by Larsen, K.
“Let the pretty little tart stay,” Mike sneered at him, and sat down next to me, a little too close. Cane’s head whipped around to check on the situation. I felt out of place. I shouldn't be here. Why would Cane bring me? This was no cookout, this was some meeting that I was clearly intruding on. Cane looked nervous and pissed simultaneously. It made my stomach twist.
“I'm not talking to you,” Ezra clipped.
“I’m not talking to you,” Mike mimicked. Ezra’s hand moved at the speed of light and connected with Mike’s nose, sending his head snapping back with a crack. Red mist sprayed from his face. Someone was screaming and it wasn’t until Cane’s arms came around me that I realized it was me.
“Shhh, baby girl…” he soothed into my ear. “Let’s get you out of here.” He released his grip on me and took my hand before tugging on it gently to get my feet moving.
“You go near her again, I'll kill you. You understand me?” Ezra ground out. “She’s an Ash.” Mike’s face was ashen and bloody. I don't understand why Ezra hit him, why he flew off the handle. I’d never seen someone get punched before. Not really. Not intentionally. My feet stumbled over the lumpy yard as Cane dragged me with him towards the street.
“Go home, Mags, it’s not safe here.” He looked ashamed and sad as he spoke.
“I...I don't want to be alone right now, Cane. That...that scared me.” My voice wobbled as I spoke. He kissed my forehead and pulled me into a tight hug. “I’m sorry. I should have never brought you here,” he lamented before opening my car door for me and putting me in it. “I’ll stop over in an hour, Mags, wait up for me.” He kissed me deeply before shutting the door and walking back to the cookout.
What the hell was that all about? My brain went a mile a minute the entire half-hour drive back home. Who were all those sketchy men and why the hell did Ezra fly off the handle like that? I knew they’re family but Cane is nothing like that, not that I’ve seen. Why would he choose to surround himself with those people who are so clearly not like him?
Cane had immediately moved out after graduation into his own place. When I got to Cane’s I poured myself a glass of water and as I chugged it I noticed little red dots splattered across my forearm. In a panic I ran to the bathroom, stripped off my shirt and scrubbed my arm raw. The sight of that man’s blood on my arm had made me feel queasy. I never was good with blood. I took my shirt and tossed it in the trashcan; even if I could get the blood out I doubt I’d ever be able to wear the shirt again. I pulled on one of Cane’s white undershirts and plopped down on the couch before texting him letting him know that I was at his place, not my parents’ house. My parents were out of town this weekend so I would have been home alone-but I’d rather be at Cane’s apartment. It’s comforting to me and smells like him. After an hour with no response to my text I started to get nervous. I texted him again to remind him to go to his place in case he forgot and went back to watching a cheesy movie on AMC.
The front door had blown open an hour later with such a bang that I squealed and leapt off the couch. Cane looked furious as he charged me. He had a black eye and his bottom lip was swollen. I didn't know if I should be scared or glad that he was okay.
“Cane!” I called out before he reached me. His face softened at my voice and when we collided he scooped me up, forcing me to wrap my legs around his waist and held on tight. “I love you, Mags. I love you so damned much,” he said into my mouth as he kissed me. “I love you too, Cane,” I told him honestly. He fell back onto the couch with me still wrapped around him so that I was straddling his lap and he took my face in his hands. “I’ll never let them near you again,” he said while searching my eyes for something.
“I’m okay. I, uh, had to throw my shirt away, but I’m alright,” I answered.
“No,” he clipped firmly. “No, Mags, it wasn't alright. You’re too good to ever be exposed to that trash.”
“Cane, that trash is your uncle, I mean, I don’t get why you hang around with the rest of them but I understand family is family,” I answered softly.
“Yeah. Well, if he hadn't raised me I’m not so sure my dad would have wanted us around each other,” he returned cryptically.
“Why would you say that?” I asked and snuggled my head into his chest.
“Mags, he’s into bad stuff...I guess I am too. It’s the family business.”
“Please, Cane, please come to school with me. You can get student loans and take graphic design courses,” I pleaded.
“Mags, I’d never get in. Plus, Ezra needs me to stick around and help him out.”
“With what?” I ask. “When are you going to tell me what really happens at the gym, Cane?” He pushed his fingers through his hair and let his head loll back to the cushion.
“Please don't start this again, Mags. It’s better you don’t know, I promise,” his pleading oozing frustration at my never-ending curiosity.
“Just tell me. Damn it, Cane! I want to be a part of your life, not an escape from it!” I cried, and jumped off his lap before pacing the room. He was staring at me, wide-eyed. I rarely shouted and I cussed even less frequently. I knew I’d shocked him but I was all set with his mystery home life. I fell to my knees between his legs and took his hands in mine. “Please, just tell me. I’d never betray your trust, Cane, you must know that by now.” He eyed me warily but then surprised me by talking.
“Ezra’s a...I help him move guns. The money is good, and our risk is pretty small since we just pick them up and drop them where we’re told.” He finished and squeezed my hands tighter. My mind whirled.
“A gunrunner?” I squeaked. “Like on ‘Sons of Anarchy?’” His face morphed into disbelief at my response and he chuckled.
“Kinda? But a little more shady than they make it look.” I blew out a deep breath and let the idea of my boyfriend being a gunrunner roll through my brain. “Is this what you want to do, Cane?” I asked finally.
“No. You know that. But you’re the only one who knows that,” he returned pointedly.
“How do we get you out then?” I asked hesitantly.
“It won't be overnight, baby girl, if I’m going to get out alive. I need a damned good exit strategy, but if it makes you happy I’ll tell Ez that I need a good cover because of you, and cut back on my involvement. Maybe I’ll even take a class or two to make it look good,” he finished thoughtfully.
“Sounds like a good start,” I said, crawling back into his lap and resting my head on his chest. “I love you, Cane. You’re not like them and I don’t want you to be.” He kissed the crown of my head before grabbing the clicker and changing the station to ESPN. “I’ll replace your shirt, Magnolia,” he whispered into my ear.
“I don’t want a new shirt. I just want you. Promise me you’ll get out,” I whispered back. His arms squeezed around me tightly and he sighed. “Okay. For you, okay. I’ll figure it out.”
I wake with a jolt, the memory of him coursing through me. But I don’t cry anymore. I let the feeling, the memory of him, come. I use it now. I aim the pain at the one responsible for it. I use it to drive and guide me. All I am now is a remainder piece, a left over bit that you carry over into the next column, or more accurately, the next life. I close my eyes and inhale deeply before pushing out of bed. I need a release. I need a night out or something. I check the monitors as I lazily lounge in my bed and see that nothing’s amiss in the vicinity of my trailer. I close my eyes and reach for the pistol under the opposite pillow. Sliding it out I hold it, letting the weight of it settle in my palm. I grip it tightly and turn it over, staring at it. It will come to this one day. I will have this gun in my hand and pull the trigger. I carry the burden alone. I’ve been carrying it for so long that I don't see myself anymore. I only see the end move. I suck in a deep breath before tossing the gun on the bed beside me. Peeling back the covers, I get up and head to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
Swinging the door open, I notice an envelope drift to the ground at the bottom of the steps. Panic
sweeps through me instantly. I set my coffee on the edge of the bottom step and squat to pick up the envelope. No name, just blank. I sweep my gaze over the areas nearest to me before planting my rear on the bottom step next to the coffee mug. I lift the unsealed flap on the envelope and peer in. A gift certificate? I pull it out and read the small sticky note attached to it.
Maybe a good massage will help you get over your fear of contact. – Bentley
I groan and look at the certificate. An hour-long massage, courtesy of Bentley. The man just doesn’t quit. I haven’t indulged in any spa-type treatment in well over a year. To be honest the thought behind it is touching and I do miss having a good pamper day, but I’m not sure I can tolerate someone’s hands on me. I finish my coffee, pondering whether or not I can use the gift.
After a long hot shower and a call to Aster to check in on how her first post-college job is going, and getting my ear chewed out about still not seeing her, I head out at three o’clock for my shift at work. As I slide the key into the lock while juggling my purse I notice another sticky note. What now? I pick it off the windshield and read.
Your appt. is at noon tomorrow BTW.
Well isn't he clever. I yank the key from the door and toss my purse and the note inside before sliding into the driver’s seat. Honestly, it’s as if he knows my next move before I even decide what it is. I pull out my personal phone and shoot him a quick text thanking him for the kind gift and that maybe I’ll go tomorrow. Almost instantly he responds saying No woman turns down a massage - is that your secret? I snort, and toss my phone into my bag without replying. What a shithead. I’m not sure how I allowed him into my life, but he’s weaseled his way in and quite frankly I’m tired of fighting him.
The music blares a steady, fast beat. The bass thumps in the floorboards of Mack’s. I shimmy and slide between clusters of people with my tray high in the air. My three-inch heels are already rubbing my feet the wrong way but such is life. Tips are good tonight. Brock and I hang on our breaks together and make fun of patrons. He’s cheery tonight and I think it has something to do with a new girl he wants to date. I’ve seen her a few times meandering around the gym. She’s fit and pretty in an athletic way and she’s always staring at Brock.
“I dunno…” he crows.
“For crying out loud, just ask, the worst that happens is she says no!” I counter.
“Yeah, but no ego is better than a bruised ego,” he rumbles. I look up to his face and watch his eyes crinkle at the edges as I start to laugh at him.
“As if, Brock! Since when do YOU have no ego?” I snort, still laughing.
“Girl, sometimes I wish I didn’t give a shit about you and your sass mouth,” he chuckles.
“Uh, huh. You love it.” I smile and push away from the wall where we people-watch.
“ASK HER,” I push.
He shakes his head at me and crosses his arms over his chest as I head back out to take more orders.
My shift drags on despite it being a busy night and by the time we close all I want to do is go home, jump in bed and dream about being able to tolerate a massage. Someone giving me a good foot-rub truly never sounded better. Maybe I was ready…maybe I could do this. It’s just one small step, really.
I sling my purse strap over my chest diagonally and push through the back exit, my keys in one hand and my other hand on the pistol tucked inside my bag. The fresh air, albeit cold, is refreshing after being inside the club. I breathe it in deeply before scanning the parking lot. Clear. I approach the car like I always do, carefully. I’m sure I’m insane for being so careful. Something rests on the hood of my car. I can’t quite make it out from this distance, though. I continue towards the land yacht slowly, hyperaware of every sound and sight around me: the gust of wind that whips the lock against the backdoor of the club, the slap of my shoes against the asphalt, the way the light flickers in the one lamp lighting the parking lot.
When I reach the car I lose my breath altogether. I stare at the branch on the hood and will myself not to lose it. A cypress branch rests delicately near the windshield. Of all the things that could cause me to come unglued, this, this is beyond anything I imagined. My chest is tight and I fight my throat to swallow. Cypress trees are not native to Arkansas. I know this. It did not fall from a tree and land on my car. This is intentional. This is just the beginning. A warning perhaps? But why? I’ve been found, obviously. I scan the parking lot and crouch down to look under the car. Nothing. My breathing is short puffs of air that don’t feel like they bring any oxygen to my lungs. I steel myself and remove the branch from my hood. Dropping it on the black asphalt, I unlock my door and slide in, quickly shutting the door and locking myself in. I take the safety off and let the gun rest in my lap. My mouth is dry, so dry. I start the car up with no problem and pull out of the lot. Nothing. The drive home is uneventful, but my senses are in overdrive. I pull into my dirt patch parking strip and push the button on my phone to make the flood lights come on. Everything looks as it should. If this is some kind of mind game, it’s pure torture. My fear is palpable, yet part of me, a small sliver, thinks it was stupid for Ezra to give me a heads up. I am not the person I was a year ago. I’ve been training. I’ve been focused and I’ve been preparing for the day when he comes for me. He just gave me a small advantage.
Chapter 13
“The truth isn’t always beauty, but the hunger for it is.”-Nadine Gordimer
My night was shit. I barely slept. My mind was in and out of thought and I’d watched the monitors like a hawk only to have nothing happen. Exhausted, I roll out of bed at around ten o’clock to shower. I’m going to keep the appointment Bentley made for me. I’m going to prove to myself that I can face my shame, guilt, and fear. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. I really need to stop counting.
The spa is a small shop on the main drag in Beebe. The walls are a soft soothing green and the music playing is relaxing even though I feel anything but relaxed right now. A short woman with wavy brown hair greets me.
“Hi there, you must be Magnolia,” she says.
“Yes,” I answer without ceremony.
“Are you ready to come on back? I’m Jess and I’ll be doing your massage today.”
I nod and follow her down the hall and into a small room that’s dimly lit. I stand board-straight while she explains that she will be doing an hour-long full body massage. Keep your underwear on. Check. Lay face up to start. Check. And then she’s gone. I disrobe quickly and hop up onto the table, fidgeting with the blankets until they are up around my neck and she knocks on the door.
“All set,” I call out in a small voice. Man up, Mags. It’s just a massage.
She enters the room and adjusts the lights even lower before switching on some quiet music. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, counting to ten in my head. When her hand lifts mine and she starts massaging my arm, I stiffen and try not to freak out. It’s a woman. She’s giving me a massage. I am fine. I repeat this mantra repeatedly while keeping my eyes squeezed shut until she stops.
“Magnolia?” her voice is gentle and soft.
“Yes?” I whisper, opening one eye.
“You’re going to have to relax a bit for this to work…how about you roll over and we focus on your back?” she offers.
“Sorry. OK.” I comply. She lifts the light blanket slightly allowing me to roll so I’m face down, and then folds the blanket back to my rear. I feel too exposed like this.
“I’m going to start with your shoulders,” she states. Her warm, lotioned hands come to my shoulder blades and start methodically working at the knots. The longer she works, her strokes long and deep, the more I can feel the tension easing from my body. I close my eyes and breathe, in and out, in and out, in and...
“Take your time getting up. I’ll be out front waiting,” she says softly, waking me from my nap. I blink a few times as I hear the door click shut. I must have dozed off, which means I did it and I did it well! I feel relaxed and peaceful in a way I haven’t sinc
e before this new life. Rejuvenated, I sit up slowly and get dressed. I sweep my hair up into a loose bun and check my face in the mirror for sheet marks. Somehow I feel more whole, like a tiny slice of me has been repaired. I even feel a nugget of happiness. Sad but true, something as simple as a massage has fixed some small part of me.
*****
I haven't seen or spoken to Bentley since he up and bailed on me a few nights ago. When I woke up this morning I felt the overwhelming urge to go out. The only problem with that is I have no friends. Well...no girlfriends. I seriously doubt Bentley or Brock would be game for a girls’ night out with me. They still watch me like a hawk when I’m drinking. It’s cute and infuriating all at the same time. I grab a phone from a basket on my dresser and text Aster that I love her before tossing the phone back in the basket. The right hand basket contains the go-phones that only have one number programed in: Aster’s. The two phones in the other basket are for personal use. They contain the club number, Bentley and Brock’s numbers, and the local pizza place that delivers. I grab a phone from the left-hand basket and text Bentley and Brock asking if anyone is available for a night out, and scan the monitors on the wall as I saunter into the bathroom to get ready for my day. No counting. Everything’s in order. I turn the water on and feel calm and focused.
Brock had jumped on the idea of going out together and convinced Bentley to change his plans to accommodate me as well. I’d showered and texted them both back, saying they were to pick where we go tonight since I have no idea what’s fun around here. It took me forever to figure out what to wear on a night out. I don’t really have any clothes outside of those for work or working out. I finally settle on a cream-colored blousy top that comes up in gathers around my neck and wraps around with a sash that ties at the back, leaving my shoulders, arms, and back mostly exposed. I pull on dark, fitted jeans (because it’s chilly out) and my cowboy boots with the bone-colored flower inlays. My hair is down and curled loosely and my makeup is light, outside of my telltale cat-eye eyeliner. I see them both approach on a monitor and hear the front door open and muffled voices talking, so I spritz on my perfume and head to the living room.