Exit Wounds

by V. K. Powell

  “That’s not necessary. Everything is fine.” She couldn’t afford to sound too insistent or her family would get suspicious, but she had to deter Carl. “Remember our talk about this job?”

  “Yeah, more flexibility.”

  “And…”

  “Trust,” he added.

  “Exactly. I don’t need an escort.”

  The long breath he exhaled signaled that he wasn’t happy with the outcome. “Fine. I’ll call the guys back.”

  “And I’m leaving now. I’ll let you know when I arrive.” She closed the phone and turned back to her family, edging them toward their vehicle. “Sorry.” She hugged everyone good-bye and gave them her new phone number. “You can call me anytime. Please don’t worry.” With teary eyes, she watched them drive away.

  The brief visit had been worth the risk. She needed to see the caring in their eyes and feel their love again before facing whatever lay ahead. Carl couldn’t possibly find out she’d met them. The chances were at least fifty-fifty that he wouldn’t care, but she couldn’t take even that much of a risk with her family.

  As their car disappeared down I-95, Abby thought about Carl’s phone call. Was he so worried about her safety that a two-hour stop caused concern? Her earlier suspicions that there was more to this furniture shipment than she’d been told seemed more likely. She walked to the back of the van to inspect the cargo. The door was secured with a tamper-resistant lock and a red warning label that an alarm would sound if disturbed. Strange precautions for a simple furniture shipment.

  Perhaps Carl was taking extreme measures against theft, or maybe he was shipping guns. She’d check it out when she arrived in Greensboro; after all, she’d be the new club boss. That was second on her agenda. The first thing was to find Loane without alerting anyone else, warn her of the potential danger from Carl, explain everything that had happened over the past three months, and pray that she’d understand. She didn’t know where she and Loane stood, emotionally or professionally, and that hurt more than she cared to admit. Abby climbed into the truck and drove north, pleased with the way she’d handled Carl and her family, hoping her luck extended to her search for Loane.

  *

  “’Sup, A-lone.”

  Loane whirled around on the park bench as Vi dropped her backpack beside her. “Why do you always sneak up on me?”

  “Wasn’t sneaking.”

  “How’d you find me?”

  “You like this park and that dusty old dump over there.” Vi inclined her head toward the historical museum.

  “I don’t like being followed.”

  “All I did was wait.” Vi flashed a cocky grin that made Loane want to prove her wrong, but here she was, as predicted.

  She was planning to stake out the Sky Bar again tonight to identify the rest of the employees, and she didn’t need Vi messing things up. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “After your makeover.” Vi reached into her bag and pulled out an electric razor, shears, and a plastic bag of miscellaneous jewelry. “Where to start?”

  “I didn’t agree to any makeover.” She wasn’t inclined to let Vi anywhere near her with sharp instruments. She didn’t trust close friends that much. And she certainly didn’t need a makeover to work stakeouts and surveillance.

  “Look, dude. You can hang around on the fringe or you can get into the action. What’s it gonna be? I can get you inside, if you’ll think outside your stuffy cop box.”

  “I had no idea you could speak in complete sentences.”

  “No need for insults. Wanna hear my idea?”

  Whatever this kid had in mind was probably illegal, immoral, or unethical—things she was sworn to fight in her profession. But since she wasn’t technically a cop at the moment, it couldn’t hurt to listen. Brainstorming with a street kid might spark a different approach. She was tired of standing outside taking pictures. “I’ll listen. No guarantees.”

  Vi’s young face glowed as she scrubbed her knuckles across her chin and scooted closer. “First, we gotta do something about that hair—can you say obvious?”

  “I like my hair.” She raked her fingers through the collar-length strands and let them fall around her face. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s too long and it glows.” Vi scrunched her face like the word held a particularly distasteful connotation. “It’s like white. Can’t be natural.”

  “It most certainly is natural—platinum blond, and I’m not changing it. I might consider a cut, but no color.”

  “I’m sensing resistance to the plan.”

  Loane was weary of the back-and-forth, but something about it felt familiar. “I’m not hearing any plan.”

  “Okay, okay. I can live with the color, I guess. Let’s cut the hair, funk it up a little, and add a few baubles, maybe a tat.”

  “No freaking way am I getting a tattoo.”

  “We gotta sell you as the clean-cut cop gone rogue. Feel me? You gotta look different, act different, be different. If you’re the same as them, you’re no threat.”

  Maybe the kid had a point. It was her goal to be taken into the Torre organization, or at least considered harmless as she floated around the edges. Could she hide her feelings well enough to pull it off? She’d have to be a damned good salesman, but maybe… “What else?”

  Looking at Loane’s lap, Vi said, “Nice gloves. Trim the tips.”

  She rubbed her gloved hands together and a painful memory sliced through her. Abby died and all I got was scarred palms. She wanted to scream, to rant at the injustice of life. She’d tamped down her rage until she could almost taste the bitter edge of it with the slightest irritation. Her control would fracture if she didn’t find some answers soon. Focus. Keep it together. She splayed her fingers dramatically and tried for humor. “But they’re real kidskin.”

  Vi shrugged.

  “As in, they’re expensive.”

  “Buy a cheap pair. They look cool. Do you wear them for a reason?”

  Loane couldn’t tell the story, especially not to a kid almost young enough to be her daughter. The extent of her injuries, her identity, the names of the dead, and other pertinent facts about the explosion had been excluded from the newspaper and television accounts. All anyone knew for sure was that the Torre home had gone up in flames and no one knew why or how. But like most airtight cases, this one leaked details like a sieve.

  She shook her head and refocused on the different look and new role Vi was painting for her. The loyal-and-dedicated cop had failed to produce results. If she could pretend for a while, she wouldn’t need anybody’s help, and that was appealing. “Let’s do this.”

  Vi jumped off the bench, her stash of transformative items flying in all directions. “For real? I’m in? You’ll do it?”

  The picture was so childlike that she stifled a laugh. Vi didn’t need encouragement. She was a precocious pain in the ass, but she might have the answer to Loane’s current situation. “If you can change my look without turning me into a freak. Can you do that?”

  “Totes, dude.”

  “And whatever that was, don’t ever say it again. Speak English.”

  “Well, let’s rock and roll! Is that more your era?”

  “Smart-ass. Where are we going to perform this grand renovation?”

  “Your place?” Vi picked up her goodies and stuffed them into her backpack.

  “Not happening.”

  “O-kay, how about the women’s?” She pointed to the park’s restroom. “Open until eleven. Should be enough time.”

  Surveying the smattering of people throughout the park, Loane assessed the likelihood they would be disturbed. Summer was waning, the leaves were beginning to change, but a final surge of Indian-summer heat kept most folks inside. “That’ll work.”

  She felt a bit like a prisoner in the claustrophobic space, and when Vi plugged in the electric razor, she started to panic. 1890 first residences in Greensboro receive electric lines. The vibrating noise and menacing teeth of the device did
little to calm her anxiety. Why had she agreed to this? A makeover was not her style, and trusting a street urchin she’d just met with a razor and shears seemed like suicide. “Let’s get it over with…and be careful with those things.”

  Her instincts about people had always been keen, and something about Vi felt harmless, even genuine. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d go with that until she found out her real name and ran a check on her.

  Thirty minutes later she sat on the toilet seat with her hair scattered around her like fallen leaves. She’d given Vi free rein and was beginning to regret it as her head cooled. “It’s a bit drafty up there. Did you scalp me?”

  “Crybaby.” With an exaggerated flourish, Vi fingered the front of Loane’s hair and pointed to the small wall mirror. “Take a look.”

  She stood and, out of habit, reached to flip her now-nonexistent hair.

  “Don’t touch it,” Vi said. “Look…and no blood either.”

  The image in the mirror was so different that she turned to see if anyone else was there. Without hair feathered around her face, her cheeks appeared sunken and her eyes ringed with dark circles. Her blue eyes were iridescent against pale skin, and her full red lips looked like crayon drawings. She raised her hand and traced the neat cut-out around her ears. The rest of her hair was trimmed close to the scalp except for a twist at the front. In place of the bangs that had concealed her high forehead, a gelled spike stood about three inches tall. If she encountered this person on the street, she’d immediately think drugged-out rocker.

  “Yeah?” Vi practically vibrated with enthusiasm, obviously pleased with herself.

  “It’s different. I had no idea I looked so…”

  “Wasted? Spooky, right? Phase one complete.”

  “Isn’t this enough of a change?” She now understood why her brother and Eve thought she looked unwell. She hadn’t paid much attention to herself recently. Her clothes had gotten looser, but she cinched her belt tighter and kept going. The old image of the walking wounded certainly applied.

  “You need more. Jewelry and a tattoo maybe…something temporary if you’re afraid of needles or too chicken to scar that lily-white skin.”

  Loane shook her head. Vi taunted her like Tyler used to do when they were kids, and it stirred a wave of nostalgia. “Temporary, definitely.”

  Vi reached into her backpack and pulled out a plastic bag of jewelry. “I’ve got earrings, finger rings, toe rings, lip rings…” she sang the choices like a street vendor, “brow rings, nose rings, navel rings, and clit rings.”

  “No piercings, absolutely not.”

  “Temps, Chicken Little. They’re fake, with spring hoops. See?” Vi clamped one of the silver rings on her bottom lip. “Doesn’t hurt and looks hella cool.” She offered the bag to Loane, then turned her head from side to side as if preparing to paint her portrait. “I suggest one lip, one brow, and several on each ear.”

  “I don’t need to look like the poster child for piercings. You’ve got that covered.”

  “Ouch.”

  She chose several understated pieces of jewelry and handed them to Vi. “Where should they go?” She felt like she was having a dress-up day with a kid sister, though she’d never had either. Looking completely different was starting to appeal to her.

  Vi took the clips she’d chosen and gave her several pages of tattoos. “Look at these while I hook you up.”

  Loane found the perfect tattoo on the first page, a heart with an exploding bomb in the center. Pieces of the mangled organ were blown away, and she envisioned them stretched down her arm toward her gloved hand. Pretty much said it all.

  “Yeah, I can see that for you—damaged,” Vi said as she gently placed a small silver hoop over the left side of Loane’s bottom lip and one over her right eyebrow. “My work here is done. Now let’s get you tatted up.”

  Loane had no idea why Vi’s touch hadn’t sent her running. Maybe lack of sleep and nutrition had compromised her resistance. Maybe she was too tired to care about herself anymore. Or perhaps on some gut level she trusted Vi. But that wasn’t likely, not after almost everyone she knew had betrayed her. Her defenses were securely in place. She’d experienced a momentary weakness that wouldn’t happen again. Kid or adult, everybody should come with warning labels.

  “And where would I get a temporary tattoo?”

  “Seven Sagas on Spring Garden Street. We can walk there in fifteen.”

  Two hours later Loane walked out of the tattoo shop with an impressive henna tattoo on her right forearm. She’d never admit it, but she sort of liked the reckless feel of having her body marked. Her mother would’ve approved of the design, a constant reminder to keep her guard up. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad? It rocks.” Vi ran in front of her, turned, and walked back, her gaze roaming up and down her body. When they met, she slid a finger around Loane’s ear, down her arm, and past the new tat. “You’re looking mighty bootylicious.”

  Loane recoiled. “Get off me.”

  Vi stumbled backward and dropped her backpack. “Jeez. Chill. Can you say kidding?”

  The shocked look on her face told Loane she’d seriously overreacted, again. Vi probably thought she was a basket case, and she wouldn’t be far wrong. “I’m sorry. It’s—”

  “No sweat. You seriously need to get laid or something. Later.” She retrieved her backpack and pointed in the opposite direction. “And get some clothes that fit. Jeans and T-shirts.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Loane watched her shuffle away, Vans slapping the pavement in a rhythm uniquely Vi. What was wrong with her? She’d almost assaulted the kid for touching her arm. Earlier she’d hardly flinched as Vi cut and styled her hair, much more familiar, intimate contact. Her emotional and physical responses were all over the place, though they should be leveling off after this many months. If she didn’t find a way to channel her pain and frustration, she could hurt someone else or herself.

  Chapter Nine

  Tap, tap, tap. Abby shifted and a dull pain throbbed in the lower half of her body. She tried to straighten her legs but they felt stiff and heavy. Tap, tap, tap. What was that annoying sound? Turning sideways, she rolled off the truck seat and onto the floorboard. Damn it. Then she remembered. She’d arrived in Greensboro after the club closed and parked in the rear lot, unwilling to pay a night’s rent at a hotel for only a few hours.

  From her landing spot on the floor, she saw a young woman peering in through the window, preparing to tap again. She put up her hand. “Don’t. I’m awake.” She pried her legs from under the steering wheel, and they tingled with sleep needles. “Give me a minute.” Mornings were not her thing, especially after sixteen hours on the road in a rickety truck.

  “Need some help?” The woman’s green eyes sparkled with what Abby interpreted as amusement at her less-than-gracious position.

  She climbed off the floorboard and sat on the edge of the seat, glancing at herself in the rearview mirror. “More than you know,” she mumbled. Her hair was scattered like she’d been in a wind tunnel, runny mascara darkened her cheeks, and something akin to dried saliva clung to her chin. She rolled down the window just enough to not seem rude. “Can I help you?”

  “I have a job interview at noon with the new manager of the Sky Bar.”

  “Early much?” Abby pulled her cell phone out of the glove compartment, along with a wet wipe, and checked the time—twelve thirty. She didn’t know anything about an interview. As she wiped the remnants of yesterday from her face, she saw the envelope that had been taped to the club door when she arrived. After the drive, she’d been too exhausted to deal with anything else, even trying to find Loane.

  She ripped the envelope open and emptied the contents into her hand. A barely legible handwritten note read,

  M, here are keys to the club. Hope they’re still here when you arrive. Interview with Kinsey Easton at noon for a job. We need more dancers. I’ll be here at two.

  Ray

  She made a mental note to discuss
security with Ray ASAP.

  “You’re Kinsey?” she asked the woman still staring at her like a rare specimen. She nodded. “Great, wait over there.” Abby pointed in the direction of the club’s back door. “I’ll be with you shortly.” What a great first impression she’d made as a boss.

  She emptied the wet wipes, trying to make herself visually and aromatically acceptable. Her wrinkled blouse and jeans would have to suffice until she retrieved her suitcases from the back of the truck. She brushed her teeth with her finger and rinsed with bottled water from the trip. A shower would’ve been heaven.

  When she stepped out of the truck, her right leg buckled. It was fully healed, but after periods of inactivity, she needed to move slowly. She’d forgotten. Kinsey Easton was at her side as she grabbed for support.

  “Take it easy. Are you all right?”

  She straightened and met the young woman’s concerned gaze. “Quite, but thank you. My leg went to sleep. Sorry.” She shifted her weight to her left leg, slowly redistributed to the right, and made her way across the uneven gravel lot. Would she always bear the physical and mental scars of that horrible night? If she could only find Loane, talk to her and have her understand, she’d gladly bear the rest.

  “Sure you’re okay?” Kinsey asked.

  She nodded. “Shall we?” She made an effort to walk normally as she led the way to the club, unlocked the heavy metal door, and stepped inside with Kinsey close behind. “I wonder where the damn lights are.” Feeling around the dark walls until she located a panel, she flipped several switches. The bar lit up. “Good enough.”

  “Are you M? I sure hope so or I’d feel like a complete ass.”

  “Guess so. Have a seat. Tell me about yourself and why you want to work,” she motioned to the vast open area, “here.” Why would an innocent-looking, freckle-faced woman be interested in a job in a topless club? She certainly didn’t have the assets necessary to command big tips. Maybe it was as simple as needing a job, any job. She fought her caretaking urge to tell Kinsey to look elsewhere for work.