“You guys talk a good game.” Oz walks backward and his feet crunch against the fallen autumn leaves. “But I’m not seeing action.”
Chevy and Razor share a side glance that spells all sorts of trouble and within seconds they’re on the balls of their feet and plowing into Oz. It’s a mangled mess of arms, legs, grunts and laughter. A playful wrestling match that’s half serious, half not, and, at least once, either Razor or Chevy pops up with Oz in a hold and they egg me on to take a swing.
I can’t do much more than laugh as Oz always finds a way to slip out of their hold, but ends up back on the ground. It’s eight all over again. Ten all over again. Thirteen all over again. Sixteen, too. It’s every year, every age, three boys who are becoming men with just enough of Peter Pan in them to keep them young.
As they wrestle, we keep moving farther and farther into the woods. Into our playground. The place where we’d spend hours frolicking and playing and being as free as wild children let loose into the world without a care.
I reach the old oak first and brush my fingers along the rough bark. I close my eyes and I can almost hear our giggles as we ran around this tree, feel the wind blowing through my hair as I pushed myself to beat Oz in a race to touch this tree first. I remember the feel of the dirt under my bare feet as I made the hike from Olivia’s to the pond so we could swim in the cold water in the hot summer sun.
All three boys laugh as they stumble to their feet and they’re a mess of dirt and leaves in their hair, but what’s important is that they’re smiling. I miss this. I miss seeing them smile.
“Hey,” I call out, and they all stare at me. “Not it.”
“Not it” is shouted into the night, and like always Razor is last. He socks Oz in the shoulder as he announces how each of us sucks.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not it.” I waggle my eyebrows and then go running off into the night. And as if I’ve never been weighed down, I fly. Feet barely touching the ground, not feeling the sting of branches as they catch my arm. My knee aches in warning, but I ignore it. I need a few minutes to feel free and my body needs to allow me this moment.
Laughter is everywhere. From Oz somewhere to my right, from Chevy somewhere on my left as they trade insults with each other and from Razor as he counts down using a new curse word in place of a Mississippi. The laughter is also from me. It springs from my throat, and there’s this warmth and energy that originates in my toes and is flooding my system.
Hope and happiness and memories of better times being relived.
Razor yells out, “Ready or not.”
My heart beats in excitement of the unsaid Here he comes. I flatten myself against a tree, and somewhere in the distance, Oz and Chevy discuss plans of jumping on Razor when he comes near and I swallow a giggle.
Footsteps in the woods. Twigs being broken. Leaves rustling. I hold my breath as it feels as if each and every inhale will give my hiding spot away.
Razor moves away from me and I choke on the giggles when Oz and Chevy leap from their hiding spots and tackle Razor.
“Go, Violet, go!” Chevy calls, and they’re giving me my chance to reach the oak and be the winner.
Once again, I’m on the move, but this time with a limp and not nearly as fast, but the pure joy that rages through my bloodstream at seeing the old oak is enough to wipe away all the pain that’s become layers of grime on my soul. Just a few more feet, a few more steps—
A hand around my waist. I swat at it and begin to playfully elbow when another hand covers my mouth and nose. The hold tightens, fear surges through me and I’m off the ground. My heart sinks. No, not again. Heat flushes my neck, my face, and a dry heave rocks my body.
My feet hit the ground again, my back and head rammed into a tree and flat eyes bore into mine. “Scream and I’ll have one of my guys in the woods put a fucking bullet in one of your friends’ heads. We lost you and Chevy yesterday after the game and now those of us who have been watching you are in trouble.”
Us. There’s more than one person stalking me.
His hand goes to my neck. It’s not tight, but it’s definitely a warning. “We’ve heard rumors your car was seen in the south side of Louisville today. Why would you have been there?”
My eyes flicker over his face. I don’t know this man. I don’t recognize him from the kidnapping. He shoves me again, into the tree, and a sound of pain leaves my throat. “Why were you in Louisville?”
“Violet?” Chevy calls, and there’s still happiness in his voice. “Where are you?”
“We weren’t in Louisville,” I say. “We drove around waiting for the party.”
“Liar,” he spits.
“Violet!” Chevy yells out, and his tone has changed. There’s concern, there’s anxiety and soon Razor and Oz join him in calling for me.
“Do you have the account numbers?”
My body shakes, but I force myself to keep eye contact. “Yes.”
“Sneak out tonight,” he says. “I’ll meet you outside your house and you give them to me.”
“I’m only giving them to Justin and Skull. They started this. They’re the only ones I trust.”
He leans into me and I turn my head because I don’t want his face so close to mine. “This is not a negotiation.”
The Riot believe they have all the power, but I’m the one holding the cards. “I’ll meet them tomorrow night at the place where we were kidnapped. I give the numbers to them and nobody else. You want Eli, I want peace. Tell me, how happy do you think Justin is going to be when he finds out you’ve shoved me against a tree. According to him, this isn’t how our clubs are playing anymore, or is he reneging on our deal?”
As if my words were acid, his grip on me weakens, and as he goes to step back, there is a snapping of a twig to the right. It’s Razor and he pauses long enough to blink and then he’s a freight train.
“Duck,” the guy says. “They’re going to shoot.”
Shoot. My heart stutters. “Get down! Razor, get down!”
The guy runs, Razor is barreling toward us, his hand going to the gun he keeps at his back and his eyes widen when I throw myself at him. A bang, Razor collides with me and we’re rolling until we stop. His body over mine, gun in his hand, a hand over my head as if he could keep me safe.
“Violet!” Chevy yells.
“Are you okay?” Razor asks.
I press at his chest, but he’s solid rock. “Yes, let me up.”
“Not until I know you’re safe.”
I punch at his chest. “They aren’t going to shoot me. You, yes. Me, no.”
Razor leans up on his knees and draws me up with him. I try to ignore the gun in his right hand and how my hands shake. Oz slides on the leaves in front of us as he tries to stop. He’s also holding his gun, but with both hands. “Which way?”
“The guy who had Violet by the throat ran to the right. Shot came high and from the left. That bullet was meant to keep us in place so they could escape.”