by Eros, Marata
I put my hands on my hips. “Let's just say my confidence in police protection has been shaken.” I'm no longer afraid of every single thing in my life. I want to find out what I can about Tagger. What's happening between him and Mick- see Mick.
I can tell he's thinking about what words to use. “That's what this is about,” Officer Ferric replies.
I cross my arms. I don't have time for this, my life's clock is ticking. I dipped into my vacation time at the clinic and Sue is covering for my last minute request for a personal day. I have do or die laps tonight and haven't seen my mom in two days.
My world is unraveling, a slow spiral of chaos settling in for the duration. My emotions boil right underneath the surface. Being in the public eye again just makes it worse.
“Okay,” I huff. At least I can see Mick.
We pass through a door as his finger holds it open for me and I walk through.
Among the rows of desks my eyes hit on Tagger and I slow. I can't ignore the instant association of Tagger and the Taser. The Ts run together in subconscious connection.
Adrenaline rushes through my body with numbing intensity, and I actually step back when Tagger's small green eyes peg me.
I take comfort in the shadow of a bruise on his jaw. The one Mick put there because he touched me.
“Miss Mitchell?” Tagger addresses me. And I can almost feel Ferric behind me as he quits breathing.
I don't even try for polite. Tagger sends a ripple across the water of my barely concealed emotional turmoil and he's off the list for civility. He's been so out of line I don't know where to begin. “Where's Mick?”
Tagger sits on the corner of his desk, one long leg dangling off the edge. “He's lawyered up.”
Mick's not here. I squelch my disappointment.
“Why... He didn't do anything wrong.” My guilt over pigeon-holing Mick spurs me on. “You need the supposed victim to accuse someone, right?”
They can't just nail Mick to the wall because he wants to. Can they?
Tagger inclines of his head, my eyes keep fixating on the dark mar near his chin. “True... but it looked like assault from my perspective, Miss Mitchell. And we're here to protect the victim, even if they don't think they need it.” His eyes hold mine.
I see how large his hands are. I’d forgotten until that moment how they'd looked on the grip of the Taser.
The damage those hands could do to someone he wished to bring to harm.
Protect and serve, my ass.
I lick my dry lips, and his eyes shift to the movement. “It was consensual, Tagger.”
“Detective,” he corrects. Condemnation fills his gaze like brackish water .
I think of how Mick doesn't care about titles. The very thing Tagger accused Mick of—being arrogant and aloof—becomes more glaring as his character flaws.
I cross my arms. “So Mick's 'lawyered up' because of police brutality.” My eyes don't stray, but spear him with my accusation.
“How do you figure?” The scorn of his expression hits me with dismissal. “He's the one who struck me, Miss Mitchell.”
“So you gave us both the zap?” I ask. Justify that. My fingers bite into my crossed arms.
His eyes drop. When they rise, they’re filled with artificial concern. “You got in the way. It was unintentional.”
I don't believe for one second that my safety was a consideration.
“You tell yourself that. But remember, you laid your hands on me... and by your own admission, you're aware of my history. I don't need another violent episode in my life.”
My short life.
Ice creeps into his expression. The little bit of green in his eyes becomes flecks of hardened emerald steel as he stares me down.
“Tagger,” Ferric cautions.
Tagger scrubs his face, hiding his expression but unable to remove my memory of it.
“I was just about to contact you.”
I can tell he's trying to regain his composure.
Epic fail.
“Yeah, I loved waking up in the holding tank.”
He gives a hard exhale. “You didn't deserve that.”
I shake my head. My apartment's McFucked, my soon-to-be lover and I were electrocuted, and I woke up in a holding tank for criminals. Tagger doesn't get it, and I can't figure out why.
Ultimately, the biggest thievery is my time.
He looks up at me and I lean into his face, gathering courage from I don't know where.
Well, yeah I do. Nothing to lose.
“My house is wrecked, your assumptions landed me in jail—unconscious—and now the world is going to dig through what happened.” I try to unclench the tight balls of my fists, and they don't budge. Even my bad hand is like stone.
“It's sealed, you were a minor,” Tagger responds smoothly.
Unflappable.
I straighten and laugh. It sounds like brittle glass. “Oh yeah, that's going to keep everyone from finding out.”
My name isn't on Google, just everything else that identifies me. I blister him with my regard. “Everyone will know.”
“The Seattle Police is sorry for this unintentional interruption in your life.”
I stare at him. “Maybe they are... but you're not. Mick and I are together, and you can't stand it. So now I have to pay by association.”
I lean in close to him and he remains immobile. I plant my hand beside his leg and I can feel the other officers’ eyes on us like weight. “Right?”
Anger warms his eyes and I know I've hit the mark.
Tagger slaps his hand next to mine. The energy from his rage simmers through the hairsbreadth that separates us.
“Yes,” he hisses so quietly only I can hear him.
I step away, never letting my gaze drop-- as if we're opponents in a boxing ring.
I don't care that twenty other cops are watching; this one worries me.
I whirl around and stomp out of there. I don't get to see Mick after all.
Ferric doesn't follow.
Detective Jake Tagger's eyes never leave me, I don't have to turn to know they're there.
Hate beats down on my back.
~ 11 ~
Me: We need to talk.
Mick: Yes... when?
Me: Now?
He can't sense my pleading via text. But it's there, and I hate myself for it.
I wait five minutes for a response and sigh.
Forget it.
I stuff the cell in my pocket and smooth my right hand over my left while I vacantly stare.
I storm all the way from the police station to my apartment. I launch up the five flights of stairs because a handwritten Out of Order sign is taped to the freight elevator.
Figures.
A new door greets me. I pull out my key, slip it into the lock, and turn it. I heave a disgusted sigh. Humphrey couldn't even get a new lock for the door! Cheap-effing-skate. Totally not secure.
I open the door, anticipating a night of filling huge black bags with broken picture frames, lamps, knick knacks, and my kettle.
Instead, I gaze around in wonder. Every surface gleams. Everything that was broken is gone, and a replacement fills the space.
I move to the stove as though in a dream and see a new kettle, a replica of the one I lost, sitting in its usual position on the back left corner of the stovetop.
Who did this?
Mick.
I jump when I get his text.
Mick: Are you home?
Did you... do this? I quickly tap out.
I jog to my bedroom, fling the closet open, and burst into tears.
My closet overflows with new clothes. I take inventory of the colorful smocks and matching pants lining the far end of my rod.
Every cartoon print ever made stings my eyes with its primary colors, and I hug the clothing, pressing my face into the laundered goodness.
My cell vibrates.
I look at the screen.
One word. The only response that matters.
Yes.
I put my cell against my chest and hang my head.
For once, my tears are happy ones.
I needed something good so bad.
*
Me: Can you come over?
I have become the pursuer.
Mick: I'm with my legal team. When I finish here, I'll be over. If you're okay for now, we can make a day of it tomorrow. I'll break away if you need me now. I'm more sorry than I can say.
For the strip club revelation, I assume.
My fingers hover over the keys.
Me: No apologies. But disappointment slays me.
Then a thought pierces my self-pity. Laps.
Another single word. Unfortunately, it doesn't illicit happy tears.
One more time.
I can't expect him to come running. I bet his publicity people are ripping their hair out. I'll have to settle for tomorrow even though I ache for him now.
I gaze around my refurbished apartment and believe I owe him the truth.
I just don't know if I'm brave enough to tell him.
*
All my outfits for laps are at Mick's in that duffle.
I have nothing.
I turn, looking into my closet stuffed with new things.
My shoulders hunch when I realize I have to cannibalize something beautiful he got for me to get through my last night of laps.
I stare into the closet’s depths. I'm way past introspection but sick over my choices.
I know Mick won't want me if he knows.
I'm a dead girl walking who takes her clothes off for men. I like to imagine he would see my desperate battle to pay for my mom's care, to make the last moments of my life count for something.
However, I don't know if anyone is altruistic enough for the transgressions I continue to accumulate.
I don't beg for Mick's help because I'm a coward. I fear his answer, I fear that I'll lose my chance at the one thing I want for myself. It's selfish.
It's real.
I take deep, even breaths. I refocus my thoughts on my mom, her welfare.
I straighten my spine and stride over to the closet, tossing my cell on the bed. I tear through everything and see something that makes my heart stutter.
It's a beautiful gold and silver slip of fabric that shimmers in a draping sweep from the hanger. The beads at the hem catch my eye, and I think of when Mick's fingertips breached the hem of my dress in the limo. I swallow the memory—it seems like forever ago.
It feels like yesterday.
I run my fingers over the silky material, threaded in a cross-hatching pattern with tiny strings of gold and silver. It's really too classy for what I’m about to do, but if I wear something Mick chose, maybe I can keep him with me tonight like a seed of goodness in the awful garden of my choices. It's a lie I cling to without complaint.
I need it to survive.
The dress doesn't resist when I slide it off the wooden hanger. I grab a pair of hump-me pumps from the new selection.
I locate the size on the sole.
I look at everything inside the closet. It's all my size.
This is why Mick is so amazing.
He's got control of the big things, and never misses any of the small.
I strip off the outfit I borrowed from Kiki and pad into my bathroom.
I open the door, and a new mirror greets me. My shattered reflection is a fragmented memory.
I don't waste tears in the shower. Instead I focus on what it'll be like to never do another lap.
Grin and bear it takes on an entirely new meaning.
*
I slip on my mask as I ride the elevator up for my last lap gig. I take stabilizing breaths as it climbs and comes to a smooth stop at the fourteenth.
My eyes shift to the elevator buttons, and I notice there's no thirteenth floor.
I don't think about luck. I'm thinking about choice.
I step out of the elevator into a ballroom-type setting. The first man's eyes that claim me are Jay's. Relief rushes through me, though I don't embrace it.
I know what happens to hope.
Thorn strolls up, looking like a finely coiled snake. I'm not here to poke him though; he's given me two breaks.
His eyes meet mine.
“Jay owns you, Faren.”
I blink at Jay, and the warmth I've seen in his eyes in the past has been replaced by something else.
Jay grins. “Ownership is nine-tenths the law, Faren.”
I look from Thorn, who doesn't look thrilled, to Jay—and realize what they're talking about.
Possession.
*
I can't stop the shaking. I feel as if I'm going to break apart and float away. Thorn hauls me inside his office by the wrist as Jay waits for us to … reconcile our arrangement.
“Faren,” Thorn starts, and I turn on him.
He holds up his hands to ward off the tirade he knows is coming.
I realize I've become foolishly brave with Thorn, our secrets making us uneasy allies.
“You told me no on Ron, and I get it—I do. This lap is willing to go the distance. He'll pay your debt to Ron and extra—so long as he gets every extra.” Every extra... like seeing my face.
“And my identity, Thorn!”
The ultimate extra.
Thorn walks over, and I remember how frightening he is.
I retreat a step.
He stops before reaching me and rests his large hands on his hips.
“What is it?” His eyes search mine. “I know I shouldn't give a ripe hairy shit about your problems, but you’re messing with my boy.”
“He's not your boy,” I cut in.
Thorn nods, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Yeah, he is.” His eyes stay on mine. “If Jay wasn’t waiting out there, I'd play confessor.”
I fold my arms and stare at him. Jay can wait.
“Give me something before I cheat on Mick with this lap.”
Thorn's eyes snap to mine. “You feel like you're cheating on Mick?”
My sigh sounds like a sob. “Hell yes, I do.”
None of my justifications work anymore. They're like needles of doubt, emotional acupuncture gone wrong.
“Then why are you doing the laps?”
“My mom,” I whisper.
“Why are you cheating him?”
“I owe him,” Thorn admits.
“Wait a second.” I step toward him, and now Thorn looks cornered. I point at him. “You're playing revolving lap dances behind his back because you owe him?” A disbelieving laugh erupts from my lips.
Thorn gives a stiff nod, as miserable as an emotionless bastard like him can be.
“How?” I ask.
“What's the story on your mom?” His face is neutral, but he clearly means to exchange information.
I look at my feet. “You know about my mom.”
I jerk my head up and see him nod. “Well, her care... it's—I owed fifty thousand.” Thorn whistles and I move on. “Now it's ten.”
He clears his throat, doing mental math. “So one more lap auction, and she's set.” He shrugs. “Why can't you just make payments? You didn't have to do the laps.”
I shake my head. “It doesn't work like that. If the debt gets over a certain magic number- they shuttle her to a state home.”
Thorn's face tightens. “I know about state run shit.”
More silence. “So you bail mom out, then you're done with laps.”
I nod. “I might have to keep up with some pole work.”
For as long as I can.
Thorn looks at my hand. “What about your fucked-up hand?”
I hiccup back a sob.
Thorn looks down, struggling to maintain his emotions but looking conflicted as hell. “Sorry, it's just...”
I don't even have the emotional latitude to be happy about his discomfort; I'm wound too tight. “I use my wrist and twirl with the dominant.”
I wait while he considers my words. Finally he o
pens his mouth. “Mick saved me.”
My wealth of reading hits me between the eyes, and suddenly I know his part in the whole miserable scenario.
Tyson Marius Simon.
“You're the one,” I say in a whisper, putting the pieces together.
Thorn nods. “I couldn't save her, but I tried.”
He scrapes a palm over his skull cap of hair. “After I got out of prison for manslaughter, Mick gave me Black Rose. It's been an honor.”
His dark eyes hold mine, and I don't look away.
“And you've been running it ever since,” I guess.
Thorn nods again. “I have, but I have my pride. Mick paid for everything I own. He threw expensive shit at me: the car, my pent, my clothes, the business degree.”
He sees my surprise and chuckles a little. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I talk rough... hell, I am rough.”
Yeah. I don't agree out loud. I never doubted he was smart. Not once. It's one of the most dangerous parts about him.
“I figure I owe Mick about five hundred grand, give or take. The girls get their cut of the laps, and I get mine.” He makes the money fingers together, his thumb brushing the inside of his fingers back and forth.
“So we're both cheating on Mick but for different reasons,” I say.
“I'm not cool with it, but once it's done, I'll pay him back. Even though he feels like he owes me.”
I look at Thorn and see someone different than the man who made me audition on his lap. He's got a weird code of honor.
If it's not mine, is it still honorable? I'm not in a position to judge.
“He does owe you,” I say.
Thorns brows rise.
“You killed his sister's murderer.”
Thorn’s face wrestles through many emotions and finally settles on resignation.
“I can't bring her back.” Despair edges in where indifference was moments before.
“No.” I shake my head, and my hair slithers over my shoulders. “But it's a kind of justice.” I think only of Ronnie.