by A. C. Bextor
“Everything’s bad,” she says wistfully. “Everything.”
Closing the door behind me, my resolve to find Casey intensifies. The angel’s halo sitting above the light shines from the glow.
Right now, she’s safe from harm.
Anna’s words echo on repeat as I situate the tray at the door before knocking. I do the same as any other time, knocking once before going in.
Popping the lock, I open the door and look around the room. I find Casey sitting on her mattress, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her small legs are folded, as well. When she looks up at me standing in the doorway casually, a smirk on my face, she smiles, straightens her posture, and starts to stand.
Turning around and picking up her plate, I walk into her room and close the door behind me. It’s after that I catch the white anklet wrapped around her ankle.
White, not red or black. Is this why she’s safe?
“Lunch,” I say, setting the tray on her desk, not where Cilas puts it on the floor.
Walking over, she inspects the meal, but doesn’t make a move to eat.
I want to hear her voice.
“You can eat. I’ll wait.”
Her eyebrows furrow in contemplation and she stands in front of me, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Are you not hungry, monkey?” I ask, offering the nickname she may not remember me using.
She nods, but still doesn’t move.
Using my hand, I place the palm of it on her head as I had almost done before. I move it carefully and aim it in the direction of the food. Her hair needs washing. It’s out of control with dark curls and tangles.
“Eat now. It’ll go bad if you don’t.”
She uses careful steps to make her way to her desk and slowly sits in her chair without looking back at me. As she eats, I take in the area around us. The cement walls are bare. Her floor, not as toxic as the others, is free from the traces of wild mice. The sun shines brightly down on us through the skylight. Her brown bucket sits in the corner. I can’t stomach to look inside, but the faint smell of urine hits my senses and I force myself to take a breath.
She doesn’t deserve this.
“You decide to tell me your name yet?” I ask after she’s finished about half her meal.
Chewing her food, she stares at me standing in the corner of her room, leaning against the wall with my feet crossed at the ankles and my arms over my chest.
“You don’t have to. I bet I can guess it, though. Want me to try?”
She nods, a small smile crossing her lips. The bread crumbs in the corners of her mouth are a sudden reminder of her young age.
“Jen?” I ask, and she shakes her head after taking another bite.
“Melissa,” I say. “You look like you could be a Melissa.”
She shakes her head again then takes a drink of her water. Her feet start to kick under her chair, another reminder of how young she is.
“Casey,” I say.
Right after I’ve said it, she jumps up and moves to her mattress, bracing her back against the wall with her feet drawn up to her chest, leaving her uneaten food to sit alone.
I’ve fucking scared her.
“I know your name,” I tell her quietly as I stay where I am.
Her eyes dart away, not looking down, just anywhere but in my direction.
“I’ll call you ‘monkey’ if you don’t mind, though. It suits you.”
Relaxing only a little, she looks at me again. Her eyes don’t look haunted, her posture not as slouched as the woman before.
“Can I sit?” I ask, pointing to the chair across from her.
She doesn’t answer, so I start to move and wait for her to tense. Thankfully, she doesn’t. We sit in silence and listen to the wind outside. We can hear the faint noise the wind chimes make in the breeze.
“Anna gave me some white paper to give you,” I tell her and watch her dark brown eyes light up. “She told me you like to draw.”
Technically, Anna didn’t tell me she liked to draw, only that she did; I’m only half-lying. I don’t see any pictures around the room and there’s not a trash can within sight full of broken paper or pencils.
“Do you have any pictures you’d like to show me?”
She nods.
“Can I see them?”
She nods again and starts moving from her crouched position. She’s wearing a long, white nightgown with a few buttons at the top. It’s not a dirty one, and it’s more than the others are allowed to wear.
Lifting her mattress, she slides out several pieces of paper. I don’t stand or move toward her, only wait for her to gather them. Once she has them piled in her hand, she stacks them neatly and sets them at my feet. Then she crawls back to her bed and repositions herself as she was before, with her back against the wall.
Bending down, I pick them up. I’m not sure how many there are, but as I study the first one, I find Casey captures more than faces in her drawings. The little girl’s eyes in this one shine brightly, coming through the paper. She’s drawn only her face, smiling with dimples, as if looking into a camera. The shading was made to reflect the little girl’s hair as blonde.
A drawing like this is impressive for a child of her age.
“How old is my monkey?” I ask, still gazing at the portrait in awe.
She doesn’t answer.
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
She grins shyly and shakes her head.
“I’m forty-three.” Her eyes widen as I figured they would. She thinks I’m old.
I feel old in her company.
Turning slightly and setting the first picture on her desk, I move to the next. It’s a boy this time. His eyes are shaded heavier with the pencil. She’s drawn freckles and laugh lines around them. She’s given him a darker color of hair.
Lifting it up so she can see it, I compliment her. “I like this one. He looks like me, doesn’t he?”
She smiles wide, but doesn’t answer.
I want to hear your voice, Casey.
Turning again, I set it down on the desk with the other and move to the next. This drawing isn’t a face. It’s a picture of a swing set buried in tall, wild grass. A school or church, I’m not sure which, sits behind it, alone in the distance. Its brick exterior is faded. She knows how to manipulate a pencil to shade.
“Do you know where this is?” I ask her, holding it up again so she can see what I do.
She nods. I wasn’t expecting her answer to be yes.
“Where is it?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, but continues to stare at me.
You want to talk to me. Don’t you, monkey?
Setting this one behind me, I’m startled at the next picture I see. The likeness is uncanny. My eyes look to hers and fear envelopes her face. Her eyes start to shine. She’s nervous of my reaction.
Taking in a deep breath, I study this picture longer than the others.
It’s me.
She drew a picture of me. The grey in my hair at the temples is obvious in comparison to the darkness of my natural color. The lines around my mouth are prominent as I smile in the picture. Unlike the other portraits, Casey’s made my smile wide, and my teeth in the sketch match perfectly with my own.
I feel my throat start to burn as I take in exactly what she’s done. She took her time with this. The corners of the paper are worn, the center of it is weak, and various small fingerprints stain the outer edges of the drawing.
“Casey,” I whisper.
I hear her sniff and since being so engrossed in the picture, I had nearly forgotten she was here. I look up and tears are now streaming her face.
“My name is Max,” I tell her, formally introducing us for the first time. “You’re Casey.”
My body wants to move. I want to sit on the bed next to her and touch her small face, telling her I’m here to help. She can’t know this, though. If she knew my intent, she may be relieved by it, but I can’t afford to have her react and alert the others.
I’m going to save her.
Setting the picture on my knee, I take one last pass at its incredible likeness. She memorized every feature of my face, and she did it in such a short amount of time. I was with her mere minutes the last time I saw her.
“Can you say my name, monkey?”
She nods, looking down, playing with the edges of her white pillowcase.
“Do you believe I’m not here to harm you?”
Immediately, she nods with enthusiasm.
“We’re friends. You can talk to me.”
She nods again in confirmation.
Talk to me, sweetheart.
“I want you to trust me. You may not trust me today, but I hope you will soon.”
She stills, sitting quietly. Looking down, she focuses on her fingers, lacing them together in and out.
Resigning myself to the fact I won’t hear her talk, I stand up, lift my picture and hold it against my chest so she can compare her work. “Look at me, Casey.”
She does, and her eyes widen; seeing the real-life comparison must startle her as much as it did me.
Handing the paper back to her, I tell her, “I gotta go. I’ll be back later if I can.”
Standing up, I head for her door. Grabbing the sheets of paper Anna gave me, I walk it to the desk then move to hand back the already drawn images.
Her small arm darts out, grabs them, and she moves quickly to put them back in place under her dirty mattress.
“See you later?” I question, hoping this time she answers.
Still she doesn’t.
“Maybe you’ll draw me a picture of you so I can have it to keep. That’s if you wouldn’t mind making me one,” I state before turning around and standing outside her door.
Once my hand reaches for the knob to shut it, I hear the sweetest voice ring in my ears. It’s coming from her.
“Max?” she questions softly.
I try not to look amazed by just the sound of her voice. I peer my head back in the room to see her. “Yeah, monkey?”
When I look at her, her eyes focus on her hands in her lap. They twist violently under my stare.
“Thank you for bringing my lunch.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go finish it.”
I hate leaving her here, knowing soon she’ll have to sleep on an old, infested mattress in the middle of a goddamn dirty and vile MC.
Chapter Nineteen
I sat around the Creed compound after delivering meals to the girls and waited for Hoss to come back and give me something to do.
He never did.
Every hour or so, I went out back to see the progress the boys were making on the ‘storage units’. They were exhausted by the time they finished and when they came inside for drinks and women, is when I decided to take off.
Emma never answered my calls, and I tried twice. Both times, the call rang until voice mail picked up. She never answered the text messages, either. I’m staring at the four I sent her before going to bed last night.
Maybe her fuck of a husband was right and she really wants nothing further to do with me.
Sitting outside on my apartment balcony enjoying the late-afternoon sun, the phone rings on the table next to me. The call is coming from a private number.
Deciding I should answer, I pick it up and slide the phone to connect. “Max,” I say in greeting.
“Hey, fuck-head,” Lelow replies with a joke in his tone.
“Where you callin’ from?”
“My phone,” he answers.
Lifting my eyes out ahead of me, I realize he’s the avid tech nerd he is and don’t ask why he’d make his number come across as private. He’s probably wanted in thirty states, so I don’t wonder long.
“Say, Max. I got news.”
“On Casey?”
Clearing his throat, he speaks quietly, so I get nervous. “No, man. Not exactly.”
“What’s goin’ on, Low?”
“Don’t freak the fuck out.”
I hate those words.
Telling someone to stay calm is one thing. Telling someone not to freak the fuck out is another, especially when that someone is me.
“Talk,” I demand.
Exhaling into the phone, I hear him scratching his scruffy jaw before he finally starts to explain. “Luke called after you left work yesterday.”
“Yeah, so?”
“He was pretty fuckin’ pissed. He mentioned Greg Carsen came to see you and you two had words.”
“Again, so? Unsure why Luke’s surprised. He knows about Emma.”
“He said Greg wasn’t lookin’ too happy when he left.”
Grabbing my pack of cigarettes from the table, I pull one out and light it then sit back in my chair. I’m not typically a smoker. I keep them in my freezer for when I’m in need of a distraction. And this situation creates that need. I hate when he talks in circles.
“Get to your point. I’m busy today.”
“You’re about to be busier, Max.”
What now?
“Luke called me instead of talkin’ to you. Seems the lawyer he’s got on retainer knows some shit about Carsen. Seems Carsen isn’t always such a nice guy.”
“Well, yeah. Got that yesterday.”
“When he called me, he asked that Aimes or I go check on Em at home.”
Narrowing my eyes, feeling my breathing becoming unsettled, I prod, “What was at home?”
“Nothing good.”
Fuck!
Standing up, I turn in a small circle and take another drag of my cigarette. “What do you have?”
“It’s not what I have, exactly. Aimes has Emma.”
“What the fuck?” I don’t care about particulars. I want to know where Aimes, of all motherfuckers, has Emma. “Where is she?”
“His place.”
Tossing my smoke over the balcony, I disconnect the call. Before I’m able to make it inside to grab my keys, the phone rings again, this time in my hand and this time it’s not a private caller.
It’s Aimes. Apparently word got around pretty fucking quickly.
Sliding it to talk, I hear Aimes speak before the phone makes it to my ear, “Don’t fuckin’ come over here, Max.”
“Why the fuck is Em with you?” I demand.
“Greg put his hands on her.” His statement seethes with fury from his lips.
“I’m comin’ there.”
“She doesn’t want to see you yet. She’s upset and needs to get her shit together.”
“She can get it together over here with me.”
I can hear the smile through his words as he says, “She said you’d say that.”
Calming down slightly, hearing she’s still got her sass, I tell him, “Aimes, I’m fine. I won’t do anything to scare or upset her.”
“Then do what she’s askin’ and give her space.”
“I want to see her,” I demand.
“Why, Max? Why are you so fuckin’ hardheaded?”
Exhaling and trying not to break the phone with my grip, I tell him, “You’ve got three hours. Then you’re bringing her here, to me.”
“Three hours may not be enough, Conan.”
“Don’t give a fuck. Three hours, Aimes. And don’t you fuckin’ touch her.”
Aimes sighs his words. “She put up a fight, Max. I’m thinking I wouldn’t if for any other reason than she’s a fuck of a lot stronger than she looks.”
I hear him rattling items around him, so I ask, “She there with you right now?”
“Yeah, she’s on the couch. I’m makin’ her something to eat.”
“Put her on.”
“Max, what’d I just say?”
“Don’t care.”
He’s losing patience, which is good ‘cause so am I. “She needs a few minutes.”
“Put her on the goddamn phone, Aimes. If the situation were reversed, you’d be over at my place already,” I point out.
After a few seconds of silence, I hear Em in the background mumblin
g words I can’t hear.
Her voice comes closer to the line as she’s talking to Aimes. I can’t make out all her words, but I just heard her cuss, which is a relief because this tells me she’s pissed off.
Before she has a chance to speak, I say into the phone, “Em, I want to see you.”
“Max,” she breaks through and I hear the tears in her voice. “Aimes said he’d take me soon, okay? I need a few minutes.”
“Few minutes, Em. Not three fuckin’ hours.”
“Okay,” she complies.
Lowering my voice, I ask, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m pissed it came to this, but I’m okay.”
“Did he hurt you enough that you think you need to see a doctor?”
“No,” she says. “He caught himself, Max. He just . . .”
“He put his hands on you, Em. Don’t make excuses for him. Tell Aimes if you’re not over here in an hour, I’m coming to get you.”
“Okay,” she complies again, this time with a stronger voice. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
Aimes grabs the phone before I have a chance to hang it up. “Fuck if you’re not a Romeo. Girl asks for time and you ignore it.”
“How bad is she?”
“Seen worse, seen better,” he answers. “She’s okay. Little banged up, but like I said, she fought back. She was pissed ’til she heard your voice. Now she’s upset. Thanks a fuck of a lot for that.”
“Take care of her. Bring her here when she’s done eating, and don’t fucking touch her.”
“Christ,” he hisses. “I won’t touch her. Badass bitches aren’t my thing anyway.” He laughs into the phone then says, “She just flipped me off.”
“One hour,” I snap, hanging up the phone and smiling as I picture it, then appreciate Em for driving Aimes nuts.
Aimes doesn’t like badasses, I know this. He favors the sweet, quiet types so he can draw them out and make them feel alive.
Jesus Christ, Emma. What the fuck am I going to do with you?
Chapter Twenty
I’ve learned the characters I draw on my paper can like me just as much in real life.
He’ll like this one, Casey thinks to herself as she adds small touches with the dull pencil to the area around his eyes. Her fingers are dirtier than usual because she’s used them to help blend the heavy strokes, rearranging the shadows so it looks just how she envisions him in person.