by T Gephart
In the end it was my fucking phone, the piece of shit vibrating wildly from my front jeans pocket that broke the stand off. The iPhone was answered as I continued to keep my eyes locked on her.
“What?”
No one calling me was going to expect anything more; I wasn’t the have-a-chat kind of guy.
“Is she dead?” The words were level, unemotional. Jimmy didn’t bother with small talk, the news of his daughter’s house going bye-bye obviously reaching his ear. Had to say I was impressed, it had barely been an hour.
“Checking up on me?” I cracked a smile; Sofia shifting her weight on her feet able to only hear one side of the call. “Not sure if I’m touched or offended.”
“Stop jerking me off,” he huffed into the phone impatiently, “was that your handy work or someone else’s?”
I didn’t like someone looking over my shoulder, or expecting to hold my fucking hand. Their payment got them a result; the method was mine to decide. And whether the job was Jimmy’s kid or not, it didn’t give the bastard a free pass. No amount of money gave him a say in what or how I did it.
“Mine,” I barked back, my spine steeling. “And I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“More balls than brains.” Jimmy laughed, I’d assumed relieved he didn’t have to decide whether it was lilies or roses that would be placed on top of his daughter’s casket. “You might want to watch it, son. You just bought yourself a bunch of eyes on you.”
“I’m not your son, asshole.” I felt the need to remind the POS on the phone that my allegiances weren’t to him. “And if you’re looking to lodge an opinion, you might want to try the People’s Choice, not here.”
My thumb killed the call regardless of whether Jimmy was done or not.
She wanted to ask. I could see her lips pressed into a thin line to stop her from opening her mouth. At war with her need to know who I’d been talking to, and her desire not to give me the satisfaction.
“Your father.” I decided to play nice, figuring my less than predicted response would keep things uneasy between us. I didn’t want her comfortable or being able to anticipate anything, especially not my mood.
“He well?” She tilted her head to the side in faux concern.
“Didn’t ask.” I laughed with genuine amusement. “It’s been at least four years since you’ve seen each other; I’m sure it’s going to be one hell of a reunion when the two of you get back together.” Part of me wishing I could watch the fall out.
Oh, I wasn’t interested in their family politics. Couldn’t give a fuck if they had a happily ever after. But something told me watching Sofia hand her father his ass would be worth seeing.
To have your fate in the hands of someone else was unnerving. Having that person not care about your fate—an unhinging of the cruelest kind. That’s where I found myself, forced to trust someone I didn’t, and unable to know if I were better or worse with his help.
I hated it.
I hated him.
And I hated my father for putting me in a position where I no longer knew who the good guys were.
Blissful ignorance faded quickly as I grew older, and as much as I loved my family I couldn’t ignore what was going on around me. My body was wracked with guilt as I took communion at Sunday mass, Father Thomas giving my family an extra blessing for our generous donations.
He had to have known where the money came from. He frequently came to our house, my mother working herself into a tizz at the honor of a personal visit. The best china and silverware were laid out as he ate baked ziti with my family. He knew. They all knew. And it killed me that the lines were no longer clear.
The chain of the gold crucifix around my neck choked me under the weight of the sin. I was too young to be damned and yet the fires of Hell licked at my heels even as I knelt at the pew.
It was ironic that I found myself there again. Feeling like that fourteen-year-old with eyes as big as saucers, my too-thick hair unable to be tamed, on my knees praying for a way out.
“We need to lay low until I’m ready. Then we are out of here. Permanently.” His voice pulled me from my thoughts, thrusting me into the present.
That wasn’t something that surprised me, him blowing up my house and destroying everything I owned was pretty final. Going back wasn’t a possibility even if someone wasn’t trying to kill me.
I pulled my gun from my waistband, where it had been the entire time. The arrogant son of a bitch didn’t even flinch, watching as I leveled it against him. He thought I didn’t have it in me to pull the trigger; truth is I wasn’t sure I did either. But there was an ugly feeling deep in the pit of my stomach that stirred. Something new I’d never felt before and for once, I wasn’t sure I would do the right thing. Even as I lifted the barrel higher and my finger flicking off the safety, he didn’t move. That smug grin on his face, ever present.
“I have done everything you asked.” The air came out of my mouth in a rush as I held my arm steady. I could do this, if it came to saving my life, I could do this. “I haven’t resisted. I haven’t tried to escape. I told you about the files.”
“And what? You looking for an applause?” He smiled like this was some kind of a joke, but I saw his hand lower, hover at the side where he had his forty-five holstered.
“No, I don’t need your approval.” And most of all, I didn’t want it. I’d rather turn the gun on myself than be the kind of person he would be proud of. “But I won’t allow you to make decisions about what happens to me without my input.” Every word past my lips made me braver, stronger, more determined not to back down. Something inside me had clicked and there was a different part of me taking control.
“Or what? You going to shoot me?” His head angled toward the gun I had yet to lower. I was so close to him. Just a few feet. Even a blind man could pull the trigger and hit his heart—assuming he still had one. So he had to have known that with my experience, I wouldn’t miss.
“Or maybe,” he drawled, his voice lingering over every word sadistically, like he was enjoying the threat. “You’re hoping I’ll shoot you and end all of this for both of us.”
No. That was his fantasy, not mine. But I would rather die than spend another night unsure of what would happen to me in the morning.
“I won’t be a passenger in this.” I did my best to keep it unemotional, not entirely succeeding. I hated how helpless I’d been, but I wasn’t going to allow it to continue. Not after he’d taken almost everything. My home, my freedom—I wouldn’t let him take my life as well. Not without a fight.
“I don’t play well with others. Guess you can call it a character flaw.” He arched his neck first to the left and then to the right, the conversation clearly annoying him. “I’m done talking about it.”
Well, I wasn’t.
He infuriated me. His casual disregard for anything I had said was causing me to slowly become unhinged. And I wasn’t sure if it was anger or my need for survival that made me unpredictable.
“I want the drive back.” I held out my left hand expectantly while my right hand stayed aimed at his chest. “You don’t need it. Or know how to access the information.”
His jaw tightened, annoyance moving to agitation. “You aren’t getting shit.” His voice was barely a whisper, and somehow that made it worse. “You know, you shouldn’t aim a gun at someone when you have no intention of pulling the trigger. This is the second time you’ve done it, and I can assure you, I won’t allow you a third. So here’s what’s going to happen.” His arm stretched out, his fingers wrapping around the barrel. “You are going to lower the fucking gun or you are going to shoot.” His hand didn’t even wobble as it held my Smith and Wesson.
“Don’t think you know me.” My hand stayed locked; my decision whether or not to pull the trigger still not made. I could end it, end it all right here.
“I don’t, and I don’t want to.”
The words were cruel, the kind that usually you would snarl at someone in order to hurt them. But he
hadn’t done that. They lacked any weight when they’d left his lips, no emotion, no sting. It was simply the truth as he saw it.
I didn’t want to shoot him and I wasn’t sure if that made me relieved or angry. “Have you ever known anyone?” I asked before I had a chance to stop myself, my voice quieter than it had been as his hand lowered my gun without resistance.
Something inside me told me I knew the answer. The coldness wasn’t an act. I’d seen men hardened by time, used bad choices as an excuse for crime and some who had shown no remorse. But the longer I looked at Michael, even with only a few words spoken between us, I saw that he was presenting himself honestly. This was the only way he knew how. I hadn’t wanted to see it, but out of the two of us, he was the one being authentic.
“We’ll leave soon.” He avoided the question, nothing betrayed in his words or his eyes. “I’ll tell you when.”
He turned, the large expanse of his shoulders my new view as heavy footsteps took him out of the room. I assumed the drive was with him, possibly in a pocket. He hadn’t even confirmed he’d retrieved it, the whole subject sidestepped completely. Maybe it had burned with the rest of my house.
It was weird. How he was able to speak and say so little. Not just with words—his body, his face—a locked vault. And nothing was really confirmed or denied. No black, no white, just an endless stretch of gray.
“I need to eat,” I said loudly, even though I was the only person left in the room. “You might be able to live on air, but I need food.”
It was probably more than just an empty stomach that made me alter my thoughts. It was easier to deal with something tangible like food rather than the minefield in my head. And last night’s dinner had been hours ago, with nothing more than some water, the Advil and a cup of coffee going into my belly since. Adrenaline would only allow me to ignore biology so long. I’d slept because I needed my head in the game, and I had to eat if I was going to be able to stay standing.
“You want to eat, make yourself food,” he called from the other room, not bothering to give me the courtesy of a face-to-face. “There’s no room service here.”
No shit, asshole. I flipped him off even though he couldn’t see it, the childish reaction making me feel marginally better. My quest for food was going to be a solo venture.
When we’d arrived last night, I hadn’t gotten a chance to really explore the layout of the house. But this morning before I’d been marched into the basement and locked up like an animal, I’d done my best to get a feel for where everything was. You never knew when your life might depend on knowing where the closest exit route was, and which wrong turn would back you into a corner. I committed to memory each window, each door—every single detail of each wall and crevice in case some day it might be relevant.
The Brownstone had been heavily renovated in its interior, the spacious rooms on the bottom floor more open than a house of this vintage would have otherwise been.
My feet moved mechanically to the back of the house, completely ignoring Michael as I made my way to the kitchen. It had been updated, just like the rest of the house and the modern appliances looked untouched. The thinnest film of dust covered the oven door, the only hint that it wasn’t as freshly installed as it looked. He didn’t spend much time in here, and if he did, I was guessing the microwave saw most of the action.
His refrigerator didn’t wear the same signs of neglect. While not old by anyone’s definition, the double stainless steel doors had some minor scuffmarks, their sheen matted in certain places from handprints.
Pulling open the large French doors, I was expecting to find an array of condiments and beer. Sure, it was a typical bachelor stereotype, but he hadn’t given me much else to work with. Instead I found the clean interior shelves lined neatly with Tupperware containers. Each one contained fresh vegetables, fruit or lunchmeat.
I blinked, half expecting the carefully lined containers to disappear, but they didn’t, my hands reaching for them as my stomach grumbled. I was hungrier than I’d thought, the smell of roast beef wafting up my nose, making my mouth water as I ripped open the first lid.
Placing the makings of a sandwich on the kitchen counter, I pulled open the pantry doors in the hopes of finding some bread. Like the fridge, the shelves were neatly lined. Items stacked with military precision with all the labels facing outward.
It was so meticulous. Even in his personal living space, everything was exactly how he’d placed it. It was so strange that a man who seemed to live his life in chaos would be afflicted with what looked like a severe case of OCD.
My hunger overrode my need to continue my psychological evaluation of Michael, locating a loaf of bread on the third shelf and carrying it over to the counter with the rest of the food. Plates and cutlery were easily found; a cabinet here, a drawer there—and I had everything I needed, assembling my sandwich as I went.
It tasted even better than I’d expected, my teeth biting into the pillowy softness of the bread as an unsuppressed moan escaped my lips. I didn’t care if he heard me, taking another mouthful of food while I stayed standing at the counter.
In any other circumstance, I might have asked if he was hungry, or made something for him too. After all, I was already making something for myself, so it wouldn’t be any extra effort. But I didn’t. Partly because I thought he would see kindness as weakness, but more importantly, because he hadn’t deserved it. It made me feel better that I was able to make the distinction and more importantly make the choice.
When I’d finished and cleared my dishes—even though I didn’t have the same neat freak tendencies, I played nice—I retreated back to my room. Which was actually his room, and just the space I was currently occupying.
There was nothing to do. Nothing. No internet, no phone—no link to the outside world. Just the walls and my own thoughts.
Did everyone think I’d died?
Did my father tell my mother I was safe? My brothers?
Or was I being mourned?
The truth was I couldn’t be sure. Part of me was gutted that I could potentially be wiped from existence and no one would really miss me. I couldn’t think of anyone who would even be sad, and certainly no one who would cry at the loss. Instead their lives would continue without little interruption.
My own thoughts were torturing me more than being confined within the four walls. And it was utterly ridiculous that, considering the kind of trouble I was facing, I was sad about not feeling loved. And despite all of that, I still held hope that I had the ability to love. If not, then what was all of it for?
I had been in a few relationships, but something always felt off. My dedication to my job was blamed, my single-eyed focus on my career, with most guys checking out after a few months. One even made it an entire year, but like the others, he felt he never had my full attention.
I’d hoped someday to find the right person. It’s what we all wanted deep down, I think. To know that there was someone out there who would love us with every fiber of their being.
“They were right,” I said, even though there was no one to hear me. I had never really given myself to them. “They hadn’t been a priority.”
As the hours melted into the next, I stayed in the room. Not because I had been instructed to, but because I had nowhere else to be.
A couple of times when I needed the bathroom, I’d glanced down at the stairs. There had been virtually no sound, nothing more than occasional shuffle of fabric to indicate he’d moved.
He didn’t come upstairs.
I didn’t see him eat, or drink or sleep. Nothing. Just the constant low hum on his computer screens, which I had to strain my ears to even hear.
It was much later when I’d realized it was no longer day. The small stream of light that cut through the tiny crack between the drapes was no longer there, the sun setting without me stepping one foot outside.
My hands fumbled against my neck, my fingers finding the gold crucifix I’d always worn. And I closed my eyes and
prayed as I did every night. Only tonight I wasn’t exactly sure what those prayers were for.
“Help me, Lord,” I whispered as my fingers lifted the cross to my lips. I wasn’t sure if I’d said it out loud, or if it had been part of the continual silent litany. And I wasn’t sure if it was because of the words or the routine, but I felt calmer, my body slowly rising off the mattress I’d been sitting on for most of the day.
My feet tiptoed over to the window, pulling the drapes aside as I rested my hand on the cold glass. The glow from the nearby streetlight illuminated the view—the back garden, the garage and the back alley.
The even thuds of heavy boots echoed from the other side of my door making me jerk my head around. Each of Michael’s footfalls was weighted and steady as I heard them move closer. I waited, my eyes glued to the wooden rectangle that separated us, but he didn’t seem to stop. The sound remaining even as he walked past, the noise dimming when I heard a door close.
Without heading out into the hall, there was no way to tell where he’d gone, and it was only after I heard the spray of water hitting tile that I was able to pinpoint his location. The bathroom. His need to shower reminding me he was in fact human, even if he didn’t act like it.
As the water ran, I didn’t bother leaving the room. The simple act of him getting clean could have been a test, seeing if I would go and search for the drive. Then like some B-Grade movie he’d catch me in the act, rifling through his drawers when the whole time what I had been looking for was locked in the bathroom with him. It was too predictable, and he wouldn’t make it that easy.
So instead I stayed in the room, my forehead pressed against the glass staring at the blades of grass that moved in the breeze.
The light from the hallway flooding the room was the first sign he’d entered. Like everything else in the house, doors and windows had been WD-40’d to within an inch of their life so there would be no telltale creek.
His towel was slung around his waist as droplets of water clung to his chest. It looked like stone. Hard lines converged in angles, the corded muscles defined even at rest. His skin was almost entirely bare except for a smattering of hair across his pecs, marks and scars marring what would otherwise be a torso rivaling the perfection of a renaissance master.