by K Larsen
“Don’t you understand? Aubry was the kind of daughter that came straight home from school. She picked up her sister on the way, and got her all sorted with snacks and homework and activities, and almost always had dinner nearly done when I got home from work. She helped with baths and getting Aimee in bed, and only then did she sit down at the kitchen table to start on her own homework. She came over twice a week for dinner even after moving out. She wouldn’t just leave.” Her voice is frantic but soft, as though she’s used up too much energy.
“I know,” Detective Salve says. And he does. Angela sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve while she nods. The answer is prompt, but not immediate. Not defensive, not reflexive. Of course, he knows. Salve has been in Aubry’s life for a couple years now.
I watch him open the door to the glassed-in room across from me. I put a palm on the glass as Angela shoots me a look over her shoulder on her way in. Where is my baby? It says. It takes me a moment to answer her. I shake my head and shrug as she looks away.
When was the exact moment I talked to her last? It’s not uncommon for us to go days, sometimes even a week without speaking or seeing each other, despite the fact that all of our mutual friends are convinced we’re secretly dating. I would have. She would have. But we played games, tiptoed around each other and our feelings. And thinking on that now, I wish we were. I should have taken that chance. I should have just admitted my feelings for her from the start.
Outside, the afternoon light is fading quickly. I can see distant car headlights winding down the road that leads to the club. I text Liam as I head to the valet entrance. I slam my foot down hard on the gas pedal. The engine screams, and the sudden burst of acceleration snaps my head back against the seat. At the entrance, I hop out, toss my keys to the valet and tuck my phone in my back pocket as I walk inside. A hot ball of anxiety forms in my belly.
The place reeks of money. Glass abuts wood paneling, wood melts into copper, copper runs into leather, and that leather hosts the asses of the bouncers who welcome members with a serenity that masks the problems of the people inside. And the people inside are royally fucked. Scum mingles with the power hungry. Greed blends with lust. The Black is a dangerous place. One where wealthy playboys go to frolic while new money makes deals in the shadows to secure that they too will someday be old money. It’s not a place I’m proud to be a member of necessarily, but it’s served me well until now.
People like to believe in coincidences, but nothing in life is a coincidence. When I can't sleep at night I think of her. The way she's a ponytail and mascara only weekend girl or that she rocks flip flops and cut-off jeans because it’s easy. An endearing quality many women overlook these days. Simplicity is beautiful. Sexy isn’t about how much skin you flash. Sexy is about flashing as little as possible to make someone want to see more. The women here hide their faces behind designer anything. They wear expensive heels that make too much noise. But behind their layered makeup no one knows who they really are. They talk loud and often without saying anything at all. Everyone thinks they’re mysterious but I’ve got most of them figured out with just a glance. Lingerie. Tiny and stringy. Overly tanned bodies. All meant to do one thing, please the members of The Black. These women are an assemblage of designer anything, store-bought tans, and costume jewelry. But what they don’t understand is that the men in this club will never be pleased. You can’t sate these men. They are takers. They come back again and again and again, each time wanting more not less. They will take until there is nothing left to give. Then they simply discard what’s been used.
I look around until I see who I’m looking for. I stride to his spot.
“Yuri,” I greet. I run a hand through my hair and force a smile.
“Mike, so glad you’re available.”
He shakes my hand, his grip bordering painful. “What can I do for you?” I ask.
He motions for me to sit, so I do. He slides a glass in front of me filled with whiskey. I want to guzzle it but I don’t. It’s been a long day. A long day of questions I couldn’t answer and thinking about Aubry, the girl I should have made mine but didn’t. This is a joke, right? I mean, it’s Aub. She’s not missing. She’s probably laser-focused on her project, head down, ignoring all functions of life until she has everything just right.
“I have a job for you,” he says.
“Go on.” I take a sip of my drink.
“I need a crate delivered to Nicaragua.” I cringe, Nicaragua is outside my comfort zone. A touch too dangerous for my liking.
Cracking my neck, I ask, “Weight?”
“Including the crate?” He presses his lips into a fine line.
“Yeah.”
Yuri’s eyes shoot up and right as he calculates in his head. “One-seventy-five.”
“Drop point?”
“Hot. You’ll need to be precise.” He lifts his glass and gulps.
“Payment?” I ask feeling less and less like taking the job but knowing I will anyway simply for the rush.
“Seventy-five grand now, seventy-five on delivery.” I raise my eyebrows. That’s a hefty sum for one crate.
“When?”
“Sunday.” He chugs the rest of his drink and waves over a short, curvy brunette.
“Leave the money in the locker. Deliver the crate here,” I say and jot down my private hangar address on a cocktail napkin. “No later than Friday night.”
“Gregor likes you, kid,” he says before patting my shoulder. Demi or whatever the brunette's name is, sits on his lap, leans in and nibbles on his ear lobe. Yuri chuckles. I shake my head and push back from the table.
“See you on the flip side.” I lift a hand and head out. There are particular jobs that are more lucrative than others. It’s true, I come from a wealthy family. If I chose, I could live off my trust fund, but, where’s the fun in that? I fell in love with flying first, as a teen. I fell in love with women around the same time. Some might say I’m a playboy and maybe I am. I prefer to say I’m wise beyond my years. It didn’t take long to realize that one passion begot another. Women are impressed by planes, specifically, my airplane. She’s never let me down yet.
I will settle down someday. I want to get all life’s fun out of the way now so that I’m ready for that moment when ‘the one’ comes along. I work when I please. Liam Lockwood, my best friend, would kill me if he knew I was working with the Russians. There is nothing worse than keeping a secret from your best friend but I can't see any way around it that doesn't result in him shunning me. They don’t own me. I’m an independent contractor. A pilot. A smuggler. I'm in high demand and because of that, I have standards. I'll fly any cargo they can pay me to run. My skills get me a lot of work. Owning my own hangar and airstrip is a perk. Fudging flight plans for logs is easy when you have privacy through wealth. I’m not afraid to go twenty feet over Conchagua. This makes me somewhat of a commodity. I won’t fly any cargo over two hundred pounds. I never take a run that requires refueling. I never ask what the cargo is and I never look at the goods. There's no such thing as an easy run and I refuse to jinx it out of sheer curiosity.
People always ask me, "How’d you learn to fly?" Funny story. My dad gave me pilot lessons for my sixteenth birthday. At seventeen, I got my private pilot certificate and since then, I spend equal time in the air as I do on land. My instructor was this old dude my father grew up with. He served in ‘Nam. He taught me the way the government had taught him. “Listen, Kid, if you stayed under the tree line you might come out okay,” he’d said. I never set out to be a smuggler. It fell into my lap one day. The Black has a way of presenting opportunities too good to pass up. Another member knew I was a pilot. One too many whiskeys later, I’d agreed to run his cargo to El Salvador. That first run was thrilling. It was pure danger and adrenaline. I’d never felt anything quite like it before.
Better than any drug, I was hooked the second the wheels left the tarmac.
It’s two in the morning. It is unlike me to wake in the wee hours
of the morning. There’s a neon sign on the horizon. It flashes blue, then white. I like that I can see it from my bedroom window. The radio is on and counting down the top twenty hits from the week. My phone blinks, a message. I click the screen and squint at the light the screen gives off. Liam.
Nora is out of her mind. Any update?
I sigh. I wish. I type out a quick response.
Nope. No one saw anything. Or they aren’t talking because...Russians.
His reply is fast.
I’m going to talk to Gregor tomorrow. If they’re involved I’ll deal with it.
My thumbs and brain are groggy from sleep, but even I know this is a terrible idea.
Not your best idea.
My phone vibrates.
Doesn’t matter. I can't stand to see Nora this way. And, I like Aubry. Why aren’t you more worked up?
I sigh. I am worked up but I don’t want to admit it. Not even to my best friend.
I told you. We weren’t dating. Don’t get me wrong. I like her. I just, what do you want me to say, man?
Nothing. I’m overtired. Sorry. Go to sleep, you ass.
Workin’ on it.
I pull my nightstand drawer open and fish around until I feel the small cylindrical tube. I pull it out and lay it on my chest until I find the lighter. I set that on my nightstand. I pull out the plastic baggy of weed and grab a small clump. I stuff it into the end of the little one hitter and light it up. The last time I did this was with Aubry. We sat out back, next to the pool and talked for hours. I’d thought she’d be hysterical high. With her wit and boldness, but it mellowed her out, made her go deep. Thing about Aubry is, she comes across as the fun-loving instigator type, but she’s smart. Real smart. We had a moment out there on the patio, debating the psychology of flight or fight, how far away the stars really are and whether or not social media is the true decline of our society. Taking another hit, I wish she was here now to talk to.
“Where the fuck did you go, Aub?” I say out loud. “I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt.”
I close my eyes, inhale, hold it until my lungs burn, then let it all out.
5
Aubry
Are you there?
Am I?
My brain is black. I'm groggy. Weak. I try to blink the black away but it stays. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again but everything is still black. Panic takes root in my belly; spreads slowly but surely upward to my chest, attacks my heart, and heats my cheeks. My lungs fight to draw in air. I feel like I’m stuck in the fetal position. I can’t extend my legs. They’re stuck. I can barely move my arms. I close my eyes again. My chin quivers as I fight back tears. My mind unweaves like a thread pulled from a shirt.
Smell is the sense that is most instantly connected with memory. That’s what my psych professor said anyway. I think that’s crap. I think it’s different for everyone. My memory is most certainly triggered by music. I can’t think of one smell I associate with a specific memory but play a song and I can recall a lot.
Finch. Where is Finch? And the guards? Where is my room? Am I near the other girls? Questions run wild through my brain. Stop it, I think. Stop it, Aubry. Breathe. You’re alive. Breathe. I focus on that one task until I am in control of my lungs again. I listen carefully to the sounds around me. Something jars me and I feel almost weightless for a moment.
Five crows in a row, sit on a power line. Seeing them makes me shiver. It means sickness is coming. Maybe even death. At the very least, bad luck. At least that's what my mother always said. She saw five the day before they found my brother Anton's, body. She saw five the morning I brought Nora to the bus station for her summer job too. I try, but I can't come up with any good outcome to seeing five crows in a row. I imagine this is what an out of body experience feels like. My soul feels weak.
The sky is a crimson red.
As if space is bleeding into Earth's atmosphere. But then Nora is here. Smiling at me. I reach out and take her hand.
"You're a fighter, Aub. You got this," she says. "You're my inquisitive, frolicsome, and clever bestie. Kind and loving, with a smile that lights up a conversation, a whole room even." I feel myself blushing at her words. "I can't live without that, so don't you dare give up."
I always wanted to be like Nora but was never demure like she is. What did she call me once? Capricious? Yes. That was it. I thought she meant I was moody but that wasn't it. She told me I'm an introverted extrovert. I couldn't ever be as dull as her because I enjoyed being social and laughing and being impulsive. She said I did it all with class but still, there was always something I envied about the way Nora carried herself. The graceful and sophisticated aura she gave off always seemed to elude me. I'm too passionate about things. Or at least I feel like I am. Nora never seemed to mind. That was another thing I envied. She loved all of me even though we were nearly polar opposites. I love her too, of course. But definitely felt frustration with her hermit-like tendencies every so often.
But here is she is, holding my hand, loving on me. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Her lips turn down. I try again but … nothing. Why can't I speak? Her hand drops to her side. Leaving mine outstretched, reaching for her still. She takes a step backward. Then another. The blood from the sky slowly engulfs her and I am left open-mouthed, silently screaming.
I evoke, with shut eyes, the optical replica of a face, a phantom in natural colors—Mike. The first time I saw him. He walked in wearing jeans and an Oxford shirt, and I swear my eyes burned with lust. The level of attraction I felt upon first sight was unprecedented. But then Nora warned me about him and Liam warned him about me. But I swear that night, whether it was the magic of my birthday or simply fate, when his lips met mine, I was a goner. I sunk into a lust-laden frenzy that could only be quelled by him. But I wouldn’t give in to him. Not until I was sure I could make him want only me. He had a reputation and I’d never give my heart to a man unless I was sure he would be faithful. I can see long legs extending out of black Nike shorts and expensive running shoes. Everything about him is damp—hair, face, neck, arms. A triangle of sweat stains the front of a Harvard T-shirt. I lick my lips. Mike is the definition of an athletic red-blooded male. He guides me to a sitting position and curls his arm around my shoulders. I smile up at him, thinking of the way he flirts makes my pulse pound, the way we talk late into the night, side by side in his yard while staring up at the sky. The brace of solid muscle, his kindness, is waking up every hormone in my body. I swear I can smell him. I groan.
Why did I never give into him? My stomach churns. Bile rises. I swallow it down. No. I shake him from my thoughts. I should think of Mom, Aimee, Eve, even. Not some playboy tease. But I can’t shake the feeling. I can feel him. It’s as if he’s in my head, in my core, lingering.
Blinding light scalds my eyes. I try to block it. My eyes open slowly. I squint and contort my face at the atrocious and painful daylight. My bottom lip quivers. Blinking rapidly, realization takes root. Fingers dig into my arms. My long nails are sharp and broken but the rest of me is losing ground. I fight to understand. I’m dreaming. Or dying. I can’t be certain which. I’d like to think it’s dreaming. I’d like to hope that dying feels more peaceful than this does. My heart beats like the steady thrum of windshield wipers in rain storm.
Everything that was, everything that is now, everything that might have been, everything is this moment. The collapse. My rescue. A new beginning for me. I’m saved.
Time elapses. I blink. I see Mike’s face. I blink again, that can’t be right, but it’s him. My eyes widen. I am face to face with Mike. He has me by the biceps. My legs are too weak and shaky to hold my own weight. Silence seems to expand between us.
“Fuck!” he screams.
Everything I thought was wrong.
He releases me. I drop like a rag doll back into the crate. A little howl of pain escapes me. He’s been the angel from my nightmares the last month and now here he is, here, with me—in the flesh.
My slim fingers grip the edge of the crate and I hoist myself up slowly, wide-eyed, and take everything in. My joints ache from disuse and being tucked in the fetal position. My chest heaves with exertion.
“M-m-ike?” I whisper, “Is that really you?” I stare at him like he’s a ghost. He looks me over carefully. Intently. I wait. Unsure.
“Fuck,” he yells again. It makes me jump. He lunges forward sliding his arms under my pits and scooping me out of the wooden box. He holds me in his lap. I don’t move. Panicking, I bury my face in his chest. I don’t cling to him. I don't do anything. I just remain still as he holds me. I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust that this is real and not fabricated in my brain.
“It’s me,” he says. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks and onto his tee-shirt. We sit like this for a long time. He whispers all the right things to me as his fingers gently graze my back, rubbing in a soothing manner as he holds me to him. After the terror subsides, relief sweeps through me. I’ve been rescued. I’m cradled in Mike’s arms, the top of my head being peppered with soft kisses and encouraging words.
“Is this real?” I ask. “Because nothing’s real anymore.” His body goes tight and stiff beneath me. Like he’s stressed out.
His lips touch the top of my head—again. “It’s real, Aub. I’m here. I’m real.” His voice is tight with emotion. Like he’s choked up, like he missed me.
“Are you here to save me?” I ask. He cringes at my words. “I want to go home.” He bangs his head on the plane wall behind him. “Mike?” My voice is so small, not at all the typical boisterous Aubry I’m used to myself sounding like.
“I don’t know,” he says and barks out a raucous laugh. A laugh that doesn’t make sense.