by Amy Isan
I pound on the side of the door and grunt. "Cassie, seriously." My fist throbs from the wound I've definitely reopened on my hand. God dammit.
She doesn't answer, but the light hasn't reappeared in the peephole, so she hasn't moved either. I'm sure she's watching me. I look into the peephole and try to meet her eyes, and as soon as I try, she ducks back. I wait a few more moments, trying to remain calm. I can't have my crew finding out about her and threatening her, and it's so God damn frustrating that I'm in this position.
The lock clicks and she pulls the door open. I step inside quickly and she shuts it behind me. Her arms are crossed, but I can't bring myself to meet her level of anger. Something about her blue eyes look clouded over, like a storm is raging in them. I try to relax, but I can't. Who is she to have the power to make me this uptight?
"What is it?"
I sigh and shake my head. "I wanted to talk about tonight."
"Oh, where do we start? How about... why the fuck were you storming a bar?"
I glare at her, shocked. "You're not serious." She shakes her head and shrugs.
"I was with my crew, that's kind of what we do."
Cassie turns away from me and folds her arms. She says something under her breath, then repeats it louder. "You're fucking with me, right?"
"What did you think I was?"
"Just a guy. A regular guy."
Now I'm getting angry. The audacity of this woman. "What kind of denial is that? I should be the one pissed off. You're saying you think I'm just some white trash townie?"
She unfolds her arms and races up to me, her eyes looking up into mine. Her chin is nearly touching on my chest, but I don't move a muscle. Her eyes twitch back and forth as if she's trying to read me. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I shake my head. "There's no way you didn't know I was in an outlaw crew."
She doesn't move. "Why did your guys chase us? I thought I was going to get killed."
"That's why I'm here. They weren't going to kill you," I say. I take a brief step back and create some distance between us. A hint of a smile crosses her face, like she beat me at some contest. "They must've recognized you from the car accident."
"Jesus, and you're telling me they weren't going to hurt me?" She frowns and her hand goes to her eye, as if she's trying to hide it from me. "Christ, Logan, what did you get me into?"
"Me?" I stare at her, seeing if she's going to continue. When she doesn't, "What did you get me into? I'm lying to my crew about you, and I think they might be getting suspicious."
"Suspicious? Of what?"
"That I know who hit our president."
"President? Is that a joke?"
I fume, I don't have time for her sarcasm, or to explain. "I only came to tell you no one is coming after you."
She turns away again and walks over to the couch. Her back is still to me, and a brief glow of the sunrise surrounds her. "That's it?"
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come. I want to say that it isn't, but I can't. I can't admit that. I shut my mouth and grab the door handle, wrenching it open. I feel her gaze turn to me as I step outside and shut the door. Fuck this.
I descend the stairs quickly, and find my bike on the sidewalk where I left it. Sweat beads on my face and it's not from the heat. At least I don't have to deal with her anymore. Good riddance.
Fuck her anyway.
CHAPTER 4 — CASSIE
I'm driving my car again and the lanes all around me are empty. The night is black and grim, with only the pale yellow streetlights lighting the road up like polka dots. Just as I cruise through an intersection, a biker slams against my windshield with a deafening crack, spiral white lines spread across the glass. Without even thinking, I slam the brakes and skid to a stop, all while the taste of bile builds up in my throat and I salivate because I feel like puking. As my car finally stops moving, I cover my eyes and shake my head. What the fuck did I just do?
. . .
I wake up in a gasp for air. I barely slept a wink since crawling into bed after Logan left. I wonder if Sara heard us. I'm covered in cold sweat and I clutch my hands to stop them from shaking. After looking out the window, I realize the foggy dream I had was just that — a dream. Thank God I didn't hit another biker. Jesus... what ever happened to the one I did hit? Is he alive even? Shit. I don't even know.
If I had told the police what I really knew, would that have changed anything? I can't think about this right now, it's only making my stomach twist like a snake.
My head aches. I pinch my temples and squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to stave off the throbbing pain. A bottle of painkillers on my bed stand was a good decoration idea, and I wouldn't have thought of it without Sara. I down two pills and chug the standing water from the glass nearby, and wipe my mouth.
The apartment is silent, so I guess Sara isn't awake yet. I stand and get dressed, my pounding headache making me almost forget I actually do work today. Becky put me on the schedule even though it makes me go two weeks without a single day off.
I choke down oatmeal for breakfast to try and keep my headache from returning. After I finish flushing the last bits into the sink, Sara steps out into the dining room. She startles me.
"Jesus. Sara, want to say something? I almost had a heart attack." I grab my chest mockingly, and sigh in relief. She smiles weakly and sits down at the dinner table. "You okay?"
"My head is just pounding, is all," she says. She rubs her temples and sighs heavily. "What are you doing today?"
I groan and look out the window. "Work. And I'm late again."
"Becky'll kill you this time."
"I know." I dart through the house and gather up my things, barely taking the time to stop and brush my hair. I prop the front door open as I drag my fingers through my hair a couple of times to try and undo the tangled mess. Sara wishes me luck as I slip outside. I know I'm gonna need it.
. . .
As I walk into the dog groomers, I'm trying to brace myself for Becky to swoop down and bite my head off. She's lurking in the back room. I avoid her gaze, but still can feel it dig into the side of my face. I don't want to deal with her, but what other choice do I have? A migraine coming on isn't helping things, and I want to lock myself in the back room.
I pop some more painkillers and swallow some coffee while Becky rants and raves, her words passing through me like water through a strainer. There's a towel in my locker, and I briefly imagine that it's just long enough to tie it around my neck
Back at the front of the salon, Lizbeth shoots me a worried glance. I only realize now that the two of us have never hung out outside of work, and I don't even know why. She seems nice enough. A customer distracts her from pitying me and I watch Lizbeth deal with her. She is always saying that Becky should treat me better, like I don't know I'm in this weird, abusive, one-sided relationship with my boss. I never hear about Lizbeth's run-ins with Becky, but I guess I'm too tardy to see them.
The customer guides her stupid dog back behind the counter and I snap the leash from her hands. She says something, but my headache drowns it out. I don't even bother to nod or acknowledge her. I've seen this one before: her dumb lanky legs and unreasonably long blonde hair. She has the body of a starving marathon runner, and none of the muscle of one. My flippant attitude doesn't even appear to register, which I'm both relieved and disappointed by.
Her dachshund doesn't look much better. He shivers as I set him in the warm bath, like I'm threatening to hurt him. I groan and think about how ridiculous I must've looked to Logan last night, running down the alley and into a cab. I can't believe he even bothered to show up at my place, probably wanting to double check I didn't die of fright. So embarrassing. Just thinking about it makes my jaw burn from clenching it.
A hand taps me on the shoulder and I turn to see Lizbeth. She gives me a quick smile before leaning in to my ear. "There's some kind of biker here... I think he wants to see you."
I perk up and follow her eyes to the front of
the shop. Is it Logan? The grungy biker standing just inside the entrance is looking up at the advertisements and pictures like he's walked into a theme park. His gray ponytail and hairy arms are all I need to see for a sigh of disappointment leave my lips. Just some biker, indeed. His eyes flit from the posters to me, but then back away again, like I had caught him doing something wrong. He doesn't look familiar, not like any of the bikers I saw at the bar last night. Lizbeth is still hovering over me. "Do you know him?" she asks.
I shake my head and turn back to the dog. His wide eyes stare up at me with helplessness, like he doesn't want the biker to see him either. I whisper to Lizbeth. "No. I don't."
She sighs and stands up straight again. I hear her walk back to the front desk and greet the biker, but the rest fades away into the background. My head is on fire. I stare at the filmy and rainbow-colored water the dog is submerged in, and briefly imagine dunking my head in it. I'm sure the dog would freak out, maybe bite me. That'd be great. A dog bite from a tiny toy dog. I glance toward the front again and don't see the biker. He must've left. At least, that's what I think until I spot him sitting with his arms crossed, just behind the waist high wall that separates the baths from the waiting area. He's staring at me, and I feel a cold shiver rise up my back, like there's bug caught under my shirt. I shake my head wildly and try to focus my attention on the dog, but my heart is racing now. What's going on? What does he want with me, anyway?
Ugh. More shit I have to deal with. I stick my tongue out without a thought and sigh at the dog, hoping he'll understand. His big eyes meet mine again, and I wish that Logan was here with me. At least he could tell the guy to fuck off.
Too bad I pretty much told Logan to fuck off last night. I don't even know why I did, I just felt so... cheated. An outlaw? But... didn't I already know that? He appeared at the scene of a car crash, messed around with the victim, then threatened me. Granted, it was a sexy kind of threat, but still. I'm a fool if I thought he was just like me.
But he never told me he was an outlaw. Maybe that's it. It felt like he kept it from me. I rinse the dog off, drawing water from the basin and pouring it over his frail body. Why should he have told me?
Because... because. That's all I can muster. The dog shakes his fur off and splatters water all over the place, including my apron. I pick him up and give him a quick brushing, before taking him into the back where he'll get a little snooze in before his owner returns. His coat looks and feels especially luxurious today and I'm actually kind of proud.
Becky catches my wrist after I set him in his kennel. I stare down at her grip then look up at her face. "What is it?"
"Who is that grungy biker out there?"
"I'm not in the mood today, Becky."
"You're not in the mood? You need to tell him to leave, he's scaring away our clients."
"Why?" I snap my hand from her grasp. "I don't even know him, you do it."
"I don't believe you. He's the kind of guy you probably hang around with." She pauses and then there's a glimmer in her eyes. "I'll call the cops."
"Go for it. I don't know him."
The cops, yeah right. I doubt that. I bite my tongue from saying more, and I go into the front room again. Lizbeth has another customer ready with another dog. The biker is still there, and his gaze won't fall off of me this time. Even when I give him my meanest glare, he doesn't break eye contact. I feel ill.
. . .
Lizbeth and I are talking just as closing time looms. As she knocks the till open to deposit it, the biker leaves. His footsteps are loud on the tile, and even outside the front door I can hear him pounding across the parking lot. Becky pulls me aside and fumes in my face, her breath raw. "If he's here tomorrow, your job is finished."
"What?" I ask, my voice a little loud. I lower my voice and take a step back. "I thought you were going to call the police."
"I'll call them on you if I have to. Bringing grungy bikers to our shop."
I push away from the front counter and go into the kennels, making sure the dogs that haven't been picked up yet are ready to go. Then, I dip into the break room to gather my things. Becky passes me in the hall and I lift a finger to quiet her and keep her from rambling on again.
"I've watered the dogs. I'm going home, I don't have to listen to you berate me all day." My face is hot and my hands are shaking, but I grip my purse's straps tighter to keep my anger under control. I save myself from saying something I might regret, like: 'You're so fucking out of control. I don't know what your problem is.' I turn and walk out of the building before I can bite the hand that feeds me.
I climb into my car and turn the key. As the radio fizzles into life, I spot a dark figure through my rear windshield. I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road, turning away from the intersection our store is located at.
The motorcyclist's grim shadow follows me onto the road, and my heart pounds. What can I do?
I try to speed up a little and get in front of another car, but it's useless. Every time I manage to get some distance, he closes it by jumping onto the curb. I try to breathe and concentrate. I can't take him back to my apartment. Is he going to kill me? Is Logan behind this shit? Why? Because I snubbed him?
No, it couldn't have been him. This guy is too... old. All the guys in Logan's crew looked young, much younger than this guy. It doesn't mean I want to be caught in my apartment complex with him, especially with the sun setting. That isn't exactly my idea of a romantic evening. I swallow hard and try to think of what I can do.
I wish Becky had called the cops now. That gives me an idea. I get off the road that'll take me to the interstate and head into downtown. I'll swing by the police station and hope to shake the guy from my tail. But I don't know how much more I could do than that. Thinking about stepping into the station makes my hands sweat. I didn't even think about it at the time, but Logan made me a liar the moment he left the accident that day. I withheld information from the police and now I have a sketchy biker following me through the city. Shit, shit, shit.
I switch lanes and turn onto a street that'll skirt the station. I keep checking my mirrors to watch the biker, almost scared that my anxiety is going to make my nightmare from last night come true. A police cruiser pulls out from the station parking and passes in front of me, going down the opposite lane. The biker doesn't seem phased by his presence, and I know that I have to take my bluff a step further. Without flipping my turn-signal, I swerve into the station's parking lot and slam the car into park. The biker starts to follow me, but once he realizes where I've parked, he flips a U-turn and rides back onto the main road. My eyes feel strained as I stare at the reflection of his bike in my side mirror. His motorcycle roars like an agitated beast who just had its prey escape its claws. He disappears from view.
I collapse away from the steering wheel and breathe a sigh of relief. My fingers are like rocks and my arms ache from gripping the wheel so tight. As I regain my composure, I stare out my window at the station and consider walking in and spilling my guts about everything.
That won't work. They won't even believe me. What would I say? 'Oh, yeah, that accident I was involved in last week? I know the biker is in a gang and one of them threatened me to not say anything. And now I have another gang following me.' What good will that do? I've seen enough detective prime-time TV to know I'll just get in trouble. And if I don't... Logan will.
I haven't even told Sara what happened, how can I tell the cops? It's almost like I have it bottled up inside me and the lie is just building pressure. I'm gonna burst if I don't do something. If it isn't the guilt and fear, it'll be that old-ass biker who'll get me. Shaking my head, I turn my car back on and pull out of the station. The rest of my drive home is a mess, with me jumping at any glimmer of light or shadow in my mirrors.
I really wish Logan could help me.
. . .
Back at home, I feel like a wreck. I throw my purse down on the table near the front door. I draw the blinds over the sliding door onto the
porch and collapse on to the couch. The weak springs push back against me before giving up and letting me just relax. I can hear Sara in the other room, talking to someone. I can't even be bothered to think about getting up to check who it is. My stomach growls and protests, and I shush it, remembering I forgot to buy food.
"Ugh, why can't I just eat through a tube or something?" I complain loudly. I'm hoping Sara will hear me and come investigate, just so I don't have to move. A small glimmer of orange light sneaks through the blinds, and occasionally the tree's limbs move outside and make it flash. I keep thinking it's the old biker, somehow up on the second story of the apartment, peering through the blinds. The thought makes my stomach cramp, so I throw myself to my feet and wander into the kitchen.
As I'm raiding the refrigerator, Sara pops her head into the cold light. "Cassie?"
"Yes?" I murmur as I pull out a left over sandwich. I think it's mine.
"What's going on?"
I shake my head and walk past her to the couch. I turn on the TV and look at my sandwich before finally replying, "Nothing."
"It's almost sunset, was Becky keeping you again?"
I open my mouth to tell her everything. Even Logan coming over last night and the whole ordeal I've been hiding. But something inside doesn't let me. I don't know what it is, but for a long, strange second, I wish I could find whatever that hitch is and strangle it. Maybe I don't want her to think I was lying to her, or for her to worry. Why would I care if she worried?
"Yeah, she's just being a real pain in the ass," I say. But what about walking out? Do I even have a job there anymore? If I explain that I left, will Sara freak out about rent? I'm already behind most of the time... she'd probably have me kicked out in a hot minute. I have no where else to go. "She wants me to go in early tomorrow." I pick up my sandwich and take a bite. It's a little off, but I'll manage. It's still food, at least. I wander over to the couch and sit down again.
"You've been acting really weird lately," she says. She turns on her heel and peels the freezer door open. After scooping out a carton of ice cream, she clangs two spoons out of the drawer and joins me on the couch. She offers me a spoon and nods. "If you want to talk, I am your roommate."