Collide

by Melanie Stanford

  I nodded.

  “But I think you did the right thing,” Dad continued. “If you really feel like you don’t love him, then saying yes would have been a mistake. It could have led to unhappiness, divorce, perhaps even sin of a worse kind.”

  Mom shot Dad a look. She probably thought this sermon of his wasn’t helping. Truth was, it made no difference. For one, I knew I’d made the right choice, nothing my dad would say could change that. For another, I was used to Dad and the way he handled problems—both his own and everyone else’s. I loved my parents. I’d never understood Frasier’s constant need to battle them. My parents were good people, if a little strict and stifling at times.

  That was how I felt now. Stifled.

  “I’m moving to Las Vegas.”

  Dad let go of my hand and leaned back in his chair. He stared at Mom as if she had spoken, or this was her fault somehow.

  “I’ve bought a bus ticket,” I said. “For Friday. I’ve got an apartment set up with one of Fraze’s old friends. I’ll look for a job right away but I plan to audition for Essence Dance Theater at the end of August.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mom said through a sigh.

  Dad spoke right over her. “Absolutely not.”

  “To which part, exactly?” I asked.

  Dad’s chair scraped against the wood floor as he rose. My announcement had officially ended dinner. “Contemporary dance is not only a waste of time, it’s inappropriate.”

  My jaw tightened. Dad had never objected to me taking dance classes here in Hillstone. “So if it was ballet, you’d be fine with it?”

  “Dance was a perfectly acceptable after-school activity. But it is not a future.”

  “Maybe we should discuss this,” Mom said.

  I rose from my chair so I was on the same level as Dad. “There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve made up my mind.” I went for the door.

  “Margaret,” Dad called. “Please.”

  I turned around. Mom looked at me with sad eyes, already accepting that I was gone. Dad’s face was firm, however. He wouldn’t change his mind. I’d always admired his strength. I still did. But I had strength too. I squared my shoulders.

  “I don’t want to leave with bad feelings between us. But I’m going. There’s no future for me here.”

  Dad circled the table. “There’s no future in Las Vegas, either. It’s an awful place. They call it the city of sin for a reason.” He lowered his voice. “I’m afraid of what might happen to you there.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. Dad’s Bible was showing. “It’s not Sodom or Gomorrah.” I placed my hand on his arm. “I’ll be fine.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t approve.”

  I’d won. He wouldn’t stop me. “I’m sorry.” I was getting good at disappointing people lately, and apologizing.

  Mom followed me from the dining room. Dad stayed behind, probably considering his next move. “Are you really sure about this?”

  “One hundred percent.” I walked up the stairs to my bedroom, ignoring the creaks under my feet from the old hardwood. Mom leaned against my doorframe.

  “And you’re sure this isn’t about Hank?” She watched me pull out the suitcase I’d hidden in my closet.

  “It’s not about him,” I said, “but it’s sort of because of him.”

  She sat down on the edge of my bed. Her hands refolded my yellow and white baby quilt, still on my bed after all these years. “What do you mean?”

  “I might not have done this if he hadn’t proposed. I mean, I’ve always wanted to, but…”

  She nodded as if she understood. “I don’t know if your father will ever approve of this. But he’s only thinking about your future. Is that really contemporary dance?”

  “I know it won’t last forever. It’s not an ideal career, if I even make it into the company. But I love it. And I’m good.”

  “You are,” she said with a small smile. “Very good. But make sure you have something to fall back on, just in case.”

  It was the responsible thing to have back-up plans or five-year plans or some kind of long-term future goals. But I was sick of the future, I wanted the now. The now that would start on Friday.

  Chapter 3

  JAY

  Rafael’s bloody face stared up at me.

  “Please, amigo,” he pleaded. “Stop. I get your money. I get it. Please stop.”

  I smashed my fist into his nose, blood gushed under my knuckles. “You don’t owe me the money. I’m just here to collect.”

  Rafael held his hands up, blocking his face. “Please, Jay. Please.”

  I dropped him. I hated when they begged. Please, don’t hurt me, I need more time, I have a family, I have bills, I need to eat, I’ll do anything… I’d heard it all before. But the rules were simple: you borrow, you pay it back. End of story. They never seemed to get that.

  Rafael groaned and rolled over, trying to stop the blood pouring from his nose.

  “You have one more day,” I said, “then I start visiting your friends.”

  His pleas followed me out of the apartment, but I ignored them. Rafael Antonio was a dealer who couldn’t stay away from his own product. He’d borrowed from Simon, and barely paid back a cent, and so it was up to me to get the money, plus interest. That was my job, and I was good at it.

  Especially with Rafael. It was almost fun, letting out my frustrations on someone who should’ve been locked up years ago. The same kind of scum who’d tormented me as a kid on the streets. It would be a pleasure to “visit” his friends tomorrow when he didn’t cough up.

  Sweat dripped from my hairline, thanks to the cursed Vegas heat. I’d lived here my whole life and still hated how hot it got every summer. I climbed into my truck and reached for the AC. Blood stained my knuckles and I cleaned it off before driving downtown.

  I pulled around the back of Pearl of China, parking beside Simon’s charcoal gray Lexus, being careful not to ding his door when I got out of my truck. I’d seen him lose it over one tiny scratch.

  The kitchen door was propped open and one of Simon’s girls was smoking a cigarette, chopsticks sticking out of her wispy blonde hair. She gave me an inviting smile as I went by but I ignored it, pushing past her into the restaurant.

  The kitchen was all spices and steam and a babble of voices shouting in Chinese and English and Spanish. I grabbed an egg roll, winking at Mingyu as I passed. She tried to whack me with her fork but I jumped out of the way.

  Alfonso stood in front of Simon’s office door, the designated bodyguard for the day. A handgun poked out of the top of his pants.

  “Aguda’s here,” Alfonso said.

  “Rance Aguda?” It was unnecessary of me to ask. There were no other Agudas in Vegas worth mentioning. What he was doing in Simon’s office was the money question.

  “Careful,” Alfonso said.

  I didn’t need the warning. I chewed the last bite of egg roll, and Alfonso opened the door. No one else would be allowed into one of Simon’s meetings, but I could go anywhere. I slipped inside.

  Rance Aguda stopped talking but didn’t look at me. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for his concealed weapon.

  “Continue,” Simon said.

  Aguda frowned, pulling the scar that stretched from his temple to his jaw like a rope. Rumors said it was a memento of his time as a child soldier in Africa. “I prefer to speak in private without your Joe-boy listening in.”

  “He is my son. You can speak freely in front of him.” There was force behind Simon’s words, but I didn’t take pride in them like I used to.

  Aguda glanced at me. It was as obvious to him as anyone that Simon and I weren’t related. Simon’s Chinese, I’m not. The only similarity we shared was the color of our hair.

  “Very well. Your proposal is interesting, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline.”

  Simon’s mouth thinned, though the change was almost indiscernible unless you knew him. “I would think, after the favor I did you, my propos
al would receive more consideration.”

  I hid my surprise. Rance Aguda was one of the most notorious criminals in Vegas and Simon was a cop. These two things didn’t go together. Even though Simon had his little side-business, he put people like Aguda behind bars. I helped him do it. He made nice with the petty crooks to get rid of the bosses. This meeting made my knuckles itch.

  “I appreciate what you did in the Arthur case, but I’m afraid I cannot change my mind.” Aguda didn’t sound too choked up about it. In fact, he almost sounded smug. “You’re still welcome to invest.”

  “I’ll consider it.” Simon got to his feet and held out a hand. Aguda took his time rising from his chair—a show of power—and returned the handshake. He didn’t so much as glance at me as he left. After all, to him I was nothing more than a hired thug.

  When we were alone, I took the empty seat across from Simon’s desk. “What was that about?”

  Simon answered me in Chinese. I’d known him for eleven years and still didn’t understand a word, not for lack of trying, either. I didn’t need a translator to get the gist of it, though. Simon Ting rarely showed emotion, but when he did it usually manifested as Chinese curses.

  He pressed a thumb just below his wrist until he calmed down. “It’s difficult to get close to that man.”

  But why would you want to? Even as a kid, I’d heard Aguda’s name whispered on the streets, warning the weak and enticing the power-hungry.

  “He mentioned the Arthur case.”

  Simon applied pressure to his other wrist. “I did him a favor. It didn’t pay off.”

  My stomach clenched. Andrew Arthur was one of Aguda’s cronies. He’d been convicted of multiple counts of rape and assault but the only thing that had stuck was a minor charge, hardly any prison time. If Simon had something to do with that… Worse, if I had helped without knowing it…

  I was one of Simon’s enforcers, collecting loans for the lending company he ran off the books. I was good in a fight and people were intimidated by me. Plus, I enjoyed it. But I also ran errands for his legit job as a police officer. I made deliveries, transported people, made things disappear from crime scenes, that kind of stuff. I’d never had a problem tampering with evidence, or planting a gun, or helping someone change their identity and disappear. Simon used dirty methods to put even dirtier people away, and I was that dirty method. I got that. I didn’t question it.

  But things were changing. The lower Simon sunk—like doing deals with Aguda—the more I wanted out.

  Simon straightened the pens on his desk until they were in an ordered line. “How was your meeting with Rafael?”

  I rubbed at my sore knuckles.

  Simon handed me a wet wipe. “How many times have I told you to use gloves?” He hated blood. Leftover blood, the kind that didn’t get mopped up after the deed was done. He didn’t mind it during. But I’d never liked using gloves, unless I had to avoid prints. Skin on skin contact was raw, and real, the way it should be.

  “It went as expected,” I replied. “He asked for more time.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “He’s got a gang of dealers and clients I’ll meet with tomorrow. See if I can’t make any headway there.”

  Earlier, I’d been looking forward to “meeting” Rafael’s friends. Now, I was just tired. The adrenaline was gone, leaving me empty and dissatisfied.

  “If that doesn’t work, you know what’s next.”

  I used to get a rush from the snapping sound a bone would make when you applied just the right amount of pressure. I was master over the body, and I could destroy it with my bare hands. But that was back when I had all the recklessness of a eighteen-year-old and no conscience. Or, at least, a conscience I could easily drown out with rage. That rage had ebbed into disappointment, and that conscience had started pricking at me ever since I realized I could do something else with my life. Ever since I started questioning.

  “Arrest him. I’m sure there’s a boatload of crank in his apartment.”

  “Not yet.” Simon leaned forward. “He owes me money. I won’t get it if I put him away.”

  Simon needed to stop lending to scum like Rafael. Then again, it was the petty criminals and the truly desperate who borrowed from a loan shark in the first place.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you what to do.”

  I looked him straight in the eye, this man who was like my own father. “I know my job.”

  “Good.”

  The threat was implied. He didn’t need to say it. I owed Simon everything, and because of that, I would never break free of him.

  Chapter 4

  MAGGIE

  To: Frasier Hale, frazedaze@mymail.com

  * * *

  From: Margaret Hale, maggie-hale@mymail.com

  * * *

  Mom and Dad took it surprisingly well. They even drove me to the bus station. Of course, I had to promise weekly church attendance and Sunday night phone calls.

  I talked to Bronwyn (she emphatically denied ever making out with you), and she seems…great? Not all that enthused to have me living there. What exactly did you bribe her with? I’ll be taking my first ever cab ride from the bus station. Wait, do I sit in the front, or the back? I’ll have to figure it out. It’ll probably depend on the driver and if he/she is scary/smelly or not.

  BTW, I highly recommend NOT trying to seduce the director of Essence Dance Theater. She’s in her late fifties and although she’s still fit, she looks sort of like Miss Brooke from Anne of Green Gables. Google it. Not your type, even if she happened to be into twenty-four-year-old tattooed hobos.

  Hope to see you in Vegas soon. But not until I have a fabulous life that I can show off to you, ’mkay?

  The bus pulled up to the station in Las Vegas. My heart pounded double time as I stepped off and into my new home. Unfortunately, the bus station wasn’t much to look at and the noise of car honks and people itched inside my skull. Once I got my suitcase, I wheeled it onto the street where I was supposed to catch a taxi.

  They were lined up in a long yellow row like a giant banana. The ads on top displayed girls barely covered with sequins and pink feathers. I could imagine what my mom would say about their lady parts being on display. I picked a cab advertising a magic show. The cab driver was nice enough, but I decided to sit in the back. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.

  “North Nellis Boulevard, please,” I said.

  The bus station quickly vanished from sight, replaced with old, run-down casinos. I wanted to see palm trees and the sun but instead all I got was parking lots and gray sky. My eyes caught on the Vegas strip in the distance.

  Air conditioning blasted through the taxi, cooling my neck. It was the thick of summer, but not the alive kind I was used to. Everything was brown and dusty except for the odd tree here and there, probably planted to brighten up the place. There was no green grass, no forests of tall lush trees, no wildflowers. This was a dry, dead kind of summer.

  The cab finally pulled off the highway. We passed shopping malls and apartments, run-down hotels and liquor stores. And casinos, more than I thought one city could hold. Everywhere advertised slot machines and gambling. People walked the streets, proof that despite the grunginess, it was still safe to live here. Maybe. I’d never worried about safety before. The worst things we’d had in Hillstone were petty thefts and bar fights. The occasional graffiti from drunk kids who had nothing better to do than splash Van+Regan=Forever on the sides of old barns. But suddenly I was worried about real crime, the kind that only existed on TV in my world yesterday.

  “Traffic, as usual,” my driver drawled.

  A thumping bass resounded from a car nearby and I shrank into my seat.

  My eyes drifted from the liquor store advertising five-dollar wine, to the pawn shop with neon lights in the windows saying “cash for gold,” to a Chinese restaurant whose name was actually in Chinese instead of being called Empire Garden or Garden Empire. Two women leaned against the window, bot
h wearing knee-high boots and skirts so short I was surprised I couldn’t see their undies. They might’ve been prostitutes, or maybe that was just the way the staff dressed. I averted my eyes so they wouldn’t catch me staring.

  My new apartment, the Crampton Oasis, looked like an old motel from the fifties. It was two stories, with faded pink stucco and a metal staircase. The building was shaped like an L, the apartment doors all on the outside. A pool rested in the middle, the sparkling water inviting in the stifling heat.

  I went up the narrow staircase, lugging my suitcase behind me. I held onto the metal railing until my fingers found something sticky, and then quickly let go.

  Bronwyn’s apartment was on the second floor, number fifteen. I stood at the door, staring at the tarnished gold numbers. I didn’t have a key. How idiotic. It was the one thing I’d overlooked in my rush to get out of Hillstone. I rang the doorbell and knocked, but there was no answer.

  I didn’t want to lug my suitcase back down the stairs or leave it unattended, so I parked it in front of the door and took a seat. I rested my head against the door. My stomach growled. Sweat trickled down my neck into my t-shirt. Hopefully Bronwyn would be back soon. Even if she wasn’t, I needed a bit of a rest before I braved the streets of Vegas with a big suitcase and my purse in tow. That was a theft just waiting to happen.

  It was four in the afternoon. I played solitaire on my phone (how appropriate), checked the time again, played some more, social networked, checked again. Thought seriously about jumping in the pool. The heat was making me sleepy. My butt hurt. I was starving. An apartment down the hall was blasting rap music, making my headache worse. The smell of feet and cooked onions wafted from next door. At least that killed my appetite.

  My eyes slid closed, I could picture Hillstone in my mind. The wildflowers at Hank’s ranch. The huge cypress tree in my front lawn. The sun turning my house pink and gold.