by Larsen, K.
I’m too exhausted to ride for long. I’ve never ridden this long before, not even as a passenger. It’s taking its toll on me. Sleep was my enemy last night. It came and went throughout the night and I’d fought to control my breathing each time I woke, consciously trying to slow it down to avoid a meltdown. I pull into a strip mall somewhere west of the Virginia coastline I think, to rest. As soon as I stretch my legs and relieve myself in the public restroom, my nerves take over and I can barely keep myself upright. I throw up in the nasty toilet until my stomach is empty, like my soul. Anxiety controls me whenever I’m not riding. If I could stay on the bike comfortably for longer, I would. I wander into a couple of low-end shops and peruse until I finally settle on a cheap pair of boots, a faux leather jacket and jeans. The wind has already chapped my skin from riding for so long, and in my current mental state I can’t afford to crash the bike and tear my skin to pieces just because I didn’t dress appropriately for riding – though that would solve a few issues.
The sales associate watches me warily, like I’m going to steal the clothes or hold her up at gunpoint. It’s absurd. I’m a nice girl, from a nice family. I’ve never had someone look at me like this before. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I unzip the pack a smidge and dip my hand in, pulling out a wad of fifty dollar bills, which surprises me. I’d expected some cash but fifties? I shove my surprise deep inside and I throw them onto the counter before snatching up my purchases and high-tailing it out of there. I can’t afford to think about the contents of the backpack for right now. I force one foot in front of the other back to the bathroom and change. I don’t even bother keeping what I have on. The clothes are tainted, unwashable. I leave them in the stall for someone else to clean up. Washing my hands before leaving, I look up into the mirror and gasp. My mascara is dripping down my face and I’m pale and puffy looking. My eyes are vacant orbs. I look like Courtney Love’s next album cover. That explains the weary looks in the store. I splash some water on my face to wipe away the mascara before walking back out to the bike. This is it. This is the moment where I can go back and face Ezra or leave forever. Ezra’s a dangerous man; a monster, vicious and vile. When members of his crew were injured he killed for vengeance. Killing his nephew might as well be a death sentence. Decision made, I swing a leg over the seat of the bike and start her up.
I pull off the highway in a little college town not an hour later. As I ride down the quaint little main drag a tattoo parlor catches my attention. I pull off the road and park the bike before pushing through the crowd of townies to the entrance of the shop, called ‘Bloodlines’. I like the name of the place. I feel drawn to it. When I push through the door a little bell chimes above my head. I walk to the desk and am greeted with a tough smile.
“How can I help you?” a short person says. This kid can’t be more than ten years old. I stare at her, unsure of how to answer her question. She puts a hand on her hip and cocks her head at me, waiting for a response.
“Um, I guess, I want a tattoo…” I start. “You guess?” she quips with irritation. “My mom says that’s a really bad reason to get one. They are permanent you know,” she states. I can’t help the small smile that forms on my lips. Who is this kid?
“Alliecat! Are you being nice?” a woman calls out as she comes into view. She’s stunning, despite the strange neon green streak in her hair. Her smile is warm and inviting. She’s petite and curvy, with warm eyes and just....stunning. I immediately feel at ease near her. It’s stupid really. I can’t afford to feel at ease. I don’t deserve to feel at ease.
“Hi!” she smiles.
“Uhh, hi. I need a tattoo,” I blurt. She raises an eyebrow at me and stares with a smirk. Her eyes show curiosity before she answers.
“You sure ‘bout that?” she counters.
“I am,” I state. No. I’m not. I hate tattoos. I think they’re classless. I never wanted one. Scratch that, Cypress White never wanted one but I am not that girl anymore. I am...someone else.
“Well then, come on back...” she says, waiting for my name.
“Magnolia,” I offer. Pain erupts in my chest. What a stupid name to choose. Something about the pain soothes me, though, as much as it hurts, as if I deserve it. My brain slows its thoughts, as if on cue, at hearing the word Magnolia. A needed reminder of what I’ve done.
“Magnolia,” she repeats, grinning, and waves for me to follow her. It’s odd to see her smiling while I’m rotting on the inside. I sit on the table as she instructs and wait. I’m not sure what I’m really doing here. Why did I come in? This is sheer craziness. I feel flushed and start to fidget in my seat.
“So, Magnolia, what did you want done?” she asks lightly while fiddling with strange tools I’ve never seen before. Her voice soothes me. It’s calm, smooth and soft. I want a beautiful Magnolia tree. I want to permanently be reminded of him.
“I want a Magnolia tree. I want the branches to have blossoms and I want it big,” I say, still not fully aware of where this is coming from. But deep down I do know where it’s coming from. I know exactly why I am requesting this. It’s my way of keeping him with me. I didn’t have the opportunity to say goodbye, or to keep anything that was important to me. This way I can have him with me, just a little bit.
“How big are you thinking?” She eyes me, surprised.
“I want it to cover my back and shoulder...and arm,” I say quietly, looking down. She pauses for a moment and looks me over. Really looks me over. I fidget under the weight of her gaze. This lady means business. My nostrils flare with my intake of breath. One. Two. Three. Four.
“How many tattoos do you have?” she asks, breaking me from my routine.
“None,” I admit. “Can you do it?”
“It’ll be expensive, and it will take at least three sessions, minimum,” she informs me.
“I have money, and I have a couple days,” I answer.
“Alright then, let’s look at some designs, see what you like, and go from there,” she offers excitedly. She switches on the speakers and cranks up ZZ Ward as she makes her way to the computer in the corner. This slight little lady is bursting with energy. Her hips sway and her head bobs as ZZ’s voice rumbles from the speakers.
I stay in Blacksburg for four days. The tattoo took three four-hour sessions and Clara, as I’d learned was her name, refused to see me after the first twenty-four hours, stating that I needed a break between sessions. She was right and wrong. Once we started I found that I needed the pain. I needed to feel something, anything, and pain seemed to be the only thing appropriate to feel. The buzz of the needle combined with the pain kept my mind from wandering. Whatever awaited me would still be there tomorrow. We did the tattoo in three pieces. Each day she would complete a segment from outline through color; that way, she explained, we wouldn’t be going over sensitive skin. I stayed in a cheap hotel and visited the London Underground Bar each night until they closed. Migs, the owner, was nice enough and didn’t make me talk too much. I let Clara mar my body with a large, colorful, permanent reminder of the love in my heart. The love I slayed.
The little spitfire at the reception desk was Allie, her daughter. She hung around for most of the sessions and chatted with me about music and boys. I didn’t really say much but she seemed happy to chatter on, at least until her dad stopped by to pick her up. Clara must be a real firecracker in bed or something because Allie’s dad is honest-to-God one of the most Adonis-like men I have ever seen. His smile is broad and the love that radiated from his eyes when he looked at Allie and Clara couldn’t be missed. Sawyer, as he’d introduced himself, was a good hearted man, you could just tell. He had this laid back badass vibe, like he would be surfing one moment but riding off on a Harley the next. I hadn’t said much to him. I’d just nodded when he introduced himself and looked away. I couldn’t figure out why on earth she would have left that man or not done whatever it took to make it work, until at the end of my last appointment when her fiancé, Dominic, showed up with a cup of coffee for us bot
h. Mind-blowingly handsome doesn’t even cover it. Allie’s dad had a tattooed, muscled, badass surfer look but her fiancé was dashing and cut and manly in a more refined way. I’d just gaped at him when he flashed his smile at us and openly kissed Clara with more passion than I’d seen in a long time between adults in public. How she ever had the luck to draw in two such amazing men I’ll never know. My heart constricted with jealousy at their open display of love. I had that once. I knew that feeling and I killed it.
Chapter 2
“Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.”- Jonathan Safran Foer
At seven-thirty pm I stop at a diner in the middle of nowheresville, better known as Dexter, MO, for some lunch and a stretch, and then I keep right on going. My mind doesn’t rest. I keep thinking that my life is unfinished, that it’s missing something, someone.
I don’t have a plan. I figure I’ll just ride until I arrive someplace where I feel like I can breathe. Someplace I can just exist quietly. I’m not in control right now and that scares me. I need to be somewhere that is far away from Ezra Ash. Far away from the memories of the life I’ve decimated. I need someplace I can start over somehow.
Four hours later I’m ready to slit my wrists. The phone call I make to Aster during a pit stop is torture. Explaining something you can’t explain to yourself makes for an uncomfortable discussion. Horrified would be a good term to describe her thoughts on my situation. Horrified, disgusted, and heartbroken.
“Cypress White, what the hell is going on?! Your apartment is on the news! Cane...Honey, Cane’s...gone…” she cries. Hearing her confirm what I witnessed is harder than I thought it would be. I still held out hope, even a small trickle of it that maybe, just maybe, he’d survived. I roll my shoulders and crack my neck.
“I know, Aster. I was there,” I say flatly.
“WHAT?! Where are you now? Why didn’t you call me? What’s going on?” she wails into my ear.
“Aster, something happened. Ezra showed up, but Cane wasn’t home. He...” my voice trails off at the memory that I haven’t let myself revisit since that day. “I meant to shoot Ezra. I don’t know when Cane came in, I didn’t see him, I didn't hear him.” My last admission comes out as a sob. There’s silence at the other end of the line. “Aster?”
“I’m here,” she breathes. “Cypress, what did Ezra do to you?” My eyes fill with tears as I shudder.
“I...I can’t. Please, I can’t.” I sniffle, trying to regain composure. I push my memories down deep.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Away. Aster, Ezra will look for me. You...you have to stay safe. I can’t tell you where I am.”
She blows out a long breath before answering me.
“Cyp, okay. So, you shot Cane by accident and instead of going to the cops you fled. Now you won't tell me where you are or where you’re going or what Ezra did to you to make you even think about shooting him. FUCK, girl, am I supposed to be okay with this?” Her voice is borderline hysterical.
“Aster,” I start, “the cops, there are so many dirty ones, so many in Ezra’s pocket. How could they protect me anyways? I wasn’t thinking really, I just left, I just moved my feet. It was instinct. If I hadn't I’d be dead too!” I shout back at her.
“Okay, okay. What am I supposed to do though? What if he comes asking questions? Jesus, am I in danger too?” she squeals.
“No. No, Aster, he can’t go on some kind of killing rampage, but he will find you. He will ask you where I am and he will push you for information but you don’t have any to give. I promise to call you once a week, okay? I promise. I won't skip a week, ever. I promise, he won't do more than badger you for information. He’s smart. Too smart to do something dumb.”
“Jesus, Cypress, this is bad. What about your dad? What the hell am I supposed to tell our families?” she squawks. Shit. I hadn’t even thought about that. I haven’t thought about anything at all since I pulled the trigger. I’ve just been...lost.
“Don’t tell them anything. I just...disappeared,” I offer lamely.
“As if!”
“Aster, they’ll hear the news about Cane and figure I was so grief-stricken that I lost it. I mean, I think I have lost it really. I have no idea what I’m doing. I have no idea how to be a ghost or disappear. Ezra has connections all over the place. I’m so lonely and scared. I just know that I have to do this.” Beyond losing Cane, there is no way I could be anywhere near Ezra Ash after what he did.
“You better call me every single week. I’ll ask around campus, see if anyone has connections for fake IDs or something. I'll help anyway I can, Cyp, but God, this is a disaster and it doesn't feel right. I don't think you’re doing the right thing by running. And what the hell do you mean, Ezra has connections?” she admonishes. But I can’t tell her the truth. I kept Cane’s family secrets because he was supposed to be getting out of the business. It wasn’t worth having people judge him. I sigh and drag my hand through my hair, pulling at the little knots.
“I don't know what else to do right now. Forget about Ezra. Just promise me I still have you. Even if it’s just on the phone. I need to know I have someone,” I plead with her.
“I promise, Cyp. You always have me. That’s what family is for, right?”
“Right.” I sniffle. “Look, I should go.” I tap the end button on the screen. When I tuck the phone back in my pocket, a sob tears through me but I climb back on the bike before I lose control of my body. I find another crappy motel, check in and spend the next hour lying in bed wallowing and thinking about what the right thing to do really is and wondering what exactly I’ll find if I let myself unzip the backpack fully.
A scream rips from my lungs as he tackles me to the ground. All the breath is knocked out of me from the weight of him landing on top of me. He flips me to my back. I claw at his arms and torso but he doesn't seem to feel pain. Tears stream down my face. This cannot be happening. I will not let this happen. I will not. A hand rears back before connecting with my cheekbone. The sick sound of the slap makes me scream out again. I taste blood in my mouth and swallow thickly to keep the bile rising up my throat down. He places his palms on my breasts and squeezes cruelly before he leans down to my face. I muster all my courage and spit in his mouth just before it touches me. I’m kicking my legs and twisting my hips furiously to break free but he’s so large I can’t shake him loose. He sits up and wipes his mouth. “Wrong move, Sugar,” he grinds out. His black eyes shine with hate. Or maybe it’s jealousy. Either way I need to think fast. I’m not fast enough, though. His fist connects with my temple sending white hot pain radiating through my body. Then everything fades to black.
Somewhere in a roadside motel room I wake up alone as the sun shines through the blinds. I wake disoriented and confused. Oh right, I up and left my life. Totally makes sense now. NOT. My anxiety is overwhelming. I push back the tears threatening to spill out of my eyes and move forward. I don't know how to do this. Just thinking about him throws me off course. Some days were always better than others but life was better with him. He said we would last forever. Who knew forever could be so short? Monsters swim around my head from all the words that we shared, all the touches, all the moments. He kissed my soul and now he’s gone. He’s gone and it is entirely my fault. I only wanted love, I didn't bargain for this. I check out at nine-thirty am, unable to be still with my thoughts any longer, and get on the road. My inner thighs and arms scream from being on the motorcycle for so long but I push through the burn in my muscles and continue. I’m not far enough away yet.
Chapter 3
“There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”- Elie Wiesel
Beebe, Arkansas is a small town, to me anyways. The sign as I ride in says Population 7,400. It’s not quite the cityscape that I grew up in but it actually looks nice enough. I’m physically drained
from being on the bike for so many days and hours. Even when I stand I feel like I’m still vibrating slightly. I can’t imagine anyone would ever look for me in Podunk, Arkansas, so I stop. I walk around the little downtown area and I decide that I like what I see. Small businesses line the main drag and it’s flat. So flat here. I’ve never been anywhere that looked like this before. It’s strange to see so much dust blowing around from all the dirt roads. Old trucks and cars line the main drag. It’s almost like a step back in time. No one even bothers to glance my way as I meander around. Trees are scattered about here and there, and people mill about at a slow pace, nothing like where I’m from. I like how it feels here, like people mind their own.
I wander around until I find a little real estate office. The air inside smells like smoke and stale coffee. The woman behind the front desk looks thoroughly irritated at my arrival. Her blonde hair is teased out to epic proportions and her nails are fake and too long and blood red. I explain that I need a place to rent and she shuffles through some papers and hands me a stack before going back to whatever she was doing on her computer. The clacking of her nails on the keyboard grates on my nerves as I pick out a few options to look at, hopefully today, and hand the rest of the stack back to her.
Three hours later I have my very own trailer just south of the downtown area. Five hours later I have a crappy car that I paid three hundred dollars for after I saw it sitting on the side of the road, and six hours later I’m sitting on the floor of my new home staring at the backpack. I crawl over to it and slowly unzip it. I’m still not sure I want to know exactly what I’ve taken. I turn it upside down and let the contents fall out around me. Shit. What the hell have I gotten myself into? This is bad, so very bad. Bundles of cash sit on the floor now, surrounding me. What the hell have I gotten myself into? This is bad, so very bad. Counting the money in the backpack I realize there’s more than I anticipated, so much in fact that I don't think I need to work for years. I don’t know if Cane’s errands for Ezra always amounted to this much cash flowing through our apartment but I know one thing: I’m not supposed to have it. I’m screwed. Really screwed. My breathing becomes labored at the shock at seeing this much cash. It floors me, but the realization that it’s sitting on my floor piled around me exacerbates my panic. This much money doesn’t go missing under anyone’s watch, let alone Ezra’s. Beyond his nephew dying, the money is just one more reason for him to hunt for me. Someone will be looking for their money and when Ezra can’t produce it things will get messy. I’m in so far over my head with this. Shock takes over and I scoop all the money back into the pack and zip it up. I don’t want to look at it. It’s tainted. I need a plan. I run a finger through the various pockets, sweeping them for any treasures or clues but find none. Did Cane always have this much cash sitting in this bag? If all Ezra’s business errands amassed such small fortunes then I’ve been truly blind to what had been going on. I thought the Ash operation was much smaller. I’m going to die. It’s certain.