Rage's Story (Vanish Book 1) (3 page)

4.

Some days have passed, I didn’t count them. After the night at the Pussycat Lounge, I woke up sick, hurling for half the day into the pink porcelain toilet of the motel bathroom. I managed to sneak out and find a small convenience store, where I loaded up on snacks to settle my stomach. When I returned, I heard the engines again, roaring as they zipped by somewhere in the valley.

I can still hear them from my cage, this goddamn motel.

Boredom set in sometime around when the sickness left. Against my original plans, I turned on the television and sank into a delirium, laid out on the bed, chest curled in leaning against the backboard, watching hour after hour of black and white antenna programming. At one point, I nearly went to the old man at the front desk to ask him for whatever book he was reading. I searched the cupboards for a copy of the bible, and when I didn’t find one, joked to myself that God had truly left me, which sent me into a fit of howling, alone, on the floor.

I was spiralling until it took more energy to go crazy than it did to deal with the claustrophobia of this room. I washed my clothes in the bathroom sink with the provided soap bar and hung them from the shower curtain bar to dry.

I sit on the bed, legs thrown over the side, elbows planted into my knees, palms pressed against my forehead, eyes staring unfocused at my bare toes. Naked, in too many meanings of the word. I’m stripped in this retreat, feeling desperate.

Auna pops into my head. In the hysteria of my mind, the softness of her skin became holy, the memory of her taste divine. Admittedly, focusing on her helped me to calm myself. I thought about her watching me, which proved a sobering thought. What is it about this woman I shared only the length of several songs with that’s so firmly embedded her into my subconscious?

The engines rev, I can hear the wheels screech. They’re not far. I release some tension in a growl, building from the bottom of my gut and building itself through my chest until it releases in a painful howl. When it subsides, I still feel so imprisoned. The enraging thought floods through my body as a heat without release. I drop onto the floor, palms planted into the carpet, and begin a set of pushups. I pump my body against the floor, rising, falling, rising falling, feeling some release in my biceps and my core as they burn through some of the frustration. I used to do this all the time as a kid. Whenever my mother’s boyfriend pissed me off, I’d burn through the rage with his workout equipment in the garage. I watched as my teenage body expanded, muscle by muscle, from an awkward frame into a chiseled, disciplined physique. My reward came the day I could overpower him.

I finish an uncounted spurt of push ups and stand. I pull deep breaths in through my nostrils and blow them out from my lips. I’m feeling more focused, more concentrated. But nothing’s changed. The Devil’s Right Hands still shoot around the city as the sun descends, and I’m stuck in this roach nest of a motel.

I’m going to make a move. Sprint out of this town and hope I don’t call any attention to me. Or if I do, that I might win the inevitable firefight. I check my pistol, pulling it from beneath the lumpy pillow, and slide out the magazine. Six bullets. None to refill. Good start.

I blink and her brown hair covers my face. I can feel it tingle across my cheeks and chest like I’m there again, on the private couch, watching her. I realize I’ve been watching her ever since we parted. Maybe I’m so obsessed now I have no one. She’s the closest thing I have to another person in my life at this point. All ties severed.

I might die on my way out of town. It could all end tonight, and no one to think of me.

I have to see her.

I throw on my clothes, the pockets of my jeans still wet from the handwash. I slip my boots over my feet and step out of the motel. The sun’s dropped beneath the mountain, outlining its silhouette with a thin trace of pink that separates the day from the oncoming night. I pull the chilly air deep inside, feel it swell my lungs and send a shiver through me before I release it. I remember the way. On foot, no more than twenty minutes. As I set off, I pray she’s working tonight.

I keep off the side of the road, nearly trudging through mud to keep from being seen. Though, if one of them were to roar down this street at this moment, I’d be fucked. My boot snags a branch and I tumble forward. My body slams against the wet earth. It must’ve rained sometime in the past couple days. I didn’t notice. I press myself off the ground and rise again to my feet. I can see the half moon ascend into the deep blue sky in front of me. I take a deep breath and release it slowly. I see a bit of it billowing, a grey cloud disintegrating.

What am I doing?

The question doesn’t have time to ruminate, the thought of Auna’s auburn eyes, the color of bark painted with the orange light of a sunset,  flush the second guessing out and force my legs into motion again. There’s something out of my hands here, something too human to deny. I let the urge take over and force myself through the terrain towards the neon glow of the words Pussycat Lounge.

There’s a woman, older, forties or so, frizzy hair and an enduring smile, with a fistful of fliers, standing some twenty feet in front of the bouncer while he rolls his eyes. The men duck their heads as they pass her on their way inside. She must be part of some church in town, an over-zealous crowd. One of her papers floats past me, I catch a glimpse of it. A star, radiating. Some text about the light. No doubt, a missionary. I’d admire her if I didn’t find her choice foolish, and judgmental.

The letters of the neon sign flash and flicker as I step onto the pavement of the parking lot. Clicks in quick succession sound off in the space to my left. I twist my head and see her. Auna. She’s holding herself against the cold as she walks to the door. In a pair of tattered jeans, brown boots, a grey tee, and an unzipped green hoodie, she looks normal. And yet, my eyes seem to wrap her in light. I see her glowing against the filthy backdrop of a seedy stripclub on the edge of an affluent town, where the relocated shadows of the prim and proper people of Westwood Valley reside. She’s a banished angel. She’s been twisted. She can see everything from inside a dark cave, peering out into a world she’s no longer welcome to. It’s presumptive. But I feel it. As much as I feel the cold, I can feel her.

She passes the woman vainly trying to save her with a kind smile and a nod, graceful. Then the bouncer gives her a hard time while I stand frozen in the distance. I was compelled to come this far and now my body’s rigid. I can’t explain it. I feel like a little boy in her presence.

I’m not even in her presence.

I came here to say goodbye.

I force my legs back into motion. I pass the line of darkness where the edge of the streetlamps cast their glow. Soon as my boot sets down again, I hear it. It’s that familiar rumble, the engine’s kicking and they’re not too far away. They’re coming nearer. I step back into the darkness, twist and rush into the treeline. I turn to watch as they come into view, three of the four I saw before, speeding along the road towards the edge of town. I would hope they’re leaving, but with one behind, I wouldn’t count on it. Fuck. I can’t stay here.

After they dissipate down the road, the sound of their bikes not gone but soft in the backdrop of the night, I step out again. As I approach the door, the woman shouts over to me, but I ignore her. I won’t convince her she’s wasting her time just as she won’t convince me I’m worth saving. I pray in the church of solitude and shadow.

Bathed in the dirty yellow light, the bouncer’s gaze snaps towards me. It’s that same asshole with the spiked hair and the earrings. He sees who I am now, too. I can see his face switch from the bullshit tough look into the shiteater grin he wore when I first met him.

I step up and he places a hand against my chest.

I look at him like I don’t have time for his shit. “You wanna take your hand off me, friend?”

He’s chewing gum. He passes it from one side of his mouth to the other, mouth wide open. “Oh, we pals now?”

“The way you’re getting fresh,” I say, looking down at his hand.

He drops it, but stands before the door. “Who the fuck are you, guy?”

“Nobody you need to know,” I answer.

He raises his chin. “Maybe I do. I know all the other sad sacks who come here. But not you.” He pokes my chest and I grit my teeth. “You’re not from here.”

“That’s right, passing through. Now, let me get to it.”

He shakes his head. “You look like shit.” He eyes me suspiciously. I can see an idea sparkle behind his eyes. What does he think he knows? “Passing through, huh? I’ll bet you’re staying at that roach motel up the road, right?” He extends his neck, pushing his head closer to mine. “Right?”

I’d kick his cocky ass if a low profile wasn’t a primary concern. I’ll save the woman behind us the displeasure of playing witness to violence. I lean in close, let him see the fire in my eyes, have him compare for a moment who’s the bigger man of the two of us. I hold my arms out to the side a little, flex so my shirt constricts, let him see what real power looks like, see what a man who’s been physically tested and passed looks like. He shrinks back, but his ego holds onto his grin as best he can. He’s soft. And not worth it.

I turn around and head back towards the road.

Sorry, Auna.

But I’m really apologizing to myself.

5.

The motel comes into view, it’s just ahead. My body’s tired, I feel it in my muscles, I want to sleep, haven’t gotten a decent night’s rest since before I fled. Even before then, really. Now I think of it, I don’t recall sleeping well since Mike took over the MC. The tension in the air seemed to settle into me, I could only ever really shut my eyes and hope for a few winks. I watch a car pass by, then I cross the road, sifting in my pocket for my room key. I hear the jingle and pull it out, the keyring wrapped around my thumb. I twirl it as I approach the door.

I pause. What is this? The door isn’t quite shut and the light’s off. Someone else has visited my room. No, someone else is still in my room. Through the crack, I hear his heavy breaths. He’s a few feet behind it, probably standing, probably with a gun raised.

Shit. I left my gun inside. I look down to the attendant’s station. The old man is gone. Probably paid off. A few hundred hush money to kill a traitor on his premises in the late hours of the night. This is the Devil’s Right Hands. They’ve come for me. How the hell did they find me?

I take one slow, steady step backwards and the gunshot rings out. It blasts a hole through the door and whizzes past me as I turn to throw my back against the wall. The door pulls back and a man steps out, I see the back of his jacket and the red hand reaching up from hell. A brother. Sent to do the dirty work. Goddamnit.

I grab him by the shoulders of his jacket and spin him around. I slam his body into the side of the motel and the gun fires again, shot ricocheting off the pavement, a shard shattering the window of the next room over. I move my left hand from his shoulder to his head and slam his right ear against the wall. He groans. He’s reeling. The pistol falls from his hand.

I pull him back and slam his back against the wall and hold him there. I kick the gun some yards away and stick my nose in his face. The recognition of who it is stops my thoughts’ racing for a moment. It’s Richie. A memory flashes before my eyes, Richie, fourteen years old, racing his little dirt bike, wrecking on a turn, breaking his arm. Four years and a world apart, he stands before me, shaking his head to regain his balance from the blow I dealt him.

“Richie,” I hear myself say, almost mournful.

“Traitor!” he barks. Just like a leashed dog set loose.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I question. I can’t help my tone sounding like it did when I used to scold him as a teenager.

“Sent to take care of you, Rage. You can’t run.”

I sigh. He’s gone. They indoctrinated him. Mike’s gone, but his work in seducing the MC is complete. I got him too late. “How did you find me?”

Richie snorts. “Nothing fouler than the scent of a traitor. Just follow your nose.”

Suddenly, I feel his leg wrap around mine at the knee. He pulls it out from under me. We’re both going down. When we hit the ground, my shoulder nearly dislocates under his weight as he lands on top of me. For a moment, I’m pinned. He takes the opportunity to spit in my face. I shut my eyes. I feel his fist strike against my ribcage three times in quick succession. It’s enough to keep me on the ground as he stands. I swipe the spit from my eyes in time to see his boot swing into the same side as his fist struck me.

Fuck. I roll to the other side, hoping to take his next blow to the back. But he’s not kicking again. His footsteps round my head and lead towards the pistol. I see his hand reach down and swipe it from the pavement. He raises the thing with his chin raised like he’s the embodiment of divine justice, readying his stance for the shot.

Move, Wes.

I roll along the pavement as fast as I can. He fires. I don’t know if he hit me, but I spin until I’m beneath him. My leg swipes through his shins and he drops to the ground alongside. One adrenaline fuelled punch to his forehead keeps him there. I hear the sound of his skull bounce against the ground. I can feel it reverberate through my knuckles. Why, Richie?

I stand, but it’s a struggle. There’s a sting coming from my side. It must be the bruising. No. That’s the other side. I reach a hand over and feel a wet spot. I lift my shirt over my abdomen and see it. A small hole where it went through, the shot he fired as I rolled towards him. It’s close enough to the edge of my body I know it hasn’t hit anything, but I need this bandaged, quickly.

I look down at Richie, he’s rubbing his hands against his face. He’s trying to come to, I can see the anger still lit in his eyes. With one hand cupping my wound, I bend over and retrieve the pistol with the other. It feels heavy in my hand, I listen to the metal drag on the asphalt as I manage to raise it. Catching my breath, I lift it before Richie. Checkmate, kid.