Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane) (14 page)

“There’s
nothing wrong with a little nudge. If you hadn’t come into my life,
I’d still be running with that crowd.” Bishop places a wedge of
lemon pie onto a plate, making sure to give me large slice of filling.
“You’re one of the better changes in my life,” he says.

“Thank
you.”

Though
the words Thank You ring hollow. Is this the right path for him? Is it for me?
I have my doubts. Everybody does—you’d have to be lying to yourself
or delusional if you don’t question yourself once. The path you take has
immense ramifications for the future. One wrong fork means wasted time.

“There
are other people. An entire world,” Bishop says.

“I
just want you to be happy and fulfilled.”

“I
am. Small steps. One moment at a time.”

Work
keeps us all busy though. Finding time to just go out spontaneously isn’t
possible post-college. You have to actively schedule and move things around to
grab mere minutes on the hour. Piranha, Caddy, and I still see each other, but
it’s within the confines of our fishbowl apartment.

“I
like to think about you at work,” Bishop says one day. “You must
have this nice, quiet environment where nobody’s yelling at you or
glaring. Peace.”

“You
can imagine that. But the corporate world is killer. Totally drywall. I feel
like a portrait sometimes.”

“Why?”

“They
hire a woman to man the front desk, look pretty. Then I have to do the website
side, all the beauty aspects, all the maintenance.”

“You
don’t enjoy that?”

“A
little. I want more though. Actual meat.”

“You
want to enter finance or something?”

“I’d
like to own a business one day. A legitimate one. In what, I still have to
figure that out.”

By
midsummer, I find myself ground to a paste. Work, sleep, eat, marginal chatter
with friends and boyfriend, sleep. Go, go, go. Lists, lists, lists. American
society, as much as it has its upsides, comes with the horrible busy culture.
We’re busy all the time. We have to stay busy and chase paper, morning
and night, all to maintain standards of living.

It’s
not even like the three of us live lavishly. It’s the multitude of bills
needing to be paid and restraining squander. It’s the inconvenience of
market forces acting against you. Bad timing and whatnot.

“You
think we’ll make anything out of ourselves any day?” I ask one
night at the dinner table. “You think we’ll actually reach our
dreams?”

“Maybe.
But we won’t if we’re late on rent,” Caddy says. “You
sure you don’t want to do it anymore?”

Caddy
refers to working for Educate Inc. as “it” now. The same way little
kids call sex “it” or adults call undesirable objects and behaviors
“it”.

“I’m
swamped at Jim’s.”

“She’s
got plenty,” Piranha says.

“Can’t
Piranha take up more work? If you need muscle, she’s the one to go to.
Pumps out those papers like nothing.”

“The
thing is, we’re hitting a cap. We’re not robots. Piranha works so
much, I work so much. We’ll need a third soon.”

“Okay,”
I say, reluctantly. “Maybe I can sneak in a few jobs here and there when
I’m not busy.”

Back
to being a corruptor. But if I don’t help them, we might sink as a
collective. We have to keep working, even if it means dipping into morally gray
situations.

Money
is tight. And Piranha’s parents are too American too help—her
family has kids out of the house by seventeen. Caddy’s anti-homosexual
family disowned him long ago.

“We’ll
make do,” I say. “We just need to focus and plug on. Things just
get worse before they get better, right?”

Piranha
and Caddy sigh.

“Don’t
do that.”

They
sigh again.

“Or
maybe things will stay the same. I don’t know. I’m not a mind
reader. But it’s better to be positive.”

“Maybe,”
Piranha says. “But it’s getting harder.”

That
night, I sleep curled against a cold pillow, counting the stars I can see
through my small window. My room has grown cramped with papers and work items
like the laptop Preston gave me or the various digital programs I have lying
around. I tried not to pirate any products. I figure if shifting to a
professional status is to happen, then paying for what I own will be beneficial
for my psyche. I’ll slowly shift away from cheating, won’t cheat
anymore, will live an honest life with an honest man. 

“I
have to try,” I say to myself. “Trying is the only thing I can do
now.”

CHAPTER 27

 I
wake rising. I wake falling.

Bishop’s
chest acts as a vessel for my head to travel the dreamy seas on. Wedding bells,
death tolls. I dream of everything in between whether asleep or awake. The
future could never be more uncertain than in your twenties.

“Hello,
pretty thing.” Bishop plays with the ends of my hair, stroking the scalp
when he can break through. I press my head as deep as possible into his chest,
soaking in him.

“You’re
more beautiful.”

“Not
at all.” He clears his throat and begins to unravel the blankets
entangling our legs. “You and your compliments. I have to say, when I
first met you, you were just unbelievable to me. Still are.”

“It’s
nice to hear compliments. It’s even better when they’re
real.”

“Your
flattery I’m not really buying.” Bishop wiggles out from under me.
His feet hit the floor with a twin thud. He thuds his way to the bathroom. Late
afternoon sunshine fills the master bedroom in a wash of orange and yellows. I
bask in what rays I can catch through the blinds.

We’ve
grown to like taking naps on the weekends—today is Sunday. It is late
July. Bishop is slated to move out soon, so boxes encompass much of the house.
Limited furniture adorns the various rooms and everything else except the
essentials and the downstairs TV lie out in the open.

I
pad to the kitchen and fix up a box of cereal. Bishop comes in after he’s
brushed out the post-nap gunk. We swap places for a moment, and I come back in
with fresh breath.

“So
kissable,” Bishop says, “you didn’t even have to go to the
bathroom.”

“And
you accuse me of flattery.” I peck his cheek.

We
weave through the boxes stacked in the living room and set ourselves up for
another veg session on the couch. Lately, with money being rare, and an
onslaught of work, we’re finding that doing “nothing” is just
what we need. A wind down from the constant excitements and monotonies of our
jobs.

Bishop
holds the remote control in a loose fist. “Reality shows or learning
stuff?”

“Reality,”
I say. “I want to cry and laugh at the same time.”

He
happens on a show detailing diamond studded dudes and big breasted ladies. I
have to admit, being a borderline B-cup, I would love to have myself a pair of
larger breasts. Not for Bishop or anybody else, but for myself, so that when I
look in the mirror I see the inner beast of a woman reflected on the outside.

“You
look fine,” Bishop says.

“Stop
that.”

He
grabs at my nose. “I can read you better and better every day.”

We
flip through the multitude of reality shows. These days any and every channel
possesses a minimum of one. The channel can be devoted to science or history
and still have nothing but hours of reality programming designed to stoke the
inner voyeur in all of us.

An
hour or two passes. We fall asleep and wake up, touching each other’s
faces gently in the interim between dreams, wedding bells and death tolls.

In
one dream, I’m traveling all over the world with Bishop. Nobody can stop
us. We’re a tour de force with zero hampering us, not money, not circumstances,
not family. We have everything. The most fleeting whims materialize whenever.
Our thoughts blend together, and we think in unison. We’re connected and
in love.

And
then when my parents surface in my mind, an immense happiness drugs my system.
Nothing is better than knowing how far you’ve come, spiting those
who’d say you’d never go.

The
bells chime again, and I awaken to realize the bells are not from my dreams but
from the front door. Bishop groans. He sits upright and clutches me tight.

The
chiming echoes throughout the house. One ring, two rings, three, four, five.
It’s an incessant buzz rivaling the TV’s, though more pleasurable
than the badly acted and badly scripted local sushi joint ads.

“I’ll
get it,” Bishop says. “Stay put.”

The
doorbell chimes. It chimes thrice in a row, making the Bishop’s house
vibrate with mighty aural measures. I sit up on the couch, watching Bishop move
into the hallway leading to the door. I sit back down. The T.V. plays. Reality
show contestants flex their muscles while causing drama in some
bar—it’s the usual fare. Brainless but entertaining, relaxing and
sleep-inducing.

Bishop
doesn’t return couch-side for twenty minutes. Commercials run on about a
new cleaning product for the toilet. The contestants don’t return
either—the show has ended. My eyes have some crust nestled in the ducts.
I get up from the couch and round the hallway corner, looking for Bishop,
wiping my eyes too from the nastiness.

There’s
no one at the door. It’s locked tight as if never opened. An impenetrable
shadow slants from the upstairs. Night fell while I slept and my boyfriend is
not here anymore.

I
search the walls for guidance, walking into the darkness. The light switches
are like comfortable speed bumps detailing how far I’ve gone. Each one
shocks the surroundings in a blast of light, and I press onward, until I hit
the door  and look outside.

Nobody’s
outside either. The ground wavers gently, grasses swaying in the summer’s
breeze. Rain drums the concrete in torrents, massive sheets of unrelenting
water. The sunlight has drained from the sky, not a shaft in sight.

In
the midst of the rain and breezes and swaying grass idles a black SUV. Neither
Bishop nor I own a black SUV. Its coat is a peculiar shade, like gleaming
obsidian, volcanic glass reflecting the furious storm.

“Violet.”

I
instinctively jerk my head to the side, though I don’t want to completely
see what’s behind me. Every hair on my skin stands at attention. My gut
contracts.

There
are men standing on the stairwell. Three men, one of them Bishop, two of them
hoisting him by the armpits.

I
make a full pivot and face the monsters imprisoning Bishop. They wear ski masks
and black hoodies, black sweatpants, stand like shapeless figures.

“The
money,” one says. “Get the cunt to find some.” His partner
drops Bishop and walks down. I back against the door.

“Bitch,”
the man says. “She’s beautiful,” he says, turning around to
the other.

“Could
loose some weight.”

The
two share a chuckle, and the man pushes me away. I plead with my eyes for the
other to keep Bishop safe, though they couldn’t care less.

“You’re
a chunky one.” My assailant gropes my waist. Out of instinct, I resist,
making a fist and swatting his hand away. He gropes harder, and I step aside.
“You can’t go far from me,” he says, pulling out a pistol.
The metal glints in the light.

We’re
done, aren’t we?

“The
dick you suck owes us a large sum of money. Lots. Years worth in losses. Can
you show me where that might be, beautiful?”

“The—”
I make my voice stutter as best I can “—the garage. He keeps money
in the garage.”

“Beautiful,
you are beautiful. Take me, will you?”

As
we walk, the man’s voice becomes a prominent entity, like a devil on my
shoulder, speaking unfiltered.

Beautiful,
keep going.

You’re
gorgeous.

Enough
to be a porn star! Go on cunt. Show us. Show me.

I
glance at the man over my shoulder. The ski mask and black clothes renders
determining who he is an impossibility. But the voice. The swaying tilt in his
gait. Even the way he holds the pistol, tilted towards my jugular, as if
imitating a gangster he saw in a documentary.

“Spade,”
I say.

“Yes,
my love?”

“I
have a restraining order against you.”

“And
yet, I’m here. Keep walking, okay?”

“You’re
not supposed to be anywhere near me.”

“Call
the police. It’s fine. Then we can spill all sorts of stories to them.
Like how this place has housed illegal gambling activity. That would be a
hoot.”

“How
do you even know him?”

“Small
city. Small town. My partner’s played many nights here. I played once.
Was okay. There are other better ones.”

“You’re
so gross,” I say. My hand trembles on the garage doorknob. The lies haunt
me. There’s no money to be had here, just empty gasoline cans and the
nauseating remnants of exhaust fumes.

I
remain calm. Situations can be worked out if you have the right luck and
awareness.

“I
don’t know exactly where he kept it. You’ll have to wait.”

Spade
presses the barrel to my nape. The cold steel burns my skin. “Hurry. I
might shoot out of boredom.”

I
riffle through metal drawers, upturning Bishop’s shop tools. Wrenches
clang against screwdrivers. He has five sets of nails and two hammers. A
mallet. If only I could swing and land a blow, smash skull.

“Hurry
up. We’re late for somewhere else.”

“How
did you even find me?”

“I’m
the type of guy who you needed a restraining order. You don’t think I
know how to stalk?”

Spade’s
breath smells like nicotine and mint. He chews gum furiously while indicating
to my breasts what exactly he means to do with a brush of his index finger down
my cleavage. I’d given him second chances before. Who doesn’t
deserve second wind? I did. He did. Now never again.

“Stop.”
I swat his hand away. “Go ahead. You won’t have a fun time trying
anything.”

“Really?
I liked the struggle the first time.”

Spade
thrusts fists at my face, but I duck in time for him to only smash drywall. I
spring forward, brushing past his knees. A thousand scenarios replay though my
mind as I leap for safety. Him grabbing me by the hair. Him taking me by the
waist. Him overpowering me completely, utterly, without mercy.

Him
firing and killing me outright.

I
spin around and lean myself against the ground, kicking overhead. My foot
drives right into his crotch, and I jam my heel there, packing in his balls and
hoping to bust open one. He staggers backwards unto the metal drawers, and then
tries to angle the pistol, but the crotch pain debilitates him completely. I
smash my foot against his elbow, causing him to cast the pistol aside. I grab
it before he can.

Holding
the pistol to his face, I make my threat. “Get out of here, Spade. Leave
me and my boyfriend alone.”

Spade
struggles to regain footing. He reels from the blows to his manhood. I press
the pistol’s steel right to his nape like he did to mine, and I walk him
out of the garage.

Would
I pull the trigger? Would I kill Spade? The questions stew and boil over. He
assaulted me. He sexually assaulted me. And he hurt Bishop. My fingers want to
pull so badly.

“Make
sure you tell your friend to get out,” I say.

“Okay,
beautiful.”

“I
am a bad bitch. You knew that. You screwed the wrong girl over.”

Spade
darts for the front door. I chase him through the mudroom and then the kitchen
and then the hallway. A roar of footsteps patters, complimenting the pitter outside.
I keep the pistol aimed at him.

“Run,
you bitch!”

Spade
runs. He stops not even for his friend. He runs straight out the door, balls
crumpled between his legs.

His
friend creeps down the stairwell. I stay hidden around the hallway bend,
peering out at the wall’s edge, enough to glimpse his subtle movements.
He has Bishop wrapped around in a chokehold.

“Get
out,” the intruder says.

“I’m
armed.”

“You’re
a big bluffing bitch.”

“You
saw your friend run. Now you do the same or else I’ll shoot.”

“A
girl couldn’t.”

“A
woman can.”

The
man edges closer to the door. His grip on Bishop loosens.

“A
woman can!”

My
voice thunders through the box maze. I am the lightning. I am the storm, the
hurricane come to destroy and save.

The
man drops Bishop. He steps backwards over the threshold, glancing to the left
and right for threats. I keep the pistol firmly at hand. And when the man steps
past the threshold, he runs.

He
runs like Spade did, balls between his legs, confidence drained.

The
black SUV screeches away. I watch the wheels turn in the slickness of the rain
water.

Bishop
picks himself up. He touches his throat tenderly. When I come close, he rebuffs
me.

“Are
you okay?” I say.

“I
am.” His throat barely makes intelligible sounds. “I’m
fine.”

“You
need to see somebody.”

“No.
Can’t.”

“What
were they talking about? Bishop, the guy—”

“I
know. Why have to move.”

Now
I understand the lead up. The moving out. He needed a location change to run
himself.

“What
do you want me to do? I can’t just stand here anymore. You’re
injured.”

“I’m
not,” he says. “I’m talking better already.”

“You’ve
got to explain. Now.”

“I
will. Now. Everything.”