This Is a Dark Ride (5 page)

Brody crumpled beside her in the snow, trying to decide what to do. A weird tightness gripped his chest. She shouldn’t be here like this. He wondered who would miss her, who besides him had ever noticed her. He wished he’d talked to her. He’d walked right by her a dozen times, and they’d never exchanged a single word. She’d smiled at him once when he’d walked to the liquor store. He didn’t think he’d smiled back, but he hoped like hell that he had. She’d deserved that much at least.

One night she’d given him a dollar when he was bumming change from people in the liquor store parking lot. He hadn’t asked her for money, because he knew what she had to do to earn it, but she’d offered and he’d taken it. He hadn’t smiled at her then either. If anything, he’d probably looked at her like she was a moron. All it took was a look at her to know she didn’t have a damn thing, and she was giving away money. It occurred to him now, as he looked at her, that not everyone was like him. Some people still knew how to be kind. Some people still had goodness inside of them.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I should have thanked you. I don’t know who did this to you, but I’m real sorry.” He lay beside her body trying to remember a prayer, but his foggy mind couldn’t make it past
Our Father…

Brody finally gave up trying to pray, instead murmuring more quiet apologies, for not smiling back at her, for being an asshole to Sam, for being a piece of shit drug addict, for being a rotten son and leaving his mom.

Closing his eyes, he took the girl’s hand, imagining he was back home. Mom was in the kitchen, singing, wearing her favorite apron. The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted on a warm breeze. Sam and he were sitting on the big wraparound porch of Brody’s mother’s house. This girl was in a white summer dress, laughing, unharmed, and running barefoot in the grass.

He opened his eyes and stared up at the darkened sky, watching the snow coming down on him and thinking about every horrible thing he’d ever done in his life. It wasn’t fair that this poor girl who’d been nice enough to give him a dollar was lying here dead in the cold. He balled his hand into a fist and brought it down hard on the side of his leg, cursing life and himself, for both being so fucking unkind. His anger cooled as the snow melted on his face. For him there was still time to fix things, still time to be something more than what he’d been. He briefly wondered what she’d do with another chance at life.

He should probably go call somebody. Like 911. The phone had been turned off at the apartment for a while now, but old Mrs. Mueller down the hall would probably call them if he told her about this.

Brody imagined knocking on her door. Ironically hers was the only one in the building with a big welcome mat in front of it.

Hi, Mrs. Mueller, it’s me, Brody Redlinger, your neighbor from 511. Um…hey, listen, I found this dead chick out back…

He could just see her peering at him out of the crack, with a big brass chain lock on the door. Then she
would
call the cops, all right, and he’d be the first one in the back of the squad car.

He was going to have to walk down to the building manager’s apartment and ask him to call the police. That idea didn’t sit well with Brody either, especially since old man Varnes didn’t try to hide the fact that he didn’t approve of Brody and Sam’s relationship either. Aside from that, Brody was sure Sam and he were behind on the rent, but at least the building manager wouldn’t automatically think Brody had something to do with this.

The cops would come, and they were going to ask questions. No way around that. It would make things a lot easier for him if he just went home and left her for someone else to deal with. Fuck, he dreaded sitting at the police station all night, answering a bunch of questions about something he didn’t know a damn thing about.

He glanced at the girl again, remembering how at every funeral that he’d ever been to, the bodies all seemed hollow and dull, like empty shells or dried husks. She didn’t. She seemed to glow with life.

Hesitantly he touched her neck, trying to feel a pulse. The silken skin was warmer than his icy fingers. She hadn’t been here long.

Dumped. Fucking dumped, like trash.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered. “If there was some way I could change this for you, I would. I promise you that.”

He traced her jawline with his index finger, resigning himself to the idea of dealing with the cops and their questions. Leaving her alone back here without calling anybody would be a shitty thing to do.

A small, rattling breath blew from her lips. Brody jerked his hand back.

She isn’t dead.

Impulsively he gathered her in his arms and struggled to stand up. She was heavier than he expected, and he stumbled. His weak arms shook with the strain of supporting her weight. He silently vowed that no matter what, he would not drop her. Brody was unsteady when he walked on his own; carrying the woman was a monumental task. His legs trembled as he stopped to open the front door of the building.

In the stairwell of the apartment building her eyes opened, and in the bright fluorescent lighting she stared up at him and blinked. A single tear streaked down her cheek, while a thin trickle of blood ran from her nose. Knowing she was awake gave him a new surge of energy as he trudged up the narrow flights of steps. He moved as quickly as he could up each flight, hoping no one would be coming or going this time of night and see him carrying the naked girl. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but somebody would definitely call the police.

“It hurts. Why does it hurt to be dead?”

“You’re not dead,” Brody said.

“But I flew. How did I fly if I wasn’t dead?”

“You’re not dead. You weren’t dead; you were unconscious. It must have been a dream.”

Her eyes were glazed. “I’ve seen you before. You’re not one of them.”

He didn’t know who
them
was, but he wasn’t one of them, whoever they were. “I’ll call an ambulance for you,” he said.

She shook her head vehemently. “Please…don’t.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t want any shit… Cops asking questions, all that, you know?”

He tried to give her the smile that he wished he would’ve the day she’d smiled at him, wishing for her that whatever fucked-up shit she’d been through had never happened. “Me neither. What’s your name?”

“Angel.”

“I’m Brody.” Speaking hurt. His chest burned, and he struggled to catch his breath. The back of his legs ached, and so did his arms.
Damn, she’s heavy. Why we gotta have so many steps?
She had to feel his heart thumping as she snuggled against his chest. Almost there. He began counting his steps to take his mind off the act of climbing them.
One. Two
. Only a few more to go. No more than ten. At fifteen he could finally reach out and touch the cool brass of the knob.

He fumbled with the lock on the apartment door, only to realize he’d forgotten to lock it when he left earlier. Sam would have a fit if he knew. Sam would probably have a fit about this whole fucking situation. The keys fell in the hallway, and he kicked them into the apartment, still holding the girl tightly.

“If I die…if you do have to call somebody…one of them was named Bobby. He was older. I heard the other ones talking to him. That’s what they called him.” Her fingers dug into his arm, her nails biting into his skin. “He’s the one who… He had a bottle.”

Brody finally managed to get the door open. “You’re not going to die. What’d this Robby guy do? Did he hit you with a bottle?”

“Bobby. They called him Bobby. He mostly used his fists, I think.”

Brody set her down on the sofa. Blood was streaked down her legs, all the way to her bare feet. Most of it was concentrated on her thighs, her inner thighs.

A horrible idea pierced his cloudy mind, and he tried to push it away. “What did he do with the bottle?” He was afraid he already knew. He knelt down in front of her and studied her face. She looked down and began to sob. He shook his head as his worst thoughts were confirmed.

“Everything hurts.” She wept like a child, nothing held back. He floated in his mind, thinking how honestly she cried. For a long while he did nothing but hold her. He let her soak his shirt with tears and cling to him like he could somehow magically protect her from all the fucked-up things that had already happened. Finally he pulled his head back from hers and looked down at her.

Pretty, so damn pretty and just all beat to hell. It was a shame what people were capable of doing to other human beings.

She was such a soft girl. Holding her reminded him of how much he’d once enjoyed the company of women. He struggled to pull his mind back from the place it was wandering to. She wasn’t here with him naked because she wanted him. In fact, he wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted a man again.

He held her on the sofa and rocked her. The way his mother had done for him after he’d taken beatings from his father. His father had never accepted Brody’s attraction to other men, but Brody had been lucky. His mother had always had his back. Always.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.”

She pulled back and nodded, her hands trying to scrub the tears from her face. “I know. It just…hurts.”

“I have something for you.” He got up and turned around.

“It’s pretty,” she murmured.

Brody paused but didn’t turn to face her. “What’s pretty?”

“The tattoo. On your back. I can see it through your shirt. Are those wings?”

“Yeah.”

“Like an angel,” she said in a dreamy-sounding voice.

“Sort of.”

Not really. In fact, not at all. They were just wings on his back. He hadn’t been thinking of angels or saints when he got them done. They were just wings. Just a cool-looking tat he’d picked out of a book full of drawings. She probably couldn’t read the script lettering between them through the ribbed athletic shirt.
This is the end. Beautiful friend, the end
. A little tribute to Jim Morrison.

He’d never thought of it before, the idea of being an angel. He’d jokingly told a few people they were demon wings, but no one had ever made a comparison to him and an angel.

It was foolish…and cute. Almost funny. When he died—even in hell—he could be an angel. Not just any angel, but an angel with wings. Didn’t you have to do righteous shit to earn them? Apparently not—all you need is a buddy with a tattoo gun.

Brody went into his room and retrieved the Vicodins off his dresser. They were dirty, no longer white, now more of a brownish color, from his dirty pockets and dirty hands. He took one from his palm and held it between his thumb and index finger. Brody stared at it, thinking of how he’d polluted it with his filth. Finally he swallowed it, dry, wishing he had more. He saved her the last two and went into the other room.

He rinsed out the cleanest dirty glass on the counter and filled it with water, then held out the glass and the remaining two pills toward her.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked down at the Vicodin and then back up to his face. He saw the way her expression changed, like she suddenly saw him for exactly what he was, not a fucking angel…just a fucking druggie.

“I don’t take drugs.”

“It’s just pain medicine. Vicodin. It will make you feel better.”

She still seemed to regard him suspiciously, but she cautiously took the pills from his hand.

“Go ahead, take them.” He nodded and did his best to smile at her.

Her hand shook as she took the pills and sipped the water. She set the glass on the coffee table and hugged her arms around her body, reminding him that she was naked. And cold. Fuck, he was an asshole. She was freezing, and he hadn’t even offered her anything to cover up with.

“I’ll get you a blank—um, a sheet. I’d give you the blanket, but it’s dirty. I had the cat in here before and he… Well, never mind. Let me get you a sheet.” He left to get it without looking back at her.

He tossed the sheet beside her on the sofa.

“You need to be washed,” he said.

She nodded, her eyes solemn. “A hot shower would be nice.”

“I’m going to make sure you’re okay first,” he said, looking at the blood staining her pale thighs.

Her head shook violently, but Brody ignored it, turning toward the kitchen sink and clearing dishes away. He took out a can of cleanser and began scrubbing the sink, aware that, behind him, she was watching.

“What are you doing?” she finally asked as he used the sprayer and rinsed out the sink.

“I’m going to set you up here on the sink and clean you. I want to see how bad you’re hurt.”

“No.” Her voice quivered.

He turned and looked at her. She was trembling, her heavy breasts shaking a bit, her eyes wide. Fuck, she was such a pretty girl. If she wasn’t hurt…if things were like they used to be… A thousand ifs. Too many buts…

But—even if he could, he wouldn’t. Not now, not with the way things were with Sam. Sam was too fragile now, too needy, too sad. It would hurt him now. It never bothered him before, but Brody knew it would now. Brody’s problems, the way his addictions had affected him sexually, seemed to have had an even bigger effect on Sam. Sam felt like this was his fault, like he wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe he wasn’t. Brody loved him with everything that he had, but there was still this empty hole inside of him. He’d always felt that same hole inside of Sam, that same emptiness and longing.

“Yes,” he said coolly. “I’m just going to wash you. You don’t have to be scared. I’m not going to do anything to hurt you. I just want to see what we’re dealing with.”

He turned and pushed the sprayer back into the hole, waiting for another protest. It wasn’t a long wait.

“I don’t…I don’t want to, and I’m not scared!”

Brody had grown accustomed to Sam’s obedience, and he sighed impatiently.

“I didn’t ask you if you wanted to. It needs to be done.” He looked into her frightened eyes.

“It’s too embarrassing.”

“Come on. Life’s full of embarrassing moments. This is no big deal.”

He turned to the sink and twisted the knob on the hot water. “I’ll even wash my hands first,” he said, squirting dish soap onto his palm. “Just like being at the doctor’s.”