.

  Chase’s plan is working.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Where’s everyone else?”

  “My mom dressed in the outfit El Brujo had for me and they took her.”

  He gives me a confused look, eyes barely meeting mine. They’re constantly surveying the room, the window, the door. “Your mom?”

  “It turns out she didn’t really die two years ago. My stepdad sold her to El Brujo to pay off a drug debt, and now—”

  “Stop!” he orders, a palm up. “I don’t need to know. I just need to get you the hell out of here.”

  “Okay,” I say meekly.

  “Bottom line—anyone know you’re here right now?”

  “No. My mom is disguised as me.”

  He’s older than Chase, probably close to a decade older. Same eyes, same hair, but his bones are different. His face is wider, eyes rounder. “Disguised?”

  “Long story.”

  “Gotcha. So she’s a decoy.”

  “Yes.”

  Half his mouth goes up in a smile. “Good job. And they think you’re her?”

  I look down at her clothes and inhale deeply. They smell like her. “Yes.”

  “But one look at your face and we’re screwed.”

  I say nothing. He’s calculating everything in his head. “Who are you?” I finally ask.

  “Mark. I’m Chase’s brother.”

  I nod. We can exchange pleasantries later.

  If I survive.

  He goes to the door and leaves. I stand there, completely dumbfounded. What am I supposed to do? Mom’s words come into my head: You have to pull together all the strength you have. You’ll find it in the moment, honey. You will.

  That’s right. Make good decisions. Be aware. Stay focused and alert.

  Mark will get me out. Chase trusts him, so I trust him, too. No matter what, Chase’s plan has gotten this far. I have someone on my side. He’s here to help me get out. Now three people are actively helping me. My od
ds just improved.

  El Brujo’s odds are even better, though.

  More motorcycles roar outside. It sounds like ten or so. I can hear them above my beating heart.

  Mark comes back in the room, gesturing frantically. “Put this on,” he insists, handing me a helmet. I shove it on my head, the scab along my hairline tearing open as I shove it on fast. I grit my teeth from the pain, but keep pushing anyhow. I can heal later.

  If I don’t escape, I’ll never heal.

  “Okay. Good. The helmets will buy us about three seconds of time before people get suspicious.”

  I look down and say, “You’re wearing Chase’s belt buckle.”

  He smirks. “You always look at a guy’s crotch when you meet him?”

  I smirk back. “Only when he’s saving me from getting raped by a guy who thinks I can cure his AIDS.”

  Mark’s smirk turns into a scowl.

  “No way that bastard’s getting his hands on you. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Oh, he’s definitely Chase’s brother.

  “So here’s the plan.” It’s hard to hear him through the helmet, but I strain. When I swallow, my ears pop. I can hear better.

  “Allie? You with me?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Now that you’re dressed like someone else, that might make it easier to get out of here. We’re just going to act like we’re Chase and...whoever you are,” Mark explains.

  “Jackie.”

  “Right. Jackie.” He shoves his helmet on. “You ready?” He claps a hand on my shoulder and looks at me through the helmet’s visor. It’s like Chase’s eyes, only without the fire for me.

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go do this. You’re going home.”

  Home.

  What’s home?

  Home is anywhere but here.

  I walk on rubbery legs behind him, no shoes to wear. That’s the part that is most suspicious. Jackie wouldn’t walk around barefoot, would she?

  The ten motorcycles outside have riders on them, and I see Frenchie with my mom dressed as me on the back of his, the pink gown billowing out as exhaust gets caught under the skirts. Frenchie grabs my mom’s boob and I see her hand twitch, like she wants to smack him, but then her head turns. Just a tiny bit toward me. She sees us.

  I can’t see her eyes, but I know it. Mom wants to make sure I can escape. She said she’d do anything to get me free.

  She lets Frenchie fondle her.

  White anger shoots through me like a jolt of electricity, and suddenly I have all the power in the world in my bones, my skin, my heart. Mark leads me out into the courtyard and he makes a sharp left, going to a bike I see parked behind a storage shed.

  It’s Chase’s bike.

  I want to ask where Chase is. I want to make sure he’s safe and out of harm’s way, but I can’t say a thing. I’m a numb piece of flesh being guided out of here by someone Chase sent for me. I don’t make decisions right now.

  I follow orders.

  “Jackie!” someone shouts as Mark and I turn the corner.

  “Ignore him,” Mark says, louder than he should.

  “JACKIE!” I hear footsteps running from behind.

  “RUN!” Mark shouts, grabbing my hand and yanking me, hard, toward the bike. He lets go so he can get there first, jumping on it like the bike is a part of him. He starts it with one swift kick from above and I’m running so hard, my feet slapping against the dirt.

  I get to the bike and a hand grabs the black curls poking out from under my helmet.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” snarls a bald dude with tattoos all over. “You listen to me, old lady.”

  This must be Loogie.

  My new stepdad.

  Mark kicks him in the gut, heel first with his boot and Loogie staggers back.

  But he doesn’t fall. He’s a huge guy, a wall of muscle and fat. He looks like a bald teddy bear, chest hair poking out from the collar of his shirt. A look of rage makes him seem like a black bear ready to attack. A snarl completes the resemblance.

  He comes at us again just as Mark gets the bike in motion. He guns it and we lurch forward, my arms reaching out to knot themselves around Mark’s waist.

  And I fall off.

  Chapter Twelve

  A hissing sound in my ear and a feeling of sudden icy coldness come at the same exact time my head smashes into the silky dirt, my leg caught on some piece of metal on the bike. My helmet is half off as the bike keeps going and I’m dragged, one ankle attached to something, my other leg twisting like a pipe cleaner in a dog’s mouth.

  My eyes are open and I’m staring up through the sliver of the helmet’s visor that’s still on. The sky is bright blue, with little clouds here and there like pieces of cotton God sprinkled to make it a little more beautiful.

  I close my eyes.

  I am nothing but icy cold now. I smell burning flesh.

  Rough hands grab me under the armpits and shove me on a soft seat. The same hands unhook my ankle. A rope goes around my waist.

  They caught me. I didn’t escape after all. Mom let Frenchie grope her for nothing. They’re tying me to another chair, aren’t they?

  And then: “GO!” screams a voice I know. I open my eyes.

  Chase.

  He’s standing there as Mark peels out from the compound. I look down and see a green and red rope around me. My fingers touch a hook of some kind.

  Chase used a bungee cord to tie me to Mark.

  As I look back I see Loogie deliver a right cross to Chase’s jaw, sending my beloved to the ground like a boxer being felled in a ring. Except there are no rules in this fight. No officials, and no one to jump in to prevent Loogie from killing Chase.

  And then ten motorcycles come up behind us, like a thundercloud, like a dustbowl storm rolling in and we’re on the edge of the grey rumble of smoke. Mark speeds up. I will my body to stay in place, feeling myself lean to the left. I look down.

  My arm is nothing but raw pink. It’s hamburger with bits of dirty and red spots mixed in. And a sickly yellow.

  I remember in biology class that fat under the skin is yellow. Did I lose that much skin? I drop my arms from around Mark’s waist. No matter how hard I try, I can’t lean forward any more.

  A rough hand grabs mine and shoves it in Mark’s waist band, right under Chase’s belt buckle. I really don’t want to touch anyone’s crotch right now, so I snatch my hand back. It turns out I have a tiny shred of will left in me after all.

  “Do whatever you have to do to hang on, Allie. Anything.”

  I am so tired.

  So tired.

  My ears explode. A crack so loud it’s like someone shoved a toothpick and popped my eardrum splits the air. I look back.

  There’s a man on a motorcycle behind us, wearing the Mephists insignia. And he’s pointing a gun at us.

  Mark speeds up, but we’re already flying. The landscape is a blur. I start to feel seasick, like I’ll puke. Worst case, if I throw up, the vomit will just hit the shooting dude, right?

  Except there’s nothing to throw up.

  I retch.

  And retch.

  CRACK!

  Another shot whizzes by.

  Mark says something but I can’t hear a thing. Just a steady hum like someone put high-tension electric wires next to my ear. My lips go cold from the vibrations.

  Hold on. Hold on. I remember what Mom said. I can do this. I can.

  I will.

  I face forward and look over Mark’s shoulder as more gunshots fill my ears. They aren’t as loud now. They’re fading, like popcorn in a popper.

  A bright light ahead, like a beacon, shines past me, right over my shoulder. I avert my eyes.

  A terrible roar, then a weird shimmery sound, like tissue paper crinkling, fills my ears. I turn my head slightly and look in the rearview mirror on Mark’s right.

  The bike chasing us is down. Crashed.

  That light from ahead happens again. Are angels from
heaven doing something to help us? Mark doesn’t seem affected. Another pop from behind. More shining, bright rays of light.

  More shimmery crinkling.

  Another bike is down.

  And then a third bike drives right into one of the downed bikes. It’s starting to look like one of those big car accidents you see sometimes on the news, when there’s an ice storm in Minnesota or a bad solar glare day in Los Angeles.

  Mark is weaving back and forth on the paved road, crossing the double yellow line like it’s just a suggestion and not the law. He’s graceful, like the sine waves we used to plot out in pre-calculus class.

  Like he’s a little loopy.

  Like maybe he got shot?

  “You okay?” I scream into his ear.

  He just nods.

  Something pokes me, right under my breast. I pull one hand away from Mark and shove it inside my bra. It’s the switchblade Mom gave me. My fingers are so weak it falls out, flying behind me. I imagine it bouncing, the blade sliding open, slicing a tire.

  That only happens in the movies. It’s probably sitting in a pile of dirt on the berm now, scuffed and broken.

  Like me in a minute, if I don’t grab onto Mark.

  We shoot past a car by the side of the road and I swear I know the man standing next to it. He’s holding a huge mirror and some kind of an electronic instrument.

  CRASH!

  Another bike down behind us. That’s four, and the other six or so are way back now. No one is directly on our tail.

  The man waves as we cross past.

  It’s David.

  Oh, my God.

  He’s using a giant mirror to blind the bikers chasing us. He hides behind his car as we pass. I hope the remaining bikers don’t find him.

  All that solar and electronics geeking out has just saved my life.

  Mark is talking, but he’s quiet. Does he have a radio?

  “Tell David he’s the best best friend ever,” I shout at Mark, who nods. He does nothing else, though. He speaks, then leans forward. We surge and off we go, two bikes behind us.

  I don’t know how much more time passes, but I hear a pop again. And then the sight of town peeks into view, the houses getting closer together. Mark goes through two red lights, swerving hard to miss an oncoming car, and he pulls right into the police station. Two cars with lights flashing create a barrier right there to meet us, a wall of cops with guns drawn hiding behind the cars. Mark snakes the bike around one side and—