Gravity

by Liz Crowe

  Brock waited, letting them lead. They all covered their noses at the rank stench as they made their way to the fourth floor. The upper hall was hot, but at least it didn’t reek of piss and shit and puke like the stairwell. Trent checked his phone and motioned for them to follow him to the far end, to a cheap-looking door with a number written on a strip of duct tape.

  “This is it.” He hesitated, then knocked once. “Kayla, it’s Trent. Are you in there?” When there was no response, he rattled the doorknob with a curse. “Kayla!” He knocked louder. “Kayla, open up.”

  “Maybe she’s not there,” Melody said, hip bumping him aside. “Kayla, honey, it’s Melody. We’re worried because you didn’t show up for work. Open up if you’re in there. Please?” She knocked and knocked until Brock couldn’t stand it another second. His skin was crawling and his eyes burned. She was in there all right. He knew it—he could sense her presence.

  “Excuse me.” He pulled Melody back from the door gently and nodded at Trent, man to man. “Kayla, if you can hear me, move away from the door.”

  “Hey, hold on a second. What do you think you’re—?”

  He glared at the hand Trent used to grip his biceps. “I’m saving your sister’s life, dude. Back off?” He made it an option, not a command.

  Trent’s brow furrowed but he let go of Brock’s arm and stepped away, taking Melody’s hand and gripping it so tight Brock could see his knuckles whiten.

  “Kayla, I’m coming in. And if I hurt you I’m sorry but…” Without another word, he kicked once, breaking the cheap-ass lock and sending the hollow plastic door whamming against the wall. He took one step forward and stumbled back at the smell of blood. Trent shoved him aside, calling his sister’s name.

  “Kayla? Kayla…honey… Oh, Jesus. Melody, call nine-one-one, now!”

  Unable to see anything, thanks to the dim light thrown by a half-window, Brock watched, helpless, as Trent crouched over Kayla’s inert, bloody body splayed out on a thin mattress on the floor. Once Melody had made the call, she took up her position on Kayla’s other side, patting her face and reassuring Trent that she was still breathing. Brock was frozen in place, watching this horror show tableau. “Did…someone hurt her? What happened?”

  “Fuck if I know. Go downstairs so you can lead the EMTs up here,” Trent demanded without looking away from his sister’s pale face.

  Brock swallowed the rising gorge in his throat. Her feet were bare and pale, and all he could see other than her denim-covered legs. Trent had draped her torso with a sheet and was holding her, making soft noises, while Melody patted her face. His feet wouldn’t budge even when he commanded them to.

  “Go, God damn it, Fitzgerald,” Trent barked at him as he cradled his sister to his chest. “You deaf, or what?”

  Brock nodded, turned and pounded back down the disgusting stairwell, emerging into the cool morning air with a gasp as he heard the ambulance’s siren in the distance. He waited, his pulse racing, his ears ringing, and led them up the four flights and down the hall to the open door to her room. Trent and Melody moved away as the medic got to work, checking her vital signs, hooking her up to some fluid, covering her mouth and nose with an oxygen mask before lifting her onto the gurney.

  “What did she take?” one of the medical guys demanded of the group.

  They all looked at him.

  “Nothing,” Brock said.

  The guy seemed skeptical, but when his partner found a blood-encrusted razor blade, they got busy trundling her down the hall, the stairs and into the ambulance. Before the doors closed, he heard her voice—weak but definitely hers.

  “Which one of you is Brock?”

  Trent stepped forward but Melody held out an arm. He stared at it, then at her. Brock moved closer to the ambulance. “I am.”

  “Get in. She’s calling for you and if it’ll help her blood pressure, I’m all for letting you ride.”

  Without a glance back at Trent, he climbed into the back of the rig and sat on a jump seat next to Kayla. Her arms were a bloody mess but he kept his eyes on her face as he took her hand and said, “I’m here. You’re gonna be all right.”

  She nodded, trying to take off the oxygen mask with one trembling hand.

  “No, no, leave that. It’s the good stuff. Enjoy it while you can.”

  She nodded again, her face wet with tears, her eyes dark with pain. Brock held on to her hand the whole time, letting go when the back doors opened and they took her away from him. When he saw Melody’s face around the ambulance doors, he flinched, realizing he hadn’t moved from his perch.

  “Come on, hero man. Let’s go make sure she’s okay.” Her smile released something in him, allowing him to draw a full breath as he rose, and climbed down to join her.

  The differences between his most recent emergency room experience, not twenty-four hours prior, and this one, were stark. This waiting room was half full, and had TVs on in every corner, a coffee maker running, and magazines available for perusal. It smelled like hospital of course—there was no getting around that. But it was sparkling clean relative to the shit hole where they’d sat with the kid while the mother had died down the hall. Actual medical staff were out in the waiting room, taking temperatures and talking with the walking wounded.

  Brock dropped into the nearest chair—not hard molded plastic but with a faux leather cover and soft cushion. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and began to pray.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I’m not listening to it another minute. That place is a shit hole and I refuse to let you live there.”

  Kayla sighed and leaned forward on the table, wrapping her fingers around the warm cup of tea. Trent had been blustering over this all morning and she was getting sick of hearing it. But she wasn’t about to back down. She didn’t deserve anyplace nicer, and besides, she was sort of used to the smells, noises, and general crappy ambience of the halfway house. Taylor rolled her expressive eyes and sipped sweet hot chocolate while her father stamped around, making alpha male noises.

  “Is he always like this?” she asked, watching him, amused but at the same time anxious over making him unhappy.

  “Yep,” the girl said as she tapped away on her phone and twirled one lock of dark-brown hair around her finger.

  “Tell you what, baby brother. How about a compromise?”

  Trent ceased his march around the room and glared at them both. “Daddy, you look ridiculous right now. Chillax, already.”

  He sighed and looked down, then back up, a smile fixed to his face. “That better?”

  “Not really. I gotta go. Study date with Brad.” She hopped down off the high bar chair and headed toward her room.

  “Study date,” her father growled as she passed by him. “Right.”

  “Love you, Daddy,” she said, patting his cheek.

  “I’m sure,” he said, before turning his attention to Kayla. She sipped and stayed silent, watching this tiny drama unfold. “So, what’s your compromise proposal?”

  “I’ll let you pay for the therapist you keep harping about, but I’m staying at the halfway house. It’s actually a requirement of my government-funded rehab program, you know.”

  He grunted and sat, before finishing off Taylor’s hot chocolate. “Does the damn government know what kind of place that is?”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad. It’s all we deserve, really.”

  She flinched when his palm smacked the table between them. “I am kind of over that shit, K.”

  She leaned on one hand, studying him. He’d been a tall little boy, lanky and gangly when she’d finally escaped. He was still tall but strong-looking and super handsome, rocking the bald-head hot guy thing better than anybody she’d ever seen. He frowned at her. “What?”

  “You turned out all right, didn’t you, T?”

  He groused a bit more and slumped in his seat, arms crossed, looking like the recalcitrant toddler she remembered. “Yeah. I mean, I am now.” He glanced over his shoulder when Taylo
r reappeared, face made up, hair pulled back, lugging her backpack. “Be home by dinner,” he warned.

  “Sure thing, Daddy-o.” She rubbed his scalp and pecked his cheek, then gave Kayla a one-armed hug. “Glad you’re all right, Aunt Kayla,” she said.

  Kayla overcame her innate queasiness at the contact and squeezed back. “Thanks, honey. Be smart, you know, on the study date.” She felt her face flush. Who was she to give advice to a normal teenager?

  Her phone beeped. Taylor smiled and waved at them, sliding the heavy metal door to the loft shut behind her. Kayla checked the screen of the new phone Trent had more or less shoved down her throat, with his and Melody’s numbers pre-programmed in.

  “Brock will be here in ten. We have a meeting.”

  Trent frowned deeper at her. “Why do you do it to yourself, K?”

  Her pulse quickened and she collected their cups, ignoring his question as she rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher. She sensed him standing behind her, looming and protective. She turned and pushed him away, dropping her hands once he’d moved. “I need space, T, okay? I’m not going to all of a sudden be normal—I’ll probably never be normal. You’ll have to deal with me as I am, or not at all.” Her heart slammed against her ribs at her impertinence. She lowered her face and flinched so hard when he touched her cheek that her elbow hit the tea kettle and sent it into the sink with a loud rattle and crash.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, K,” he said, his voice rough, his face a mask of agony. “You’re safe now.”

  She shook her head, refusing to look at him. She’d been told that so many times—you’re safe. I won’t hurt you—as long as you do what I want you to do. Her logical mind knew Trent wouldn’t hurt her. That he’d jump in front of a moving train to save her. But the deeper, darker part of her, the part that had taken years of training to produce, wouldn’t allow her to take him at face value—not yet.

  She watched as the hand he’d tried to touch her face with curled into a fist and slammed down on the stainless-steel counter next to the sink. “So help me God I wish I could revive that son of a bitch so I could kill him all the hell over again.”

  She sidestepped him, dry-mouthed at his anger. Another reflex reaction, she knew, but one she’d never shake.

  “You can’t fix me, Trent,” she whispered, backing away from him. “I know you want to but you can’t.”

  He turned to face her, his eyes dark with worry. “I could, if you’d let me try.” He reached for her, but she recoiled, rubbing her arms and hating herself for making him so miserable. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. It takes time, though. And all your money plus a lot more isn’t going to make it happen any faster.” She pulled on her jacket, wincing when the fabric scraped against her still sore left upper arm. She’d been lucky, the doctor had insisted, as a nasty infection had settled into her wounds once they’d had her stabilized from the blood loss.

  Lucky.

  She smiled to herself.

  No. She’d never be lucky. She just had to move forward, not worry about the past and focus on the future. Or some such similar happy horseshit.

  Her phone beeped again, indicating that Brock had arrived and was waiting to take her to their thrice-weekly meeting. They’d changed venues, since the thought of being in that space where the woman had more or less died in front of her kid gave her the creeps. It meant a longer ride, but it was worth it.

  “Don’t worry about me. You have enough to occupy your mind, I think.” She raised an eyebrow and pointed at the stack of invitations she and Taylor had just that morning finished addressing. “Papa…”

  He groaned and fell onto the couch, his arm over his eyes. “Yeah. That.”

  “You’re lucky, Trent. Melody is an incredible woman and will be an amazing mother.”

  “I didn’t even want one kid…” He sighed. “But look at me now.”

  “Yes, just look at you.” She shouldered her bag. “Get those into the mail today, please. Melody’s orders.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving her a weak salute. “I hope…well, I hope that I can live up to what she expects of me. Sometimes I wonder about that.”

  “You already have. Now go and make some more money or something and leave the rest to karma, or the universe.”

  “Will do. But…”

  “Nope. No buts. We’re good here. I have someplace to be.”

  “I’m just worried about Brock,” he blurted out, surprising her. She turned from the industrial sliding door to his loft. “Sorry, it’s the brother in me, worrying about your…friend.”

  She set her shoulders. “That’s all he is, Trent, and all he’ll ever be, okay? We’re good for each other that way.”

  “Brock Fitzgerald is a—”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t go there, please. No labels. He’s no more fucked than I am. Lay off him.”

  Trent shook his head and waved her gone. But his words echoed in her mind as she rode the elevator down to the lobby of the much nicer converted warehouse. She smiled at Brock when she climbed into the passenger’s side of the expensive sedan, and studied his profile as he drove them all the way across town to a Presbyterian church in a wealthy neighborhood where they were joined for an hour and a half with people as desperate to be normal as they were.

  He reached for her hand during the final prayer. She let him take it, recalling how he’d held on to her in the ambulance. He was the one person she didn’t mind touching her, at least that much, and she felt comfort knowing she was providing him with the same.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Brock said as he polished off the last of his burger and fries.

  “Do what?” She licked the sriracha off her fingers, relishing his wince of pain.

  “You know what,” he said. “Put that horrific crap in your mouth.”

  “I’ve put worse in there,” she quipped, not realizing her mistake until the words had flown from her lips. He grinned at her then leaned back, his long, strong arms draping the top of the booth and drawing the attention of a table full of lovelies nearby. But his eyes stayed on hers, throwing off her hard-won equilibrium in a hot second. She looked down at her hands. “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” he said, his voice soft. “But I could guess, if you want me to.”

  She glared up at him through the fringe of her bangs that Taylor had insisted she try at their last too-expensive salon day with Trent’s credit card. “None of your beeswax, nosy,” she insisted. But her voice was shaking. The new therapist was dragging all sorts of shit up from her well-buried past which had led to her need for more meetings to cope with the urges to pop a pill and forget it all, or to cut and cut and cut until there was nothing left of her but ribbons of flesh and bone. She swallowed hard.

  “I know,” he said, raising a finger to get the waitress to bring the check. “Just establishing how much I know, relative to how little you’re willing to tell me.”

  He leaned forward, mesmerizing her the way he’d done a lot lately. He was so damn good-looking, she hated him for it sometimes. Ridiculous. But it wasn’t fair, having this handsome, compassionate, equally fucked-up male dangled in front of her like so much catnip when she’d sworn off the stuff years before, out of sheer self-preservation.

  “Stop it.” She blew a puff of air upwards so the fringe flew out of her eyes.

  “Stop what?” He tilted his head, increasing his adorable quotient ten-fold.

  What was the matter with her? She had no business flirting or interacting with a member of the opposite sex in any way that resembled a normal relationship. She had no idea what to do with her hands, or her restless feet, or her careening thoughts as he stared at her, silent, and unthreatening.

  “We—you and me—we’re just friends, okay, Fitzgerald? Nothing more or less. I’m grateful to have you as my friend. So you can stop…doing whatever it is you’re doing right now to make me feel like a freak
at the damn circus.”

  “Did you hear? The last big circus closed. Hurray for the animals.”

  “The…what?” She shook her head. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “You said circus first, my dear.”

  “Are you always this annoying?”

  Stop flirting, Kayla. You don’t even know how to do it right.

  His grin widened, showing off the dimple revealed since he’d shaved off his beard. Kayla’s heart did the oddest sort of stuttering thing, making her gasp and grip her chest. He frowned and reached for her arm, soothing her with the simple contact, his palm to her sleeve-covered skin. “You all right there, hot stuff?”

  She took a long breath, wondering if she might be having a heart attack. What did that even feel like, anyway?

  “Seriously, Kayla, you’re really pale all of a sudden. Do you need me to—?”

  She pulled her arm out from under his hand and shook her head, staring at the check the waitress had just deposited on their table. She reached for her purse, knowing how much she owed since she ordered the same thing every time—black bean burger with hot pepper cheese and sweet potato fries, all doused with super-hot sauce—and since Brock had given up weeks ago trying to convince her to let him cover their post-meeting lunches.

  “Gotta pee,” she mumbled as she headed for the bathroom, her mind awash with images, none of them she had any frame of reference for. All of them involving her, and Brock, and kissing.

  She was shaking so hard when she made it to the bathroom, her teeth chattered, echoing and rattling. What would the man think if he knew she’d never once been kissed?

  Regardless of all the terrible, degrading actions she’d done or had done to her, she’d never once allowed anyone to kiss her. Her stepfather had been strict about this. It was business, he’d insisted, as he’d taken the men’s money. “No one kisses my little girl,” he used to say.

  She sat as long as she could without making him worry about her, rocking back and forth. She was filth. She was dirty. She was nothing but a hole—three holes, to be exact. No one wanted her for anything but her holes.