by W. H. Vega
“Nope,” I tell her, breathless. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”
“For finally taking care of that pesky virginity thing?” Conway laughs, “No, of course not. I’m just...weirdly glad for you guys, I guess. I mean, you found each other in the middle of all this. Do you know what that means? Anything you have to stare down from here on out is going to be a freaking cake walk.”
I avert my eyes bashfully. In truth, I’ve had that same thought too many times to count. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said that I’m not constantly fantasizing about my future with Trace. And though I try and wiggle out of admitting it, Conway’s not going to let me off easy. She stares into my face, all but vibrating with glee.
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?” she says, “Oh my god. I can’t. You guys are too fucking cute. Can I come to the wedding? Can I plan the wedding? Who’s going to do your makeup? I have some really awesome ideas about—”
“One thing at a time,” I laugh, pulling my foster sister into my arms, “But, just to get our bases covered, how does maid of honor sound?”
“Are you trying to make me cry?” she asks, “This isn’t waterproof mascara, you know. Give a girl some warning.”
“Con,” I say, leaning back against the kitchen counter, “Do you think...Do you think that we’ve got a shot, Trace and me?”
“Why would you ask me that?” she says incredulously.
“We’re just not the most stable people in the world,” I say, “We’ve each got a covered wagon of baggage all our own. Do you think that two people are screwed-up as we are can be happy? Together?”
Conway places her hands on my shoulders, looking earnestly into my face. “Listen,” she says, “If any two people on the planet have a shot at being happy, it’s you two. And not despite your baggage, either. You understand each other, on the most basic level imaginable. That doesn’t happen every day, you know? Not even to normal, not-as-fucked-up people.
And by the way, you’re not that fucked up, Nadia. Trust me. I know fucked up. You’ve been drop kicked by life a couple of times, but you're not weaker for it. You’re strong as shit. And you know what? You and Trace are only going to make each other stronger. Because that’s what love does, when it’s real.”
“I do love him, Conway,” I tell her, my voice quiet. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
“I know,” she smiles, “That’s why you shouldn’t have any doubts about tonight. It’s not losing, you know. Not when it’s right. When it’s right, you’re giving something, not giving something up.”
“You’re pretty smart, you know that?” I say.
“Sure,” Conway shrugs, “This ditzy blonde thing is just a cover so no one comes looking for my underground lab.” She gives me another bone-crushing hug and scurries back toward the basement door. “I’m gonna go help Garrick before he electrocutes himself on the Christmas lights or something.”
I laugh, turning back to the cupboard. I’ve decided to get a crack on making cookies—though there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of ingredients, here. A few dusty jars of spices and a mousetrap are the only things I see. Determined in my baking quest, I turn to check the rest of the cabinets.
“What are you looking for, sweetheart?”
I stop dead in my tracks and lift my gaze to the threshold of the kitchen. Paul leans heavily against the doorframe, his bulky body swaying slightly even in stillness. Even though he’s across the room, I can smell the vodka in his sweat. His eyes struggle to stay focused on the fixed point of my face as he grins at me sloppily.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say, forcing my voice to remain even. Cold fear mixes in with my blood, courses through my veins like ice. I’ve always been intimidated by Paul, but tonight he seems changed. Dangerous.
“Guess I’m just slick like that,” he slurs, taking a step forward. He steadies himself against the counter, his entire mass likely to topple at any moment.
Forcing deep breaths into my lungs, I race through my options. I can rush past him to the basement, but he’d probably just put himself in my path. There’s no back door, no window, no other way to get myself out of this kitchen. I could scream for Conway and Garrick, but Paul would probably just get angry if I did...and besides, I’m having trouble raising my voice louder than a whisper.
It’s OK, I tell myself, he’s not going to hurt you. You’re safe, you’re safe...
“Funny conversation you girls were having,” Paul says, his face hardening.
“What?”
“I overheard you chirping away in here. Could have sworn you were talking about you and little lover boy finally getting down to business.”
“That’s none of your business, Paul,” I say firmly. I can feel a hot blush creeping up my neck as my foster dad lets out a lewd cackle.
“That answers that, doesn’t it?” he says meanly. “I thought I told you two once before. I don’t want any of that happening in my house.”
“Fine, whatever,” I say, wanting to defuse the situation as quickly as possible.
“I can’t really blame him though, for wanting to hit that sweet ass of yours,” Paul says, his eyes raking up and down my body. “Ever since you figured out how to dress like a girl, I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you myself.”
I open my mouth to retaliate, to tell him to go fuck himself, but I can’t force out any words. I’m too terrified to make a sound. Paul’s lopsided grin widens—it’s like he can smell my fear clear across the room.
“Between you and little Connie down there, it’s a fucking buffet in here these days,” the loathsome man says, “It’s awfully cruel of you two. Flouncing around all day and night like you do. What’s a red-blooded man like me to do, huh?”
“I...I don’t...” I whisper.
“That’s right,” Paul says, “If I heard you correctly, you don’t have the damnedest idea what any man would do in my position. Is it true, what you said? Are you really still a virgin?”
“I don’t...want to talk about this...you with,” I say, my teeth gritted tightly, “I’m just going to go back downstairs—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Paul says. In three quick steps, he’s crossed the kitchen. The sway is gone from his step as he crowds me into the kitchen counter. I may not know much about men, but I know what’s burning there in his bloodshot eyes: it’s pure, rabid lust. Lust that’s burning hot as a fever, evaporating his drunken stupor.
“Paul...You’re freaking me out,” I say, searching for an ounce of empathy on his twisted face. But there’s nothing in his expression but contempt, and wanting, and malice. The enormity of the situation crashes through my body as the levees of hope come crashing down. I realize in that moment that I’m trapped. I’m teetering on a precipice with no way to save myself. I was so close to being happy, just inches away. And this man is going to drain that happiness away before I even get to savor a drop.
“You look scared,” he says. He plants his hands to either side of me on the counter, caging me in. “It’s actually kind of hot.”
“You...You’re a monster,” I whisper. There’s nothing left to lose, no reason to hold back.
“Maybe I am,” Paul laughs, leaning into me. I grimace as I feel him press against me. The sickening bulge in his dirty jeans rubs against me, making me gag. “What’s wrong with you?” he demands, “You squeamish or something? You don’t like me, is that it? I may not be some pretty boy dip shit like the one you’ve been running around with, but I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you. I’ll show you what a real man is like, honey.”
Pinning me against the counter, Paul runs his meaty hands down the sides of my body. His foul breath and vile touch eclipse my entire world. He pulls me against him, moaning as my breasts balloon against his bulky chest. Horrified, I feel my consciousness flee my body. It’s like I’m looking down from outside of myself, watching as this disgusting man runs his hands all over me. I too r
epulsed, too terrified to think...at least for a moment.
As Paul’s filthy lips suck greedily on the skin of my neck, my mind roars back into the present. A low, guttural scream rips through my throat, startling Paul for the briefest time. I trash against his foul body, punching every part of him that I can reach. I can hear myself shouting wordlessly as I strike again and again.
The wind is knocked clear out of me as Paul spins me around and slams me against the counter. His grimy hand smacks my head hard against the surface as he pushes me over, and the edges of my vision go dark. The metallic sound of a belt buckle ripping open echoes around the kitchen. It’s a sound I know I’ll never be able to scour from my memory. Helpless and hurt, I bite down and brace myself for what’s next.
I slump heavily against the counter as the crushing weight of Paul’s body is lifted away. Confused, I spin around just in time to see Trace’s fist collide with Paul’s bloated, blotchy face. Our foster father’s head whips to the side, but Trace slams him again. He lands blow after blow, sending fine sprays of blood into the fluorescent lit air. The look in Trace’s eyes is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Cold, unshakeable wrath has hold of his entire body, and I know at once that nothing in the world can stop him.
Something shiny flashes in Paul’s hand. My mouth falls open dumbly as I see the kitchen knife he’s snatched up in the fray. Paul swings the blade at Trace’s chest, and the entire world seems to move in slow motion. Trace spots the knife as it barrels toward him, and jumps out of the way just in time. Paul lurches forward, off balance, and Trace seizes his wrist. A howl of pain tears out of Paul’s body as Trace twists his arm up behind his back, forcing the knife to clatter onto the floor.
The basement door flies open, and Garrick appears. He takes one look at the fight unfolding and launches into action. He tries to place himself between Paul and Trace as Conway peers fearfully around the corner.
“Get out of here!” Trace bellows, shoving Garrick away.
“Just chill out!” Garrick screams, holding up his hands, “Take a second and—”
“You piece of shit,” Paul sputters, his mouth full of blood, “You worthless little fucker. Who do you think you are, coming after me?”
“I’m the guy who’s going to rip your fucking throat out,” Trace growls.
“You’re a lunatic,” Paul says, “Just like your filthy junkie parents. Rot in hell, kid.”
“Fuck you,” Trace says, and flies at Paul once again.
Garrick backs away as Trace’s fury grows. Conway tugs Garrick away from the brawl, and he wraps her up in his arms, shielding her eyes. Paul is losing steam, and fast. I feel my knees buckle beneath me and I slide down onto the dirty linoleum. My teeth chatter uncontrollably as I struggle to make sense of what’s going on before me. The room is eerily quiet as we all submit to the inevitable.
Paul tries feebly to fight back, but he’s no match for Trace. The older man doubles over, giving in to the beating for lack of strength. Blood is pouring out of his nose and mouth, and his eyes roll wildly in his skull. Paul sinks to his knees, and Trace pounces—bringing Paul’s chin slamming down against the kitchen floor. Paul’s head snaps back, and a sickening crunch rings through the room.
With a strangled sigh unlike anything I’ve ever heard, Paul slumps down onto the floor at Trace’s feet. The ceaseless motion of Trace’s powerful body finally slows. Everyone in the room holds their breath for a moment that lasts forever—everyone except Paul.
Garrick breaks the stillness, slowly crossing to room toward the spot where our foster father lays motionless. Gingerly, he kneels on the tile and bringing his ear close to Paul’s face. He pauses, straining to hear something, feel something...but the grim look that comes over his face says it all. Garrick looks up at Trace and slowly, solemnly shakes his head.
“Is he OK?” Conway asks, her voice fearful.
“What do you want to do, Trace?” Garrick asks.
“Do about what?” Conway pleads, rushing into the kitchen, “What’s going on? Trace...what the fuck—?”
“Come on, Con,” Garrick says, grabbing onto Conway’s hand, “You don’t want to—”
“Oh my god...” she breathes, staring down at Paul, “Is he...is he...?”
“It’s over,” Garrick says, “He’s gone.”
Baffled tears stream down Conway’s cheeks as Garrick all but carries her out of the room. “But why...? I don’t understand. What’s going to happen to us now? What’s going to happen to us, Garrick?”
I can’t tear my eyes from Paul’s crumpled form. His half-open eyes stare blankly at the ceiling, his mouth hangs slack. A powerful wave of nausea turns my stomach, and I scramble desperately to the sink. I retch again and again, until there’s nothing left inside of me. I feel Trace’s strong hands holding me up...the same hands that just battered the life from another human being. Weak and dizzy, I turn finally to face him.
There are no words that could possibly encompass everything that hangs unsaid between us, so we don’t even try to find them. Instead, we collapse into each other’s arms, clutching onto each other with every ounce of strength we have.
“He was going to...I had to...” Trace stammers, staring down at me in shock and terror.
“I know,” I tell him, cupping his face in my hands. “I’m so sorry, Trace. It’s my fault...”
“No,” he says fiercely, “Don’t say that. Don’t you ever fucking say that again, Nadia. It’s his fault. His mistake.”
“What are we going to do, Trace?” I ask, “What the hell...?”
“I don’t know,” he says. For the first time since I’ve known him, he actually sounds young. “I just...don’t know.”
Fifteen
Trace
Dead Fucker
“Christ, I wish I could have a whiskey right now,” I growl, my teeth chattering.
Garrick glances up at me from the foot of the porch stairs. “The last thing you need is to be drunk when the cops get here.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, stop saying. Stop talking. Just keep your mouth shut, and maybe we’ll figure out a way to fix this.”
Nadia lays a hand on the small of my back. I know that she means the reassure me, but the guilt and fear that pull at me are far stronger. I sit down at the top of the stoop, looking out into the night. None of could stand to stay in that house, not with Paul lying there in the kitchen. Dead.
That word is still too heavy to carry. Dead. I’ve done a lot of terrible shit in my life, hurt a lot of people, but I’ve never killed anyone. Not even close. The fight in the kitchen is a total blur. Did I decide to kill Paul? Did I make that choice? Or did it just...happen? The last thing I really remember is walking in the front door and seeing that son of a bitch on top of Nadia. And then...I just snapped.
The crunch that his neck made as it snapped keeps replaying in my head. It’s on and endless loop that I just know will score the rest of my life. I keep expecting, hoping, to wake up in a cold sweat. This has to be some kind of twisted nightmare.
This kind of thing doesn’t just happen. But of course, nothing in my life has been what one might call ordinary. Or good. Or fair. So it stands to reason that this is where I’ve ended up.
“You guys sure you got rid of everything?” Conway asks. She huddled at Garrick’s side, trying to keep warm. December in Chicago is not known for its forgiving weather.
“Poured the booze down the drain, flushed the weed,” I tell her, “Should do the trick.”
“I’m sure the cops will understand,” Nadia says, sitting down beside me, “When you explain what happened—”
“Wake up,” I snap, “The only thing they’re going to see when they get here is a bad kid who finally snapped. You know I’ve got a record, Nadia. I don’t stand a chance.”
She stares at me, hurt in her eyes. “You’re not bad,” she says, “You saved me, Trace. That counts for something.”
“To you, it does,” I say, “And I’m g
lad. But the rest of the world isn’t going to see it that way. That’s the truth.”
“But there’s got to be a way. I remember one of our mock trial cases—”
“For fuck’s sake,” I groan, “Mock trial? Seriously? Nadia, this isn’t some logic puzzle to be sorted out. You can think your way through this. So please, stop trying to make me feel better. Stop trying to make this OK. It’s not.”
“Fine,” she says, “Have it your way. I was just trying to help.”
The sound of police sirens silences us at once. Most people have a vague, impersonal relationship with the sound of a wailing siren. They figure that someone out there is hurt, or in danger, or in deep trouble. God, how I envy those people.
See, for me, wailing sirens usually mean one thing—my life is about to get turned upside down, again. When I hear those blaring horns off in the distance, I never imagine that they’re coming for someone else. Because often, too often, they’re coming for me.
I’ve lost count of how many visits I’ve had from the police over the years. One of my very first memories is of being woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of screeching sirens and raised voices downstairs. My parents had gotten into one of their epic throw downs, and some concerned neighbor had called in the cavalry. I remember tiptoeing out into the main room of our crappy apartment, watching from just out of sight as the cops cuffed my dad. For me, getting in trouble with the law has always just been a part of life.
But this is a new level of fucked up, even for me. I’ve had the cops on my ass plenty of times before—for getting in fights, for drugs—but never for something as serious as fucking murder. Christ...was it murder, me killing Paul? Could anyone fail to see that I was just trying to protect Nadia?
If I hadn’t been there to stop him, there’s no doubt in my mind that he would have raped her. But how do you go about proving that to the cops? Maybe I won’t have to. Maybe, they’ll be able to see it clear as day.