Chapter 8
“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”-Maya Angelou
A Year Later
There are exactly five people in this town that know me, or of me. My neighbor Bentley, the bouncer where I work, Brock, the pimply faced kid who works the late shift at the liquor store, the chick at the Knight’s Super Foods who always seems to be working when I go in and Penny, the manager at the club who hired me. It’s just enough people to be safe and few enough to avoid drawing any attention to myself. I’m not a hermit. I just don’t like people all that much anymore. I suppose if shown a picture in a line-up some of the gym junkies where I box with Brock would be able to say ‘yeah, I’ve seen her’ but I doubt they’d remember my name. I like my quiet life. No distractions. It allows me to keep my eyes open and to stay alert and watch for the real danger. It’s not easy being paranoid and afraid all the time. Somewhere over the last year I went from feeling non-stop sorrow and bone-crushing guilt to rage. Pure hate. It fills me. It drives me now. I train because of it. I stay alert because of it. And I will achieve my objective because of it. Ezra will come for me. I realize he is the only thing keeping my hurt around. It was his fault. It still is and yet, I’m the one paying. I gave up my life, my love, my soul. Ezra has to pay and I am determined to make it happen, on my terms. I just have to stay alive long enough to kill him first. I have to do this. He ruined my life. I have nothing. I am nothing. I want it done as soon as possible. I’ve bided my time for so long now. Then I will forget. I will begin my life and I will forget that I ever knew him.
If there were more people close to me there would be more people to be worried about. More potential casualties or more people who could say the wrong thing to the wrong person without knowing, leaving me in real danger. My life is a shell of what it once was but I don’t have a choice in the matter. Bad things do happen to good people. I know all too well. You have to move on, move forward, if you can. You have to be a survivor. Adapt or die, because in an instant your entire life can be upended. One moment of panic. One millisecond of courage can alter the course of your life.
Sweat drips down my chest and back as I finish my workout on the treadmill. Brock ran me hard today in the ring but I like the pain. I prefer the exhaustion. It helps me sleep. His big black frame looms over me, watching the beads of perspiration roll down my cleavage.
“Quit it,” I bark, slowing to a walk.
“I know the rules, Mags, I can look but I can’t touch,” he smirks. God, he’s irritating sometimes. He pulls the ripcord on the treadmill and I hop off, taking the towel from him.
“I wish you wouldn't bother looking either,” I huff.
“Can it, honey, it’s good practice for you to not be an uptight snot for work, better tips.” I roll my eyes at his lame response and brush past him. It’s the most contact he’ll ever get from me. He’s built like a linebacker, broad and ripped and firm. He’s quite handsome actually, but he’s not for me.
“So you gonna come out and say it?”
“Say what?” I ask.
“You’re into me,” he smirks devilishly.
“I’m not into you, I’m Mags,” I bite out teasingly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His adorable face wrinkles in confusion.
“All I’m saying is, if you were lucky enough to have me, you wouldn't wanna share.” I watch Brock's eyes widen and follow me as I head to the locker room. “See you tonight, B!” I call over my shoulder before pushing into the women’s locker room to shower and get ready for work.
*****
The music blares and the bass vibrates the floor. Neon colored lights flash and strobe around the throng of people dancing. When the music’s loud, I don't think about him. As I filter through the crowd, I can be without him. It’s a small club really but Thursday through Sunday night it’s packed. I work Wednesdays through Saturdays and make a killing. I lift the tray loaded with mixed drinks and beer over my head as I pass through a crowded part of the floor, a few whistles and catcalls come from the frat boys close by. I ignore them. I suppose if I were a normal twenty-three year old I’d like the attention, but I’m not. I have no interest in a relationship with anyone of the male population that frequents this club. I bring the tray in front of me and pass out the drinks to their appropriate owners before smiling and heading back to the bar. A hand grabs my rear and squeezes. It makes my lungs squeeze the air out and my breath hitches. I drop my tray and grab the wrist of the offender, twisting it painfully. “Damn! Down girl!” the idiot grits out while I glare at him.
“If I wanted your hands on me, you’d know it,” I spit out. I can’t cause a scene, one more and I'll lose my job. I’ve already been warned. I need this job for my sanity. Must remain calm.
“I thought dressed like that you did want my hands on you,” the jerk seethes, pride wounded. It takes everything I have not to punch him in the face. What an ignorant ass. I dress this way because I’m supposed to for work, but also because it’s better for tips. I roll my eyes at the sad little man in front of me and stomp off to the bar without bothering to pick up my tray again.
This is a far cry from where I thought I’d be by now in life. Hell, a year or two ago I’d have never even wanted to be a patron in a place like this, it just wasn’t my scene. Now, well now, it pays the bills and mostly I’m just a number. A faceless, barely-dressed girl slinging drinks in a large crowd. I like being anonymous. It helps me feel less out of control, less afraid and less paranoid. The rest of the night slides by with ease and after the club shuts down for the night I grab my bag from the backroom and make my way out, grateful to be done with work. I relish the quiet hours of the morning when I get home from work.
“Mags, girl, you got another fan.” Brock chuckles deeply before handing me a hundred dollar bill. Great, just what I need, another stalker. I take the bill from him and roll my eyes.
“Who’s it this time?” I snort in disgust. Men, always trusting my smile. Always trying to get me to want them. Leaving little notes with Brock or the bartenders for me with their numbers on them. ‘Call me’ or ‘You’re hot’ etched on the check or bill. Lame.
“No name, just said ‘for the hot black-haired chick with the back tatt’,” Brock explains. I stare at his large linebacker frame for a moment before checking the bill for a phone number or name. Nothing. Huh. “I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it, hun, I keep my eye on you girls, you know that.” He smiles gently. I return his smile, although mine doesn’t reach my eyes.
“I know. Thanks, Brock.” I make my way to the parking lot out back. I inspect the bill again and a chill runs through me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my breath falters. My paranoia overwhelms me, like always. I look around me slowly and continue to move towards my piece-of-shit car. It’s a Buick land yacht older than I am with no keyless entry but lots of rust. It gets me from point A to B though, and that’s all that really matters. There is no one out here. I’m safe. I pull the pistol from my purse anyways, check to make sure it’s loaded, and take the safety off. A girl can never be too safe these days, right?
I slide the key into the door lock and toss my bag across to the passenger seat before sliding into the car. Pulling the door shut and locking it, I switch the safety back on the pistol and tuck it under my seat before starting the car. Ten miles outside the city just across the rail tracks I take a left onto a quiet little dirt road that leads to a shitty trailer park where everyone leads a shitty existence. Dull and trashy with no hope of escaping their lives. It’s depressing as hell. I never thought I’d live in a crap hole like this but here I am. Quite frankly it suits me, now. I find it comforting and safe. People leave me alone for the most part and mind their own, which is exactly why I picked it as my new home. I bounce past the rusty rotten trailers until I arrive at mine. I pull up next to my door, toss the land yacht in park and shut her down. After retrieving my gun and bag I quickly move from the safety of the car to the safety of my trailer.
From the outside it looks no different than all the other dingy beat up trailers in this park, but inside is a different story. My windows have all been replaced with bulletproof glass, as well as the front and rear doors, and I’d had all the walls reinforced from the inside when I moved in. The security system is what I’m really most fond of, though. Tiny cameras are mounted on all corners of the trailer and from my bed I can watch the wall-mounted flat screen panels and see everything that goes on from every angle outside my trailer. There are no blind spots. The cameras are not visible from the outside; even if you knew to look for them you’d still have a hard time spotting them. I’d had them all camouflaged in cheap tasteless decoration that fits right in with all the other tacky lawn and trailer decorations in the park. My trailer is my fortress, safe and secure. I toss my bag onto the slouchy Crate and Barrel couch that I just simply had to have and quickly do a walk-through of the tiny space.
The living room and eat-in kitchen are all open when you enter, making it easy to see anything out of place. All lights in my trailer are motion-sensitive, so when you enter a room they come on automatically. I can override that feature from my phone on some app, so that if I ever need it to be pitch-black, I can make it happen quickly. The lamp to my left switches on as I pass into the small hall that leads to the bathroom and then the bedroom. My furniture, although sparse, is all nice and modern. Shabby chic meets Ikea. I love it. I love how the modern clean lines blend with the distressed country cottage look. I tuck my gun under the pillow opposite mine on the bed and head back to the kitchen to pour myself some bourbon before bed. I like the way the ice clinks against the glass. It soothes me.
Drink in hand I unlock the three deadbolts on the side door and exit the trailer to sit on my little slice of AstroTurf that I pretend is a deck. No one is up and milling about at this hour so it’s peaceful and quiet. I plop down in my Adirondack chair and take a deep breath before taking a swig of my drink. I don’t need to live like this. I have money. So much that I don’t know what to do with it all other than stare at it sometimes. But I don’t often look at it. I don’t touch it unless I need to. It reminds me of what happened. Of what I did. So I work instead, and live off that money as much as possible. That money isn’t tainted.
“Nice night out, huh?” a deep voice rumbles to the left of me in the darkness. It startles me from my thoughts. Bentley. He once told me that he was born in his trailer, it was his parents’ until they passed and left it to him. I’d asked why they named him Bentley, and his reply had been that they thought if he had an expensive sounding name that he’d make it in life…that he’d make it out of this trailer park and do great things. So much for that, I think as his chiseled jaw peeks out from the shadows. Damn, that man looks good with stubble. His rough good looks really should be kept in check.
“I hate it when you do that, Bent,” I squawk at him. He chuckles lightly before emerging from the shadows and sitting next to me in the vacant Adirondack chair to my left.
“Got any more?” he nods to my glass. “I could really use a drink tonight.” He smirks. I sigh and nod before getting up and quickly fixing him one. When I reach out to hand him his drink our fingers brush lightly against each other, causing me to quickly pull my hand away. There’s something there but I ignore it like always. He notices, but says nothing, knowing better than to bring it up. We aren’t friends per se but we aren’t strangers either. He has somehow bullied his way into my life. He shows up at odd times and just sits with me. Sometimes he rambles on about his life and other times we sit in amicable silence together. He never asks about me anymore. He knows I work slinging drinks and he knows that I prefer to be left alone but that’s about it.
He tilts his head back and takes a sip, and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. He’s a very, very good looking man. The rough and ready type. Probably a few years older than I am, if I had to guess. He clearly works out because every muscle that I’ve seen on him is impressive, and I’ve seen a lot of them since as he prefers to run topless most mornings. His eyes are a blue-hazel color that sucks you in and that makes him look warm and friendly, and he keeps his chestnut hair trimmed short. Aster would just about die if she ever met him. “Quiet tonight, hun,” he says and winks at me, full well knowing that I’m always quiet, unless I’m irritated. He always seems amused by the fact that I keep to myself.
“Just tired,” I lie. I’m far from tired. I barely sleep in general but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Tough night at work?” he asks hesitantly. I nod my response and give him a half smile.
“You’re late on your electric bill,” he says. I snap my head to him.
“What?”
He pulls a stack of my mail out and sets it on the table between us, the electric bill already open. “Wait, you read my mail?!” I shriek.
“Well what's the point of getting it if I'm not going to open it?” He chuckles. I snatch the mail and tuck it under my rear glaring at him. He takes three more slugs of his drink, finishing it off before setting the glass on the arm rest and standing. I watch his forearms flex as he pushes up and have to stifle my groan. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone in any sort of way and Bentley’s visits only remind my hormones of what they’re missing.
“Thanks for the drink, Princess. Maybe we’ll chat tomorrow.” He winks and grins at me, knowing we most likely won’t talk or it will be him talking, before disappearing into the shadows again leaving me alone.
“Night, Bent,” I call out into the darkness, and smile. He’s so strange, not that I’m one to talk. I pull the elastic from my hair and let it cascade down around my shoulders. Running my hands through it I try and massage my scalp a bit to relieve the pressure in my head, before downing the rest of my drink and carrying two empty glasses back into the trailer and locking up for the night. At three-thirty am I take my prescription sleeping pill. The pills keep me from dreaming. Most nights I don't take them because at least in my dreams I’m happy. I’m where I want to be. After a few months of waking up alone and depressed I’d sought out help from Penny. She had referred me to a free clinic in the area. She was overly concerned about the bags and dark circles under my eyes and seemed pleased that I’d sought her out for help. Not tonight, though. Tonight I have no past. I only have now. At four am I crawl into bed and slide my hand under the opposite pillow. Gun, still there. I heave a sigh of relief and fall into a dreamless sleep for a couple of hours.