The Set Up (54 page)

I’m not my father.

The banging of metal slamming against metal jolts me awake.

That fucking nightmare about what happened to my father twenty years ago is back. I haven’t had it in years. I learned how to beat it. Conquered it with my need for speed and still, it’s back to haunt me. Well, it’s not going to win. I’m older. I’m stronger. And I know. I know that it wasn’t my father’s fault that he died. And unlike when I was younger, now I finally believe it. He didn’t want to die in the fire at the Laneworth Automotive Plant. He didn’t want to leave his family with nothing. Leave the woman he loved to fumble through life on her own and try to raise a boy who feared death so much all he ever wanted to do was prove he could beat it.

He didn’t want to leave my mother and me alone.

Just like Charlie didn’t want to leave me either. Mr. Lane took her. He ran. He had his own demons to fight.

Everyone does.

Like a phoenix rising, I bolt up, rising out of the ashes, out of the flames, emerging as the strong, confident man I made myself into. The one who has to get the fuck out of this prison cell.

I look around in my dimly lit, flame-free cell. My eyes sting but not from smoke, yet rather lack of sleep. I wipe the sweat from my brow and try to orient myself.

The guard is standing over me. “Let’s go,” he commands.

I hop to my feet and the shackling begins.

Quiet in his task, when he’s done I’m heaved from the cell and pushed forward. This time the cuffs are even tighter and I can immediately feel the bleeding. Blood trails behind me as I walk toward the elevator of the only fully-operational police precinct in the bankrupt city of Detroit.

Small.

Dingy.

And way too familiar.

I turn toward him. “If all federal buildings are under lockdown, does that mean all city land auctions are canceled?”

Today is the day 8 Mile goes up for auction. I’m in here and have had no contact with anyone, so I can only hope Will, Drew, and Jake do what they have to do to get it bought.

The guard shrugs. “I’d assume so. All city businesses are closed. No one is allowed in or out of them without prior permission.”

That answers my question, and I keep walking.

Joined by another guard, my escort is in place and the doors are opened.

The scene outside on this Monday morning is even more chaotic than it was Saturday morning. Still in lockdown mode, no one except police officials are being allowed inside the building.

I can see why.

Protestors now surround us in hundreds. A myriad of small colorful tents have popped up in front of the building. Smoke tumbles from several small bonfires dispersed between them here and there. It’s not marshmallows these people are looking to roast though—it’s me.

A small portable wooden structure with ‘Justice Shack’ written on it blocks a portion of the road. ‘Fuck the police’ graffiti is scrawled on the precinct building.

Things appear to be out of hand.

The demonstrators are holding signs and chanting that they will not leave until justice is served. I try not to look at the hatred on the faces of those who just weeks ago called me their white knight. Looked toward me to save this town. Craved what I so willingly wanted to give them—hope.

My head held high, I move through the crowd. But the closer I get to the curb, the more I begin to realize their eyes aren’t on me. Signs with the word, ‘Coward’, on them are everywhere. All of a sudden I understand the protesting doesn’t have anything to do with me.

What’s going on?

The door to the parked police car opens and a man chained and cuffed in the same manner as me is tugged from the back seat. The crowd is hostile and the people seem to multiply. All eyes are on the older man as he is hauled toward the building I just evacuated.

Looking like he hasn’t slept, shaved, or showered, a very unkempt Detective Sergeant John Hill suddenly appears in my line of vision. I suppose the man who arrested me mere days ago has been too busy with his investigation into the murders of Tory Worth and Eve Hepburn, and trying to nail me for both, to worry about those small things.

Without a glance back, he shoves his way through the mob of angry people and stops in front of me. Arms out to his sides, he is giving his best effort to clear a path for me to pass through the ever-growing mass of rioting people.

Just as I’m about to cross paths with the other shackled man, there’s a popping noise whizzing through the air.

K-pow. K-pow. K-pow

I know that sound.

K-pow. K-pow. K-pow.

My body goes cold.

K-pow. K-pow. K-pow.

“Get down!” someone shouts to the crowd.

“Cover your head!” someone else screams at the top of his lungs.

What follows is an echo. My ears are ringing. I have no fucking idea what is going on except for the fact I know that is the sound of a high-powered rifle. Hysterical screams rise above the crowd and then I look over to see a blanket of red spreading across the faded blue jumpsuit of the other man in shackles.

Fuck!

Someone shot him.

Everything is hazy. There’s a thud. It’s his body. He dropped like a rock sinking to the bottom of the ocean. My heart is pounding. Fear rushes through me like I’ve never felt. Am I next?

Chaos everywhere.

Shoving.

Pushing.

Shouting.

“Get the fuck down.” The guard is in my face.

My surroundings are blurred and I teeter on the edge of the step until a sudden shift in movement, or more like a shove, has me falling and sinking to the ground. My head is level with the man who was just shot. He’s dead. There’s no doubt about it. But his eyes are open. Wide open. Nausea fills my gut. Unable to move, I can’t help but stare at his cold lifeless eyes—one blue and one green.

“Get him out of here,” I hear the detective yelling.

He’s talking about me.

The guards are huddled on top of me and swiftly stand, pulling me off of the ground with them. Before I know it, I’m sandwiched between them. One in front, one in back, and they are hustling me back up the remaining stairs.

I start to count the steps.

One.

I’m not going to make it out of this alive.

Two.

Shit. Shit. Shit. My life is over before I ever started it.

Three.

I’m sorry, Charlotte. Sorry about everything.

Four.

Wait. There are no more shots. What is the gunman waiting for?

Five.

The cuffs no longer bother me.

Six.

The world gradually speeds up again. I’m no longer moving in slow motion. There are no more stairs.

I’m inside.

Unharmed.

Safe.

Alive.

“What the fuck was that about?” one guard says to the other.

“I think the better question is who the fuck is splattered on the steps?”

They stare at each other in bewilderment.

“I know who it is,” I mumble.

Their heads snap in my direction. “Who?”

“Tom Worth.”

And as soon as those two words leave my mouth my concern for Charlotte has never been greater. Fuck my situation. Fuck what just happened. If Tom Worth is back in town, more than likely so is Charlotte’s mother, Allison Lane.

And how will Charlotte take that news?

Not well.

I need to find a way to reach out to her. Even if it’s possible, I know I shouldn’t.

Never in my life have I felt so conflicted.

SPEED BUMP

Charlotte

THE PROBLEM WITH
community self-defense lessons is that they’re relatively civilized.

You square off against your instructor and although you’re using your fists to punch him and your legs to kick him, you aren’t really giving it your all because the reality is you don’t want to hurt him.

When looking your attacker straight in the eye—that no longer holds true, and all the lessons you’ve taken seem to have been for not.

“I’ve heard Krav Maga is the leader in self-defense training.”

I look over at Mrs. Storm as she takes the flowers out of the vases by the handfuls and tosses them into the trashcan she’s holding while we wait for my discharge papers. I can finally go home. Yesterday, I suffered from headaches all day, so I was kept overnight with strict orders to leave the television off and sit in quiet.

It killed me.

Today, I get to leave. Mrs. Storm is here with me and we’ve been discussing how I feel after my attack. Helpless. Vulnerable. Angry. Fearful. Yet, thankful that I’m alive. “So have I. I think I might look around for where classes are held.”

At forty-nine, Mrs. Storm is a classic beauty. With light-brown hair curled in big waves, high cheekbones, and a slender figure, she is probably the most beautiful woman I know. Petals fall to the ground as she looks back at me with what I can only describe as Bette Davis eyes. “I wish I could tell you not to, but with all the craziness going on around us it wouldn’t be a bad idea to be able to protect yourself better.”

I give her a nod.

“You know, Jasper isn’t going to take the news of your attack well. He’s going to blame himself.”

Jasper.

Oh, Jasper.

I miss him so much. My skin aches to be touched by him. My lips beg to be kissed by him. My hips feel bare without the press of his against them.

With a sigh, I swing my feet off of the bed and slip them into the flat sandals Mrs. Storm brought me yesterday when Jake ran her to my apartment to gather some of my things. “But it isn’t his fault.”

“I know that. And you know that. But Jasper, well, he’s—” She stops and waves her hand in the air. “Never mind.”

“He’s what?” I ask feeling comfortable enough to press her but not comfortable enough to press her too much. She spent all day Saturday and Sunday with me, and then came back this morning. Over the past two and a half days we’ve formed a connection that I find an uneasy comfort with. Uneasy because she’s not my mother, but Jasper’s, and he’s not that close to her—and I can’t figure out why. Which is why it makes me uneasy.

“Protective . . .” she says softly, then adds, “so very much like his father.”

Knowing from Jasper that talking about Luke Storm only upsets his mother, I haven’t brought him up and decide not to push my boundaries right now, so I give her another nod letting her decide what’s next.

Mrs. Storm leans against the rolling cart with the trashcan still in her hand and reflection in her eyes. Surprisingly, she doesn’t end the conversation there. “Luke and I were so young when I got pregnant. I was worried he wouldn’t be able to settle down and take care of us. But as soon as Jasper was born, his transition into a family man seemed effortless. I think I envied him for it. He was my rock. My cornerstone. He worried about us, protected us, provided for us—he took care of us. Sure, he still walked fast, talked fast,” she laughs for a moment as if letting the happy memories overtake her and I like seeing the joy in her eyes, “well . . . he did everything fast. Still, when he was alive I never had to worry about how much Jasper was like him. I just knew no matter what—Luke would never let anything happen to his son. But once Luke was gone, my fear only manifested itself and I worried I might lose Jasper too. As time passed, I knew I wasn’t wrong to worry. Jasper not only looked more and more like Luke, he acted more and more like Luke too. He, like his father, had a reckless side, but unlike his father, I couldn’t temper it. That’s why I sold the go-cart, the car, everything and anything I thought he might get hurt using. It wasn’t for the money like Jasper thinks; there wasn’t enough to have mattered. I thought I could change him, that’s why.” She laughs again. “Boy was I wrong. Jasper is who he is and I still worry every day that I might lose him to his reckless behavior.”

“Have you told Jasper this?”

She shakes her head and wipes a stray tear away. “No, I can’t change who he is.”

“But you can tell him how you feel.”

“I’ve tried many times. He hears what he wants to hear. I’m afraid my son doesn’t like me very much.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. He will never forgive me for what I did, and I will never regret it.”