Ten After Closing

by Jessica Bayliss

  I need to move, to finish what I crawled back here to do, so I can get out of the danger zone.

  I reach the section of the counter below the register. Staying low, I grope for my phone. A moment later, the familiar plastic casing rests in my hand, but the display shows no signs of life.

  Nothing.

  It’s off, stupid. I’ll have to power it back up, but that means a start-up tone. The guys will hear it from here.

  “If you want to be sure, to be really, truly sure you and Rochelle will be safe,” Ryan says, “you need to follow through on this. You know it, and I know it.”

  “So, let’s say you’re right. What are you thinking?” Toto asks.

  “Call Aaron back, tell him that you’ve got his boss’s money, but he needs to come here to collect. Tell him it’s nice and private, no chance of being seen. Hell, make him think if he wants to bump us off, that you’re giving him the perfect location to do it.”

  “What’s to stop him from doing just that?” Toto says. “And don’t say ‘bump off.’ This isn’t the mafia.”

  “We’ll be ready to ambush him when he gets here,” Ryan insists.

  “You know damn well he isn’t coming without backup.”

  “And we’ll have our own backup.”

  “What backup?”

  “Them,” Ryan says.

  Them? Them. Us.

  They drop their voices to a whisper, and I strain to catch anything more. It’s no good. I inch farther along the counter, just a little closer, while letting my thumb hover over the tiny plastic button that might mean the difference between getting out of here alive or not getting out of here at all.

  “Are you really prepared to do that?” Toto asks. “Your own blood?”

  Ryan’s response is nothing more than a mumble.

  I need to decide. Wincing, I dig my thumbnail into the button while using my hands to insulate the phone speaker.

  “. . . if it works . . .” Toto is saying.

  “Of course it will work,” Ryan replies.

  Though I was afraid the electronic tune would be a dead giveaway—literally—the lack of any tone at all makes my knees give out, nearly spilling me from my crouch. I check the display again.

  For the first time tonight, it’s me who wants to cry.

  The phone’s still dead.

  More time. It just needs more time. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I nestle it back among the junk Sylvie has amassed in the five or so years she’s owned this place and prepare for the return trip.

  “If we agree on this, we have to go through with it, no matter what,” Toto says. “There’s no changing your mind at the last minute.”

  My time is running out. I need to move, slip back around to the front before these assholes notice me, but I’m just as riveted by Ryan’s speech as Toto is. They’re literally deciding our fate right now. I can’t get my legs to budge.

  “What the . . . ?”

  Ryan’s seen me. They both have.

  “Oh my God, Scott!” Sylvie shouts.

  I don’t even manage to get to my feet before Toto has his gun aimed in my direction. “Get out here or die.”

  Every muscle in my body goes numb and my entire world is reduced to one black point, the dark eye of the gun barrel staring me down.

  Becky’s voice plays in my mind: If you want to be everyone’s martyr, fine, but I’m done suffering with you.

  “You’re really asking for it tonight, aren’t you?” Toto lowers the gun. Inclining his head toward Ryan, he says, “You’ve got him to thank for being alive right now, because I swear to God, if I didn’t need your ass . . . Now, get back over there.”

  Winny wraps her arms around me when I rejoin them. She’s trembling. “I thought he was going to kill you.”

  “Any luck?” Oscar asks.

  I shake my head. “But I know what their plan is,” I whisper.

  You just jump . . . everyone’s martyr.

  “We only caught snatches,” Oscar says. “What are they going to do? It didn’t sound good.”

  Before I answer, Toto and Ryan are back.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” Toto says. “We need more firepower, though.” He turns toward our group huddled in the corner. “You got any guns around here?”

  “What?” Sylvie cries. “No!”

  “No,” Oscar agrees, but something about the tone of his voice makes me wonder. He catches me studying his face and nods, sharp and fast.

  “What about Rochelle’s dad?” Ryan asks Toto.

  “What do you think? Man, I’m supposed to be getting out, and now you’re talking about pulling Shell in? She’s going to be pissed as hell. And her dad won’t do it for nothing.”

  “We have the cash from the register. It’s not enough, but it’s something. We can get the rest to him later.”

  Toto considers and nods. “It’s the best we’ve got. All right, then. We have ourselves a plan.”

  “What plan?” Pavan asks me.

  Sylvie’s crying again. Or maybe she never stopped.

  “Scott, what did they say?” Oscar hisses into my ear.

  “They’re going to use us.” All eyes are on me, but it’s Winny’s that I lock on. Winny to whom I deliver this news, though my skin crawls at the thought of laying this on her shoulders.

  “What?” Oscar asks.

  “As their army. Against their enemy or rival or whatever.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sylvie shouts at her brother.

  “Shh, Sylvie!” Oscar puts a hand on her shoulder, but she throws it off.

  “Why bother being quiet? They won’t kill us now anyway. They need us to be their henchmen.”

  “So you heard?” Toto says with a grin. “Welcome to the crew. You’re gonna have our backs. Or, I should say, our fronts, cause you’re gonna be on the forward line when the Chef and his men get here to collect. I’m expanding my business, and you’re my helpers. And who knows, if you don’t get killed, I might let you live. We’ll see.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Sylvie says. “We don’t know how to use guns. This will never work.”

  “Your hubby there is ex-military,” Ryan says.

  “And he can barely stand because of you,” she says through gritted teeth.

  “We’ll prop him up, don’t worry,” Toto says.

  “What about the rest of us? We’re not exactly trained here.”

  “At such close range, you’ll do better than you think,” Toto says with a smirk. “Besides, all you’ve got to do is keep them distracted long enough for Ryan and me to do the real work.”

  “Ryan, you don’t have to do this,” Sylvie says. “We can figure something out. Just end this now. You’re not this person. You’re not a killer. Not yet. Please, you’ve got to snap out of it, or else you’re no better than our father. If you don’t, you’re worse than he ever was.”

  For a second, Ryan pauses, and a blank expression drops over his face, first flat, then . . . scared? Uncertain? He glances around the room, taking in the splotch of blood on the floor, Twitch still holding court in his corner, before landing on Winny’s wide-eyed face. Doubt. He’s doubting his plan, this whole situation. Toto must see it because he tenses and leans toward Ryan, taking a breath like he’s about to say something more. The five-year-old in me, the one who wrote Christmas lists to Santa and believed that everything would be just fine because Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t let anything bad happen to little Scotty—ever—whispers in my ear that there’s hope. They won’t really do it, and we’ll walk out of here.

  It’ll be over.

  But the grown-up Scott snags that little twerp by the shoulder and lays down the brutal truth: dreams don’t come true, only nightmares.

  When I see Ryan staring at Sylvie again, I know the decision’s been made. I know, because I’ve seen this expression before. It visits me in my own bathroom mirror whenever I have a run-in with my dad.

  “Hey, Silv. I took a hit for something you did way back in the day. And
I’ve been taking that hit over and over ever since.” Ryan’s voice is ice. “I guess it’s your turn now. As they say, payback’s a bitch.”

  22

  WINNY

  FOUR HOURS AND FIFTY-THREE MINUTES BEFORE CLOSING

  With Scott’s car still idling in her driveway, Winny lugged her painting toward the house, head spinning and stomach churning. With every scrape of canvas on cement, every click of her heels, she chanted a song of guilt: I kissed Scott. I kissed Scott.

  Janey was always on her to take matters into her own hands, but even Janey wouldn’t have suggested she kiss another girl’s boyfriend. What the hell had she been thinking? Nothing, that’s what. He’d done something so nice for her, and she repaid him by crossing the line.

  That must be her new MO these days.

  But under the guilt was something else, a fluttery warmth. Had he felt what she felt? What she’d been feeling all these months since the day they went to the game together?

  His gaze burned the back of her neck, and she wanted to look back, to read the expression on his face, and figure out what this all meant. But she tripped again, and now she imagined him laughing at her. There goes Winny with her frumpy bun and her professional suit and the frickin’ huge-ass painting that keeps slipping from her sweaty hands.

  Like that girl could compete with a cheerleader. Of course he’d chosen Becky, with her long blonde waves and blue eyes and perfect boobs.

  But when they’d kissed . . . The fluttery warmth returned. He must have felt it, too. He had to have.

  When Winny reached the top of the steps, the pull to look back won out, but the driveway was empty. He was gone. The fire in her straining neck muscles spread to her face.

  She’d waited too long, and now she’d never know. Just like when he asked her out. As far as Scott was concerned, Winny was always too damned late.

  Wiping sweat from her brow, she shoved the door open and dragged the canvas inside, where she left it propped up against the coat closet door. No point hiding it now. That cat had shredded the bag to bits. She kicked off her heels and shuffled to the kitchen on throbbing feet. It took more effort than it should have to move her leaden limbs, yet her brain raced, and her nerves jostled together like birds of prey around some choice roadside pickings.

  She needed something to help her out of this funk—coffee and a workout or tea and a nap. She could just stand here and stare at the wall, but that would never wipe the memory of her reckless behavior a minute before from her mind or put her in the right mood for Brian’s party tonight.

  Okay, tea for sure and probably the nap.

  She paused on the way to the stove and the kettle, spotting a sheet of paper lying on the gray granite counter top. When she wasn’t experiencing the most intense adrenaline crash ever, that was the first place she checked when she got home. How many pieces of bad news had she received via notes deposited there for her to find in unsuspecting moments? Including her parents’ verdict from several months back on her request to try for a spot in the art show today, the one she’d participated in even though they’d said no.

  For a moment, she debated simply not reading it, but that wouldn’t work. Not knowing would be worse, somehow.

  Winsome, her mother had written in her blocky handwriting. After our talk earlier, I began to wonder how you managed to find time for your EMT course, your gallery project, and your other school commitments. We know the outcome of your studies and school activities, so that just left the EMT course. I inquired with the administrator and she told me that you never signed up for the second part of the series. I have two words for you: you’re grounded.

  Grounded? They had to be kidding her with this.

  “No more,” Winny said, slapping her palm against the counter top. Sure, she’d lied to her parents and disobeyed their orders, but they’d forced her to do it. They treated her like a little kid, like someone who couldn’t make her own decisions. Like someone without goals or passions of her own. Or a brain. As if they didn’t even see her as a real person.

  Winny stomped out of the kitchen and upstairs to her room. She shuffled past a pile of letters—exactly eleven—sitting on top of her desk. Eleven letters of acceptance from eleven schools her parents deemed worthy of their daughter and her future career. But she ignored those, going instead for the letter waiting in her top desk drawer. The one her parents hadn’t seen. The crisp white paper was addressed with the proper postage already fixed in place.

  No thoughts flickered through Winny’s mind as she made her way back downstairs. No thoughts could fit in there with her anger elbowing out every other thing. She didn’t hesitate, not even once, as she marched down the street, her flip-flops smacking the pavement. Only when she reached the mailbox did she pause, her hand, clutching the letter, trembling over the slot.

  Cold fear diluted her anger. If she dropped this letter in the box, that would be it. She’d be cut off. On her own. No college tuition, room and board gone. No car to borrow and no one to pick her up if she needed a ride.

  No place to live.

  “I don’t care,” she announced to the empty street.

  Her future, her way, was in this envelope, and there was only one way to make sure she got there to live it.

  Before the letter disappeared into the dark mouth of the mailbox, she caught sight of her own sweeping script: Dean Hollis. The flap snapped back into place with a satisfying clunk.

  Smiling, she hummed “Für Elise” all the way home.

  23

  WINNY

  ONE HOUR AND THIRTEEN MINUTES AFTER CLOSING

  Ryan, this is between me and you,” Sylvie says. “Please don’t punish them for my mistake. I left you, I get it. Dad was a monster, and I wasn’t there to protect you, but you don’t get what it was like for me, living in that house every day.”

  “What are they talking about?” I ask Oscar, but he only shakes his head.

  “I don’t know? I don’t know?” Ryan spits in Sylvie’s face. “Did you really think you could just leave like that and Dad wouldn’t take it out on someone?”

  “I thought, maybe if I was gone, it would . . . he would . . . things would be better for everyone. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, I’d say you were wrong. First off, he beat me because you left. Like that was my fault. Then, any time the wind so much as blew wrong, I got it again. Do you know what that’s like?”

  I try to imagine Ryan as a kid, little, vulnerable, the victim. I try to imagine him feeling like I feel right now or with the bruise Scott bears on his cheek from when Toto hit him, put there by someone bigger and stronger than him, but I can’t. All I see is his rage-reddened face and the way his fist tightens around the gun as he breathes hard into his sister’s face.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Sylvie says.

  “Sorry doesn’t even come close to being good enough. But, you can make it up to me now. Last time pays for all, right, sis?”

  “You scumbag asshole!” Oscar bolts to his feet and manages a single step before Ryan has his gun on him.

  “Go ahead, Oscar. Tempt me. Make me do it.” Rage wrinkles his forehead, but Oscar stands down, and I let my muscles relax.

  Ryan turns to Sylvie. “Too bad. If you ask me, your dear husband is on his last leg, anyway. Killing him might be a mercy.”

  “I stood up for you!” she shouts. “I made excuses. All these years.”

  “Maybe if you hadn’t fired me, we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Are you kidding me?” she asks. “Oscar was going to call the cops when he found your stash here, but I talked him out of it.”

  Ryan puts his hands over his heart. “And I’m touched. Really I am.”

  “Shut it, all of you,” Toto says. “We don’t have all night.”

  “You go for the guns, and I’ll stay here and keep watch over these guys,” Ryan suggests.

  “Who’s in charge here? No way I’m leaving you behind. How do I know you’re not gonna run away the minute I�
�m out that door?”

  “You know I wouldn’t turn on you.”

  “Really?” Toto smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Last time I checked, you’re the guy who came up with the brilliant plan to let his sister fight his battles for him. How can I trust a guy who’d do something like that?”

  “Toto—”

  “I said no. You’re coming with me.”

  “Okay, and who’s going to make sure they stay put?”

  Toto shoots his glance toward Twitch, who looks like he’s starting to nod off. “Oh, hell no.” He crosses the room and bats the sleeping guy’s shoulder.

  Ryan gapes at the pair. “Are you even thinking right now?”

  “Come on, Twitch. Wake up,” Toto says, ignoring Ryan.

  Twitch startles awake, shoving the table in front of him a couple of inches in his rush to get to his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, Toto. I’m here. What do you need? I got you. No worries.”

  Toto grins at Ryan. “See? No worries.”

  “And how do we know these guys won’t pull anything while we’re gone? It’s not like he’s at his best right now.” Twitch has started up a game on his cell and seems way into it.

  “Twitch,” Toto barks, “put that thing away and focus.”

  “Sure, sure.” Twitch fiddles with his phone, and the electronic beeps stop.

  At least, some of them do. The beeps continue, but not from Twitch’s phone. The little tune is coming from near the register.

  “Now what?” Toto storms toward the noise. “Are you kidding me with this?”

  “Shit,” Scott mutters.

  Toto emerges from behind the counter with Scott’s phone in his hand, a grin on his face. “Looks like someone is in the doghouse with his daddy. ‘You good for nothing, you better call me now,’” Toto reads. “Dang! Listen to this one. ‘If you think I’m supporting your lazy ass anymore, you’re mistaken. Get home or you’re out on the street.’”

  Scott’s face goes red, and he clenches his fists. I want to do something for him, but I have no idea how to help.