by K. L. Savage
“Yeah, Tongue. We can go.” The truck reverses out of the dirty driveway. “We’re flying there.”
Great.
I hate flying, but it makes sense. The quicker the better.
Country music blares on the radio, but I don’t know the song. We stay quiet and my mind drifts to Daphne. It hurts so fucking bad to know she can’t remember me, but I’ll fix this. She needs me. She has a lot to process right now. She just found out her dad isn’t her dad. It makes sense that her psychosis would break free.
I want her to be okay. That’s all. If she’s safe and sound, I can take care of the rest.
I’ll always take care of her.
After I carve my name in her skin, so she fucking knows she belongs to me. She can’t forget me when she has to look at my name every day. Just the thought has my cock growing hard. Damn it, I miss her.
I take out my journal from my back pocket and open it, seeing the drawing of her naked I did the other night. Perfect fucking tits. When I get back, I’m going to have her push them together so I can fuck them, then I’m going to come all over her mouth and watch her lick her lips clean.
“Stop growling back there.” Bullseye polishes his silver dart.
“Have you checked your sugar levels today?” I rub my finger over the soft curve of her face against the paper.
“Touché,” he replies.
I hold a smile inside and flip the page of the journal. I reach into my cut pocket and pull out a pencil, sketching her face from memory. Her small, button nose, plump lips, and big eyes. I love that her bottom lip is a little bit bigger than the other. I growl again when I think about them wrapped around me and sucking me dry.
Reaper chuckles from the front seat. I don’t care who knows how much I want Daphne. If it were up to me, I’d let the entire world know.
I concentrate on the wispy strands of her hair, making sure they are just right. They have to be perfect. Every single strand on her head is perfection. The way they curl around her chin as they hang loose from the messy bun she has on top of her head, or the way they blow in the wind as she’s holding on to me tight as we ride the bike.
Or how she swings it through the air with a flip while she fucks me.
I growl again.
Bullseye and Reaper laugh.
It isn’t funny.
“Alright. Empty your pockets. No weapons and shit on the plane.”
“I need my knife, Reaper. You know I need it. I can’t be anywhere without it. I need it to protect Daphne.”
“They will have knives there, Tongue,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated.
“Fine. I won’t be happy about it.”
“You never are, Tongue.”
I mock him while I slide my knife into the pocket of the front seat, then open the back door, and hop out. The three of us head toward the departing flights in the same stride and I tuck my sketchbook safely in my pocket.
When we get to the front counter, the woman eyes us warily.
“Three one-way tickets to New Orleans, please,” Reaper leans against the counter and gives his charming smile to the lady. She’s older. Blonde hair turning white, but her blue eyes are clear as she was when she was younger, as light as the sky.
Not as pretty as Daphne. No one ever is or ever will be.
“My pastor on Sunday said I was going to be faced with darkness and evil this week. And look what the devil dragged in,” she says, pretending to be unimpressed, but her wrinkled cheeks turn a brighter shade of red than the blush she’s wearing today.
“I think you’re getting us confused with our buddy Knives,” Bullseye chimes in, taking a jab at his 666 tattoo above his dick.
“There are more of you?” she gasps.
“Oh, we are everywhere, ma’am,” Reaper says, his eyes dropping to her nametag. “Gretchen. Whenever you need help, you find us, okay?” he grabs her hand and kisses her wrinkled, age-spotted knuckles.
“Oh, Pastor Dan was right. I’d be blinded by Satan in a Sunday hat. And you three are all wearing hats,” she giggles.
“I’m not wearing a hat,” I say, impatient. “Can we fucking go now?”
“It’s a saying—you know what? Never mind,” Bullseye says.
I don’t get it. We aren’t wearing hats.
Gretchen, the poor wench, hands over the tickets with shaky hands. “Satan,” she points to Reaper, then to his head. “Hat. A big one.”
“Oh, it’s big, alright,” Reaper winks.
“I’m telling Sarah,” Bullseye snorts, holding in a laugh.
I snatch the tickets from her frail hands, annoyed with this fucking bullshit. I want to get on that plane, and I’m going to go with or without them.
“Sarah would understand. I saved us two hundred bucks and we have a kid on the way,” Reaper defends himself as we slither through the busy crowd. Slot machines go off in the distance. Even people at the airport are drunk and wasting all their money. I see an Elvis in the corner, and I want her home so bad so he can marry us.
I’m determined.
“Shoes off. Phones in the bin. Empty out your pockets, please!” the agent shouts over the roar of people.
I don’t want anyone to see my sketchbook. What if they look through it? Daphne is mine. No one else can see.
Bullseye places his boots in the gray plastic bin and empties his pockets. He heads into the scanner and lifts his arms.
I don’t like this machine. It’s small.
“Sir, please step over here.” She ushers him to the side of the machine, and she takes a wand and roams it over his body until she reaches his zipper. “Sir, do you have anything in your pockets?”
“No, ma’am,” he smirks.
She waves the wand again and it beeps three times. “What’s in your pants, sir?”
“A Prince Albert, a guiche, and Jacob’s Ladder. You want to climb it and see how high you get, gorgeous?” Bullseye offers with a salacious baritone.
“Next,” she shouts, lifting a brow and unimpressed with Bullseye. “I have a taser, sweetie. Get to moving.”
“Wound my heart, lady.”
“Get a band-aid,” she sasses, and Bullseye grabs his boots from the belt.
Finally, all of us are through the security and get to the gate. Bullseye is pouting, Reaper is getting grouchy, and I’m getting angrier.
This is taking too long. The longer it takes, the longer Daphne goes without remembering us.
The lady behind the desk smiles, her brunette hair pulled back into a perfect bun, and she grabs the microphone and announces. “Now boarding flight 1289 to New Orleans, Louisiana.”
“First thing we do when we get there is go see Pocus.”
“Not a chance in hell. I’m going to go see Daphne,” I say to Reaper.
“Not without us.”
“Yes, I am. I am not going to do anything. I just want to see her, that’s it. Like I used to.” I’ve missed watching her. It’s how we started.
And maybe that’s what she needs a reminder of.
This jet is going to fall to the damn ground when we get on it. It’s so damn small.
I really hate flying.
But I’ll do anything for Daphne, even if my feet are thirty thousand feet up in the air.
And when my feet are on the ground, I’ll show them what anything consists of.
I’ll need to find this Satan hat that woman spoke of.
I’ll need the extra edge.
I sit up in bed, my skin prickling with awareness. It’s dark. The only sound is the whoosh of the ceiling fan.
But I feel someone in here. A presence. I’m not scared.
Ever since I came back home, there has been this cloud of danger hovering over my head. I’m in the same house my mother died in, and the way my dad looks at me… it’s like he wants me dead too. The energy in the room is so powerful it dissipates the creeping chill over my skin.
The door my dad busted down all those years ago is still wonky. The trim is nailed in
place. He hasn’t even bothered to replace it.
I wait for my eyes to adjust to the night, and for some reason, I try to see if anyone is in the corner. It’s reflex, like I’m expecting someone to be there.
“I feel you,” I whisper into the room.
I wait for him to say something, to say anything, but he doesn’t. Headlights peek through the window for a second as a car drives by, giving me a glimpse of the room.
I stop breathing when I see a flash of a tall, broad man in the far corner of my room, where my dresser is. It still has a butterfly sticker on the middle drawer. I turn on the lamp to get a better look at the man, but he isn’t there. I check all of the corners of the room, but he isn’t there. I know I didn’t make him up.
He was there.
“Please, tell me if you’re there. Mentally, I can’t take anymore unknowns,” I beg, my heart nearly bursting from my chest with hope.
I know him.
I feel him.
But how?
I expect him to say something, anything, but the ceiling fan is all I hear as it spins in circles.
Maybe he was in my head.
I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t want to be in this house. I don’t want to be under the same roof as my father. I’m scared.
I miss… someone.
The cotton pillowcase rubs against my cheek as I bury my face into it and sob. I clutch my hand over my heart, hating how much it hurts and hating even more that I don’t understand why. “What’s happening to me?” I wail, stifling my cries in the pillow so Daddy doesn’t hear me.
He’ll get mad.
I rub my nose against my shirt and sniffle, then tuck my hands under my damp cheek. There are too many unknowns in my life.
And all of my questions revolve around Daddy.
What’s that say about what I know?
I thought I remembered a time when Daddy got sober and our life together was good, but now that I’m here, I’m wondering if that’s just what I made myself believe so I felt better.
If I felt what I feel now, then it isn’t surprising I left. But why did Aunt Tina come back if Daddy is a bad man? Why am I here? What power does he have over me?
Did I make up the birthday parties? My friends?
If all of it is fake, then what happened to my mom?
The burn on my chest stings, and I hiss as I readjust myself in bed.
“Holy Moly. Just forget it,” I gripe and sit up, then turn on the lamp again. I’m never going to be able to sleep in this hell hole.
A man laying across my tattered pink chaise lounge appears. I open my mouth on a scream, but when I see his face, no sound comes out. I crawl to the side of the bed to get a better look at him. The light moves across half of his face, and when his eyes land on mine, my worries halt. He has shaggy dark hair and a short beard. His gaze is penetrating, reaping my soul inside out and right side up. He is wearing a black leather cut that says ‘Ruthless Kings’, similar to the one Seer wore. His legs are long and encased in worn denim jeans with scuffed black boots.
The scent of pine and leather tickles my senses and the oddest sensation comes over me.
I know him.
I don’t know how I know, but I do.
He’s so familiar.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asks, his voice swinging low and deep as the lowest note of a trombone.
“Should I be?” It’s the wrong question to ask. The man can obviously kill me with a snap of his finger.
“No, Comet. I’d never hurt you.”
“Comet.” My brows push together when I hear the word. “Comet,” I repeat, a throbbing I my head pressing against my skull. There’s a memory there.
“Yes.” He rushes to the ground, falling to his knees. “You’re my Comet. My name is Tongue, but my given name is Wayne Hendrix. Seer says you don’t remember us.”
I shake my head and my lips wobble. This unbearable feeling weighs down on me. “Not yet, but I think I remember how I feel, and I’ve felt…”
“What?”
“I’ve been feeling like I miss someone deeply. Like when I see shadows and an alligator sticker. It makes me feel… happy. Why is that?”
“We have a pet alligator. His name is Happy. And we met in the shadows, Comet. You made me feel what love was the moment I met you.”
“Why can’t I remember?” I begin to cry.
“You do,” he whispers, knee-walking until he is at the edge of the bed. “Can I touch you? Would that bother you?”
I shake my head and lean to his hand when he lifts in the air to touch my cheek. One touch. Why do I have a feeling all it would take, is one touch?
“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Daddy yells. His drunken steps tumble down the hall to my room.
Glancing at my door, then back to Tongue, I’m surprised to see he isn’t there. But he was. I know it.
Daddy opens the door and fumbles over his own two feet, then hits the side of my dresser. The light from the hallway trickles into my room, and that’s when I see him standing in the far left corner. He’s staring Daddy down, a furious expression on his face. A knife glints in the cheap yellow glow.
And that turns me on.
“You’re lyin’!” he spits, turning up the bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. “I heard you. Walls are paper thin, Daphne. It’s how I caught your whore of a mother cheatin’ on me! Fuckin’ him in my own goddamn house.” He points the liquor bottle at me and chuckles in his dirty tighty-whities. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and his pot belly from drinking so much is pronounced. His boobs are nearly as big as mine, and he has sweat dripping down his chest. There are cigarette burns on his underwear, small black rings in the material from where he fell asleep with one in his hand in his recliner. “Keep it down in here. I won’t say it again,” he warns before storming out of the room the best he can, but not before his shoulder and the edge of the door meet. “Ah! Stupid fuckin’ bitch.” He pushes the door with his hand as if it’s the one in the way. The knob digs into the cheap drywall causing it to crumble.
His ambling footsteps and incoherent mumbling gets further down the hall and Tongue’s boot lifts from the shadow and slowly shuts it. “I can kill him.”
“He’s my dad.” I say it in way that has an ‘explanation to itself’ tone.
“Family doesn’t always mean blood, Comet.”
I twist the yellow blanket between my fingers. It’s something I’ve had since I was a little girl. It used to bring me comfort, but not anymore. Nothing does.
Except Tongue.
My mind might not recall my memories, but my heart remembers how I feel.
“We’re more than friends, aren’t we?”
He walks so quietly for a man that’s as big as he is. He stops at the foot of my bed, and I’m drawn to the tattoos on his arms. “You’re my best friend and the love of my life, Comet.”
“Why can’t I remember you, then?” I sob. “Why am I here?”
“You do remember.” He makes his way to my side of the mattress, sits down beside me, and takes my hand. I inhale as his fingers brush over mine. Sparks—no, something more than sparks—dance over the nerve-endings on my skin. It’s so much more.
It’s fire and ice, a million needles dancing and whirling in a tango over my skin.
I imagine this is what the heat of the sun feels like.
“Yeah, Comet,” his voice deepens. “You remember.” The rough pad of his finger strokes the top of my hand.
I gasp, my eyes fluttering like the butterflies in my stomach as he travels up, caressing my bicep next. My entire body trembles, reacting to the simplest touch, but I have a feeling nothing is simple with this man.
“Every time I touch you feels like the first time. The way you feel right now—” his fingers drag up my shoulder and to my neck, grabbing hold of it like he has done it a hundred times.
My body tells me he has, because I arch my back, tilting my head to give him access to do with me whatever he wants. Thi
s is crazy. I’ve never met this man in my life. But then there is that push in the back of my mind, the one that bends reality, and most of the time in my life nothing makes sense.
When I look at Tongue, I know everything is going to be okay. A shift happens inside my soul and life makes sense. Then when he touches me, I’m yearning for the memories we have already made. I want to know what we have together.
“What if I never remember again?” The thought of that scares me to death. I hold a hand over my mouth and muffle a sob. “What if this is all I have? What if this life is all I know?”
“It isn’t,” he says, as if it is so simple. “What you feel right now says you know a lot more than you think.” He rests his forehead against the side of my head. “And if I have to, I’ll remember for the both of us. I’ll tell you every moment we have ever had together.”
“Yeah?” I ask him with a watery smile.
“Yeah, Comet. I’d do anything for you.” He turns around and stares at the door when the sound of the TV gets louder. “You have no idea how hard it is not to kill him right now after….” He swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs. “It isn’t my place to say. You need to remember on your own, so you can make the right decision.”
“He’s mean and a drunk, a mean drunk, but he doesn’t deserve to die.”
“He does for what he did to you, your mom, and your aunt.”
“My mom killed herself.” My eyes widen when he grabs the sides of my face. His brown eyes dart between mine.
His thumbs trace the edges of my mouth. “I know you don’t believe that.”
I pull away from his touch and scurry out of the bed. My T-shirt falls to my knees. “No, I don’t know you! You… You’re here in my room. I don’t even know how you got in my house—”
“—I broke the back window and climbed through,” he says unapologetically, shrugging his shoulder. “And don’t say you don’t know me.” He pushes off the bed and towers to his full height. I have to crane my neck to see his face. “You know me,” he growls, my heart reacting to the gravelly timbers. He takes a step forward. “You know what you feel for me.”
“You…. you….” I poke a finger against his very muscular chest and the air from my lungs escapes me. “Holy Moly.” I don’t mean to say that out loud, but wow, that’s an impressive chest.