Pieces Of One, Part 2 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  A flashing image pops up in my head, but I don’t know what it is. I can’t make it out. It doesn’t look familiar, but then it does. It’s not déjà vu, but more like I’m looking through a window into my past. It’s me, but I can’t recall any of what I see between the blotches and grey shades.

  A touch,

  My name whispered,

  Crying,

  Pain,

  Shadows,

  A heaviness against my chest,

  More pain.

  Oh God! What is this? When? Why can’t I remember it?

  Then I hear it. Tyson. Tyson is screaming. His little fists flying.

  What are they doing to him? Why am I not trying to help him?

  They have him, holding him down. I want to scream his name, but a crippling terror has imprisoned my voice. He’s still struggling, though his calls for help are muffled. I’m just standing there watching. He shakes his head when he looks at me with eyes that beg me not to do anything. I can feel the warm tears streaking down my face as they are now. This is not a dream, nor is it a nightmare.

  This happened to us. This is how Tyson really died.

  The reality hits me so hard, I melt to the floor not giving a shit where I am or that Bryson is less than ten feet away from me.

  Ty saved me from them and they murdered him for it.

  “COME WITH ME, Trista. Let’s play the game.”

  Through the darkness, a voice I haven’t heard in forever, calls out to me. It’s a voice that used to keep me company amongst shadows when I was little. In my dreams we played games together and it kept me company. I had loved those dreams of freedom. Of dancing in the sun and spinning with our arms wide. I prayed every night she’d come to me. I prayed so hard, one day she came to me while I was awake. She was real to me then, but I thought I outgrew her. That’s what you’re supposed to do with imaginary friends as you get older.

  My skin tingles and awakens a cool sweat, chilling me down to my bones.

  Mercy.

  I remember now. The shadows weren’t shadows at all. They were a living darkness—a moving, breathing Hell. And their names were Kaylon Rimmel and her father, Guy.

  My stomach rolls and I have to choke down the hot chunks that burn their way up my throat.

  I can feel their hands on me, but it wasn’t me. The sound of their efforts ring in my ears, but not in mine. Their sweat dripping on my body, but I wasn’t there. I mean, I was, but I wasn’t. These are my memories.

  What am I remembering and why can’t I see it clearly? I don’t understand.

  “Trista! Come with me and let’s play the game.”

  “You,” I whisper incredulously, “you made it go away. You took me away from them.” The voice, Mercy, does not answer. “You made Marvy take my place, didn’t you? What did they do to her? Did they rape her? I know they beat her. I had bruises all over me all the time. What did they do to Tyson? Why didn’t Marvy stop them?”

  Again, Mercy says nothing.

  “TELL ME!”

  “TELL ME, YOU BITCH!” I demand, after few more seconds of silence go by.

  Sitting up, I scream at her with so much vile hatred it scorches my lungs, “GOD DAMN IT, TELL ME!”

  A loud crash pulls me from the darkness and I see Bryson and another guy barge in, scanning my space with their guns drawn. Freaked out not only because of Bryson, but because I have no idea where the fuck I am. On the bed I’m sitting on, I scramble backward and hit the wall behind me.

  Fucking hell! That little, god damn bitch! She forced me out. Shit on a cracker, where am I now?

  Seeing Bryson, my throat clogs with my heartbeat, disabling my ability to scream. He looks wild and murderous, breathing hard through raging bull-like nostrils.

  What the fuck?

  The three of us have matching bewildered looks till the big dude, I’m assuming is a body guard, lowers his weapon and says, “All clear, boss.”

  I don’t miss his eyes roll before he holsters his gun and steps out of the room.

  Kiss my ass, dick-licker!

  Instead of following, Bryson rests his revolver on the tall boy dresser and approaches the bed. I pull back more trying to push into the wall.

  “You okay?” he asks with a tilt of his head. His steps are apprehensive as he gauges my eyes growing wider with each footfall.

  The last time we spoke, the shit-head didn’t seem so concerned about my well-being. Something’s changed, but that doesn’t smooth the goosebumps along my arms. This must be a Trista-thing. I wonder if she’s fucked him too. Anger replaces fear and my eyes narrow.

  Bryson stills. “Trista?”

  My thoughts are a jumbled mess, caught between the nightmare of memories and my equally screwed up reality. Trista’s tears soaking my matted lashes still blur my vision. I can feel their salty trail drying up on my cheeks.

  Okay? Am I? Kind of a stupid question if you think about it.

  Bryson’s sigh draws my eyes up to meet his, but his are lowered and buried beneath a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, Trista. That was a stupid question. But you have to know I’m doing this for your own safety.”

  Shit.

  I must have said that last part out loud. And yet I allow anger into my tone. “Doesn’t make it suck any less, ass-clown.”

  With my bitter words, Bryson shoves his hands into his pants pockets and his back curves lower into his slouch. Typically I take pleasure in taking a man down with my snark, but Bryson looks truly wounded.

  My eyes narrow even tighter.

  He really likes her. Of course he does, everyone loves that crybaby, Trista.

  I should play along and be Trista, but before I can take the words back, he says, “I’ll let you get ready. We leave for Doc Mason’s in a few hours. You should eat something before we leave.”

  His back is to me and he’s walking out the door before I can get a generic, apathetic apology out.

  Oh well, my bad.

  IN AN EFFORT to be more Trista-like and make up for my apparent rudeness, I reach out and take Bryson’s hand as we walk to the car, leaving Doctor Mason’s office. I wanted to throw-up putting the fan-fucking-tastic diamond ring on my finger this morning, but I figure if he really has a thing for her, he would notice if I didn’t wear it. It’s for sure an engagement ring. The weight of that thought makes me nauseous. At least I know he won’t let any harm come to me for her sake. Besides, I can use this, get the information I need and get the hell out of this shit-storm.

  As we walk, I fill my mind with menial thoughts so I don’t puke up my innards holding his hand. I wonder what kind of doctor doesn’t acknowledge the dubiousness of our visit. If he did question how a beaten young girl comes in with an older, powerful, wealthy man in the privacy of his office, he didn’t show it. I struggled not to laugh or make fun of the little Hobbit man. I’m sure Trista didn’t. But when he met us at the door of his office I had to blink a few times to make sure he was real. If you could Shrinky Dink a man, that’s was what you would get. He seemed very kind and gentle with me though and I thoroughly enjoyed how he gave Bryson a world of shit when he was told about plans to leave for Croatia—a tidbit of shocking news for me too.

  Amongst many deep, blackening bruises and multiple gashes, I only have a bruised rib according to the x-rays, but nothing more detrimental than that. Occasionally I’ll ache, but I don’t really feel them much. Thankfully, the golf-ball sized lump on the back of my head doesn’t need stitches either. Although I don’t have a concussion, he does not recommend flying for the next four to five days.

  A part of me feels bad for getting Trista’s ass kicked after I transitioned out. Then again, I just got whooped by that asshole, Supak and seeing him in the club with the fuck-stick I’m holding hands with was too much.

  I wonder where he is now. Is he watching us, waiting for an opportunity to kidnap me?

  I swear, if I don’t stop thinking, I am going to make myself spew chunks. My stomach is already choppy and freaking myself out add
s another level of difficulty to keep the contents down. I place a hand on my stomach willing it to calm down. A small flutter tickles below my belly and I concentrate on that as I deeply breathe.

  One of Bryson’s bodyguards, Jerry, I think, reaches for the car door and ushers us in. The other guy, Mr. Dick-licker, is at the wheel. Where were these guys that night at the house of Hell? They would have come in handy. Shit, where was my Federal protection? Where are they now? Nothing around me is recognizable and I have no idea where I am, I wonder if they do.

  My hair is down around my face to cover the bluish welt that puffs my cheek. Although Bryson had clothes for Trista, I couldn’t find any make-up to help cover the ugly bump. When I let my hair fall forward though, I use it as cover and can discreetly search my surroundings. We are in a mostly empty strip mall next to a vacant store front and a bank that is already closed for the Saturday afternoon. Two other vehicles are parked in the lot, but they’re far from us. Plus, there’s no way they’d be fed or undercover vehicles. One is a mint green VW bug with plastic flowers glued to the roof.

  A rolling field of dirty fake daisies…how nice.

  The other could be Dawson and Pulson sitting behind the tinted windows, but the way the car is lowered five inches from the ground and by the ornate metallic blue swirls on its purple flank, I doubt it. Even from this distance, a bass thumps in my chest and in the air, scaring away a few birds from a nearby tree.

  I try not to let my discouragement show when Bryson slides over to sit next to me. He makes my skin crawl. Regardless of the care he’s providing, he’s still a cock-sucking, wadded up piece of shit. When his pant leg brushes against my thigh, it feels like sun-dried burlap scraping my skin. I regret the white shorts I chose to wear. The outfit was cute when I pulled it together, pairing it with a floral flowy tank and a kick ass pair of white heels, but now I wish I’d chosen the maxi dress with fat, ugly horizontal stripes and just worn the bathroom slippers. A bra probably would’ve been a good idea, but I hate boob-sweat.

  Bryson clears his throat and my nails dig into my biceps.

  Yo! I need a manicure.

  Unconsciously, my body language is as closed off as possible with my arms crossed at my chest and my knees shifted away from him. Short of my back to him, I’m non-verbally telling him to, “Fuck off.”

  “I know you’re pissed, but can you at least look at me?”

  I slide my slanted eyes to look at him. The heat of my anger rises up my neck and I grit my teeth so I don’t say what I really want to.

  “What?” I respond dryly.

  Running his hands through his hair, he settles them behind his head and leans back in a stretch. “Look, I’m sorry about bursting in. I heard you screaming and…and…”

  That’s it. Listening to him stammer like a schoolboy, I lose my patience and spit, “And what, Bryson? And. Fucking. What?”

  Invading my personal bubble, he reaches over and unfolds my arms to take my hand, cupping it in his. “And it scared me. After everything I’ve done, every deal I’ve bargained, everything I’ve risked to protect you, I thought it was for not. I thought they got to you anyway—took you. As impenetrable as I think the house is, anything could happen. The KK have their ways if they want something bad enough.”

  “Who?”

  Bryson shakes his head. “Sorry, the Croatian Mafia.”

  Did he just say the mafia? The fucking Croatian Mafia?

  His warm, calloused hand rubs the top of mine. If it didn’t turn my stomach, I suppose it would have been endearing. But it’s not—at least not to me. To me it’s rough and grating the first few epidermis layers from my hand. It’s sweaty and feels like slimy vomit. I don’t give a shit what he’s given up. This is his fucking fault. I’m being hunted by the god damn Croatian Mafia! I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it snug, so I can’t.

  Moving his head, forcing me to look at him, he timidly smiles and crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I’ll fix the door.”

  Boom. I explode, “I don’t give a shit about the fucking door. It’s your fucking door in your fucking house, you fucking fucker!”

  My gift of colorful language has him bowled over. I’ve never seen Bryson’s squinty blue eyes so wide.

  Whatever.

  “Don’t you get it, asshole? I want to go home,” I say, yanking my hand free. I look around for something to wipe it off on and eyeball his attire. As I dry my hand on the lapel of his suit jacket, I continue, “You’re afraid they’re going to find us, but you are itching to go to Croatia like your balls are on fire. I can’t believe you’re wearing a fucking suit in this boob-sweat soliciting weather. We’re in ass-crack Florida, ya know.” At least I think we’re still in ass-crack Florida.

  Bryson sits back and tries to smooth the wrinkles I’ve put in his suit. Pulling his pocket square hankie out, he hands it to me. “Going there on my own terms with a plan is different from them finding us and killing us on the spot, don’t you think?”

  Damn.

  He’s right and it tempers my anger. My head is swimming with confusing emotions. I hate this ass-wipe, but I need him. A rise of bile threatens every time he touches me, but he’s all I have, so I don’t die—or worse—land in the hands of the f-u-c-k-i-n-g, god damn Croatian Mafia. He seems to care what happens to us and is jumping through a lot of hoops to keep us safe at his own risk. I don’t get this guy. But if he saves Trista, he saves me.

  I shrug a shoulder, flippantly replying, “I guess, but it’s a suicidal leap off a cliff and you’re dragging my unhappy ass over with you.”

  His forehead folds in as he looks me over.

  Ah shit.

  My loose tongue sounds nothing like his fragile, little Trista.

  Maybe if I cry that would distract him. Even douche-nuggets hate when girls cry, don’t they?

  Before I can squeeze a fictitious tear drop, his facial expression becomes impassive and he sits back. Bryson pulls his phone out and places his thumb on the screen. “Giuseppina Dellorio,” he says into the phone and the screen wakes up.

  Great, voice and fingerprint recognition security crap. No chance in me getting past that and making a call. Who the hell is Giuseppina Dellorio?

  After swiping his finger through a few emails, he focuses on one, reading it intently. The font is too small so I can’t see what gets his attention. He types a reply to the sender and says, “You didn’t eat much this morning. Let’s stop for lunch.”

  Umm…okaaayyy. My neck practically hurts from the whip-lash change in subject.

  Watching his eyes intently reading the email, because at no point does he actually talk to me, my stomach growls simultaneously with the nod of my head. Bryson is so engrossed in his read, he doesn’t even acknowledge my grumbly tumbly.

  “Henn, take us to O Segredo. I hope you like Brazilian food, Trista.”

  “I’ve never had it, but it always sounds so heavy and a lot of food.”

  “Never?” he questions.

  A divot forms between his eyes. “Brazilian food is composed from different heritages: Argentinian, Uruguayan, African, and Portuguese,” he pauses, looking at me quizzically.

  Yeah…don’t really care, dude.

  I have no idea what he expects me to say or why he thinks this culinary history lesson interests me. It’s going in one ear and out the other. I swallow the almost audible sigh when he continues.

  “Dishes are a bit hard to describe when you have real Brazilian food. There are different states and regions, so they all have their own take on their country’s dishes. Several cultures and cuisines make up different menus, from the coastal dishes composed of the most amazing seafood, to the central region and their kind of farm-to-table meals.”

  Blah, blah, blah, blah.

  “One thing I have to warn you though, Mrs. Saltanos will stuff you and then serve you desserts. I’d stay away from the coffee, it kept me up for an entire twelve hour flight one time,” he chuckles.

  “Desserts? As in plural?”


  I like desserts!

  Bryson nods. “She will think you need fattening up and…” His phone rings interrupting him.

  “Seviride,” he briskly answers. “Yes, I saw the email,” he pauses. “No, stiamo andando avanti con il piano di.” His tone drops back into a professional knife edge. “Lo so, ma impostare tutto comunque. Fallo e basta, Serafina."

  I don’t think I’m being paranoid or narcissistic thinking he’s talking about me. The only words I understood were, “No,” “ahead,” and “plan.” Those three words do not bode well for me in my mind. Plus, Bryson hasn’t looked at me at all while talking on the phone. As a matter of fact, he turned his head and is speaking to the window. He doesn’t turn his attention back to me till we roll up to the restaurant.

  The term, restaurant must have a loose interpretation in Brazil. It’s actually a little hole in the wall and kind of sketchy. The awning is incredibly worn and faded by the sun beating down on it. Looks like it used to be green, with a dark blue eye inside a yellow sideways diamond in the middle of it. Cheap plastic tables with chairs are out front and have so much dirt on them, they are no longer white. A half-dead potted palm tree sits to the left of the open door. Since it’s open for business, the metal security gate is rolled up letting me see the inside. I can’t tell if it’s a restaurant or an open market. Two large fans are shaking through their vigorous rotations, churning the flies around.

  Holy shit, the fan’s decrepit blades look like they’re going to fall off while trying to doing their job.

  I glance back at Bryson with a raised eyebrow.

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover. Things are not always what they seem.” I twist my lips in doubt. “Not to worry, you won’t get food poisoning. O Segredo is a clean establishment and I’ve been coming here for years. They have an amazing Feijoada. It’s the national dish of Brazil made from a thick mixture of beans and smoked seasoned meats.”

  “Sounds heavy,” I say skeptically.

  “It is, but we can hit the gym later and work it off.”

  Ick. I’m not a work-out kind of girl, that’s a Trista-thing. She and Kitta go for those long ass runs to God knows where. I could never understand their obsession. I don’t run unless someone is chasing me. Squished boobs bouncing with sweat making them slip and slide inside an unsupportive bra, and that searing pain people like to call, “Feel the burn.” Well, fuck that shit! I’ll just sit back and reap the benefits of Trista’s stupid hobby. Although I may want to take up running. Like running away from this place or to the bathroom when I’m done.