Not Looking for Love: Episode 6 (A New Adult Contemporary Romance Novel) (5 page)

"He's in the basement," the guy who opened the door says, his voice totally toneless. "Waiting for you."

Mike grins at me, and starts walking towards a dark stairwell at the far end of the vast room the door opened into. It's supposed to be lit by fluorescent lights, but most of the bulbs are busted, some of them still hissing and flickering.
 

A bone crunching thud is followed by a scream that cuts right through my brain as we descend the stairs. The smell of blood, piss and shit makes me retch.

Mike gives no indication that he even heard the scream as he leads the way down the dark hallway towards the room where it came from. I'm falling behind. I absolutely, positively don't want to know what's on the other side of that door.
 

But Mike is already knocking on it, and it opens almost immediately, an older man wearing a black, vinyl butcher's apron standing on the other side. His hair is nearly white, and his eyes look like a frozen sea.

"Michael," the man says happily like we're his dinner guests or something. "Come in."

His eyes fix on me. "And this is your brother?"

I have the urge to say no.

Mike nods and waves me forward. I have no idea how I get my legs to move, how I make it to the door.

Inside the room, a guy is suspended off a hook hanging from the ceiling by his arms, his feet barely touching the large dark green, bloody tarp covering the floor. The man’s blond hair is a mess of blood, some dried some fresh, and both his eyes are swollen shut under huge purple bumps. Acid is rising in my throat so fast I'm sure I'll die from it at any second.

Mike pushes me further into the room, follows after me. I force myself to look away from the dying man, and fix my eyes on Vlado. He's got one of those faces that makes it seem like he's smiling all the time. Maybe its the way his thin skin colored lips naturally curl up at the edges, because there's no smile in his cold, light grey eyes.
 

"I am Vladimir Milosevic," he says. "Call me Vlado. I'd shake your hand, but they are dirty."

He looks down at his palms and I follow his gaze. He's right, his hands are covered with blood.

The guy being tortured seems to have passed out. Or maybe he's dead.
 

"And that's Ciril," Vlado says, and points to the corner where a second guy wearing an apron is standing by a desk covered with knives, axes, hammers. This guy's apron is white, or was, before it got drenched in blood.

Vlado follows my gaze, and then points to the guy hanging off the ceiling. "His name is not important anymore, but you should be looking at him. This is what happens to anyone who tries to run from me. You only have Michael to thank that this isn't you."

The point of all this hits me like a blow to the stomach. What the fuck is Mike involved in? What did he get me into? Gail will never be safe, if he gets these people to hunt her.
 

"It won't happen again," I murmur and mean it. It's the only way to keep Gail safe.
 

"Take another good look, then you can leave," Vlado says and I obey, the sight of the poor man now etched into my brain forever. I'll probably never close my eyes without seeing Gail in his place. I'm out of all options, and this is just the beginning.

"I have to take a leak," Mike says once we're back upstairs, but I ignore him, stride across the hall and out the door. I need air. I need to start pretending none of this is real.

Outside, I lean against the side of the building, take deep breaths, trying not to throw up.
 

The guy who held the door open for us walks over, holds a pack of cigarettes at me. "Have one."

I shake my head.
 

"Go on," he says, pulling one out half way. I take it, let him light it for me, try not to cough. I've never been much of a smoker.

He's eyeing me again, something close to pity in his eyes now.
 

"You hitting on me or something?" I ask. Maybe he'll hit me, beat me to death for suggesting it, and then all this will be over by no fault of my own. That's how it would have to be. By no fault of my own.

He twists his face up. "No. What the fuck kind of question…"

He's not getting mad though, not hitting me.

"I just thought I’d ask," I say. "I'm never really sure with guys. Don't wanna get stuck somewhere with you thinking I led you on."

I have no idea why I'm even still talking.
 

He laughs and lights a cigarette of his own. "You're funny. A lot funnier than Mike, anyway. You're his brother right?"

I nod and leave it at that. He takes a long drag and walks away, enters the building. Mike comes out a few minutes later.

"So now you know what to expect," he says.

I throw the cigarette on the ground and step on it. "Yes, thank you for that, Mike. You've truly done so much for me. I don't know if I can ever repay you."

"In time you will, I think," he says and walks to the car.
 

I don't know if he's just ignoring my sarcasm or if he's too insane to understand it. Either way, I'd prefer to be dead. Which still scares me, but only just.

On Friday afternoon it finally hits me. The heavy, prickly ball of tears had started building in my chest before lunch, and by my last class of the day it's a brick in my throat, so heavy and painful my entire body is cramping up. It's been two weeks since Scott left. More than a week since he last called me. He's not coming back. Not changing his mind. Not taking any of it back. Not even apologizing.

I grab my laptop and books and leave the classroom. I rush down the hall, run down the stairs, tears blinding me. Someone calls my name as I crash through the front door, but I ignore it. It's probably not even real. I'm just imagining Scott calling me, manifesting it. I run right across the grassy field, almost trip over the rope fence at the end of it. Then I'm standing in the street, wind snaking around my legs, my chest, cooling the tears in my eyes.

I haven't cried since the night Scott left. It was because I didn't accept it as real, I realize now.

It's been such a crazy seven months. My mom died, I chased a guy like a sex crazed slut, had an abortion, been kidnapped, broke up with Scott, got back together, broke it off again, moved in with him even though I only knew him for a few months. And now, in this quiet, windy street things finally stop crumbling all around me. Everything finally finds a place in my mind, solidifies, becomes real. Scott leaving me this final time is real.

I wipe my eyes, wrap my coat tighter around myself and start walking. The wind licking my face is like taking a cleansing, long overdue bath. The heavy brick of tears is gone from my throat, and my mind is clear for the first time in months.
 

It's time to move on, pack insane, messed up Gail away, hope she never reemerges.
 

I hold on tight to this feeling of freedom, this lightness. I should go visit my mom's grave, bring her some flowers. I haven't been since right after she died. I should go back to my home, pack away her things, perhaps take something for myself. I should move out of the apartment Scott and me shared. Because we're never going back to that. Not just like that. Like this never happened. Because it’s a pattern between us. One we'll never break if we keep walking right back into it.
 

A huge part of me is screaming that I'm wrong, that I need him back right now, need him to hold me, and tell me things will work out. But the truth is, I don't. And another part of me knows that very well too. Because what we started can't go on. Not the way we started it. Maybe some other way.

I call Phillipa as soon as I enter the quiet, cold apartment. It still smells of the flowery detergent I used to clean it.
 

"Gail, you want to do something tonight?" Phillipa asks, surprise and joy filling her voice in equal parts.

"Sure," I say. "Can I come over?"

She still lives in the house we shared. Alone now, because she hasn't been able to find new roommates.
 

"OK, why not?" she says, doubt heavy in her tone. I haven't been back since I moved out almost three months ago. Mostly because I was afraid it would bring back memories of the night Mike broke in and dragged me out. I swallow the bile that rises at the thought now, but the fear is not as sharp, almost feels like it happened to someone else.

"I'll be there in an hour," I say, already kind of reconsidering.
 

Being in this apartment, it feels a little like Scott might walk in at any moment. Then we could make some dinner, watch a movie, or just go to bed early. Desire wakes in me, followed by a sharp, painful jolt through my stomach.
 

He cheated on me, broke up with me after the first serious argument. Maybe I shouldn't have yelled at him like I did at Kate's house. But he could've stayed true long enough for me to apologize. I did understand his need to help Mike. I still do. Just right then, getting slapped in the face with it, I needed some time. And a huge part of me wants to call him right now and tell him all that, ask him to come over. To come back. Leave a message, if he doesn't pick up.
 

But the rational part is louder. I can't keep pulling him back. He's made it very clear that being with me is not something he really wants. Whether he loves me or not.
 

It's a tough one to swallow. Love isn't supposed to work that way. And I know he loves me, I can feel it in every fiber, every cell of my being. Yet he also left me. I know that too. So I hold on hard to the clarity I've fought so hard to regain.

I hastily pack a change of clothes, my toothbrush, and my schools stuff for Monday. Maybe I'll come right back, or maybe I'll stay the weekend. All I know right now is that I shouldn't be alone anymore. Thoughts are looping in my mind and none of them are making much sense. Not for long anyway.

"You wanna go do something in the city?" Mike asks on the way back from the warehouse. Like it's just any old Friday night, and he's not a psycho involved with even bigger psychos.

I'm staring at him, and I don't even have to catch my reflection in the window to know my mouth is open. I literally have no idea how to answer. ‘No, I want to go home and never see you again.’ That wouldn't work. ‘Yes, sure, why not?’ That's even worse.

"Stop staring at me like that. It's creepy," Mike says finally.

"I’m creepy? What the fuck do you call that scene then?" I finally find some words. "What are you involved in?"

"Us, Scott, it’s us. We're both involved in this now." He digs into his pocket and pulls out a black phone, tossing it in my lap. "That's your new phone. Get rid of the old one."

I can't do that. Then Gail will never be able to call me again. Mike maybe reads my expression correctly because he adds, "Or at least don't call me from it. Or anyone else we work with."

I flip the phone on, scroll through a couple of the screens. It's brand new, never been used probably. Or maybe it once belonged to someone who's now dead. Maybe even the guy dying right now.

"Who are these people, Mike?" I ask.