Chapter 11

Connor

The sunlight is reflecting off the table, highlighting that it needs as much work as the rest of the run-down joint does. The owner, Theresa, is waiting, so I answer her questions as honestly as possible.

“I got into a bar fight. I overreacted.”

The manager looks down her nose at me. Her face is all angles and bones. She looks about as uptight as anyone can. Hair pulled back, thin skin, eyes cold like she’s seen just about every kind of hardship under the sun, but she’s hearing me out, not something that happens a lot.

“You broke the man’s jaw in two places. He was in the hospital for a month. That is more than overreacting, Mr. Slade.”

There’s nothing I can say to defend myself. It’s all true. “I made a mistake. I paid for that.”

She picks up her pen and starts tapping it on the job application. “Mr. Slade. Let me be straight with you. Your parole officer and I go to the same church, so I know she thinks the world of you. The manager at the halfway house gave you a glowing recommendation, but I’m not about to go to the trouble of hiring you if you are about to up and leave.”

I keep my face impassive as I think of an adequate reply. When I don’t really have anything, I go for brutal honesty. “I don’t have the means to leave, and if I did, I’d be in violation of the new conditions of my parole.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Alright, Mr. Slade. I’ll give you a chance. One week’s trial, then we’ll see where we are.” She pushes a form towards me. “Once chance, Mr. Slade. I don’t suffer fools, and if I get any inclination you aren’t able to control your temper, I’ll throw you out on your ass.”

I nod, keeping my expression grim to match hers as I sign on the dotted line. “I don’t doubt it.” I exhale and release all the tension I’ve gathered in my muscles and follow her to the back room.

“You can start by mopping the floor. And the windows need cleaning. We have an event on Saturday, and I need everything finished by then. I don’t have any other hands to spare, so this is all on you. Can you handle that?”

I grin at her. “Yeah. I can.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she leaves me to it. I work through the morning, glad to be doing something to take my mind off the woman who keeps invading my thoughts. When I roll out of the door, I’m dog tired, my chest is aching, I’ve barely earned enough to cover the cost of a hamburger, but it’s a start.

I smother a yawn as I crawl back to the halfway house, legs aching as I check in with the manager, thank him for the recommendation and head upstairs to my room. The halfway house is as sorry a sight as it always is. It’s falling down around us, but most guys inside here just want a chance, so they keep to themselves.

I lie back on the lumpy mattress and fold my arms behind my head, flinching as my chest stretches taut, and stare at the water stains on the ceiling. The wallpaper is peeling off at a corner of the room. The windows don’t open; it smells like state cigarettes and sweat. The doors don’t lock, the manager does random drug tests and room searches, but it’s the closest thing to a home I have right now.

I close my eyes and think about the beach house, about Evelyn’s soft skin, her lips, her tits, her ass, the way she moans. Then I start thinking about everything else I didn’t get to do with her, even stuff outside of the sack, all of which is pointless when I can’t do anything about it. I pull my cell out of my pocket and open the photo so I can look at her again. She’s a golden, tanned splash of color against the backdrop of grey in the room.

When my chest starts to dully ache, and not from my wound, I can’t look at her picture anymore, but I can’t delete it either. It’s the only thing I have to remind me of one perfect weekend. I shove my phone back in my pocket, keeping my eyes shut as I try to ignore the noise and try to stop thinking about a woman I can never have again.

When the house starts to quiet down, and I should be getting a snatch of sleep before what is likely to be another long day, the phone is in my hand again. My fingers are itching to text her to see if the package arrived. I have multiple ways to contact her. I know her home address, her work address, I have her cell number. I could probably even find an email address for her, and that I’m even contemplating any of that is not a good sign.

Maybe it’s some sort of reverse psychology shit? Maybe if she wanted me to stay, I’d not be so crazy about her? I snort into the room. Whatever it is, thinking about it isn’t helping anything. I’m bone weary, but wide awake thanks to the thoughts banging about in my head.

I give up all pretense of going to sleep and make my way downstairs. It’s too near curfew to risk going outside, and this isn’t exactly a good place to go out alone at night anyway. We’re pretty much in the armpit of the city, and I don’t need the hassle of some junkie or night crawler trying to get me to part with what little I have, so I head down to the rec room.

The room is about as seedy as you’d expect in a state-run halfway house. The manager, Jeff, is better than most, and because I mostly stick to the dozens of rules they have here, he leaves me alone. A couple of guys are lounging about watching tv, looking about as pleased to be here as I am. No one likes halfway houses.

Aside from the fact that we can leave to go to work and to eat, there are almost as many rules as jail. And given that twenty-five percent of what we earn goes straight back here to cover expenses, the state of the dump is what contributes to the general air of resignation and despondency.

I don’t bother to make conversation with either of them. There’s no point. Guys come and go from here, and before you can finish a sentence, someone is getting caught with booze or trying to sneak out. Both of which will get you kicked out of here and back in jail, so most guys play by the rules and wait out their time until some pencil pusher says we’re ready to be released back into polite society.

There’s a pile of magazines in the corner, so I slump into the chair and pick up a couple and start thumbing through them. I flip the pages, hoping to find something even remotely distracting, but since the magazines are almost five years old, all the crosswords have been filled in, the word puzzles done, and someone has completed all the Sudoku. I throw them back and pick up a pile of pamphlets for various community outreach programs.

I’m getting antsy. I need to do something to fill this hollow feeling in my gut that’s only getting bigger. I lean my head back on the rough fabric of the threadbare chair, springs digging into my spine, and hope I don’t catch fleas or something worse from sitting here.

I tap my foot, flex my ankles, my biceps, think about doing some push-ups before I give in and pull my phone out again. I look around the room, taking in the rickety table, the scuff marked, soiled carpet, the old coffee maker that’s full of limescale, then look at her picture to make myself feel better, but looking at her doesn’t change my circumstances. It doesn’t change the fact that I have absolutely nothing to offer a woman like Evelyn.

Knowing all of that, knowing that the only way I’ll never be in a position to give Evelyn anything she needs honestly, only makes the pit in my gut deepen. I take a final look at the picture, lock away every detail I can, then delete it along with her number.

I scroll through my contacts and tap out a message and know I’ll get a quick reply. I don’t feel as pleased with myself as I’d hoped when the message comes in less than a minute later.

A drink sounds great. Free Saturday XX Gina.

***

One week later.

Evelyn

Saturday 7.57pm

I’m strangely calm as I get out of my car and head towards the bar. There’s a steady stream of people coming in and out of the door. Cars have filled up the lot, and a tacky streamer announces that tonight is the first singles night of the season.

A shiver snakes down my back, so I wrap my coat tighter and head inside. It’s stuffy, the music too loud, the temperature too warm as dozens of bodies are pressed into too small of a space. I flinch as I cross the room to the bar, trying to sidestep leering men and wandering hands as I perch myself on the bar and remove my coat. I pull out my purse and text Rosie, who should have been here by now. I place my phone down on the bar, keeping it close in case someone decides to steal it and try to catch the attention of the bartender.

When I finally have her attention, I have to shout my order over the music. She nods at me and leans closer. “You do NOT belong here with these losers, honey.”

I don’t know whether she’s complimenting me, or insulting everyone else in the room, so I frown and accept the red wine she slides towards me. It’s too loud to talk to her, so I sip my drink and try to survey the room. When I see my third middle-aged man, all cut from the same cloth, all with sucked in beer guts, thinning hair and overeager smiles, I give up and check my phone.

I nearly groan aloud when I see Rosie’s apologetic message. So sorry! I’m stuck in traffic. Talk to the bartender; she’s a riot.

The knowledge that Rosie thinks the bartender is funny doesn’t make me feel one jot better about being here. Even if it wasn’t packed to brimming, and she wasn’t rushed off her feet, I can’t shout a conversation to her.

I down half my drink in one gulp and decide to give Rosie ten more minutes before leaving. I’m so bored, I pull out my phone and start playing a game. I’ve nearly completed a level when a hand waves in front of my face. I look up, annoyed, partially because I was about to level up, and partially because I hate my space being invaded, and find a pleasant-looking man, dressed in a polo neck and khakis.

He gestures to the wine and leans closer so he can shout in my ear. “Is the red worth drinking?”

I shrink back a little trying to get as far away from him as I can. He holds up his hands like he’s apologizing then holds up his finger, gets the bartender’s attention and starts doing the worst impersonation of sign language I’ve ever seen.

He looks so ridiculous that I laugh and shout back at him. “The wine is fine.”

A smile appears on his sun-kissed face. He orders without shouting by pointing at my glass and holding up two fingers. It seems rude to keep playing my game, and he seems reasonably normal, so I finish my drink and count off the minutes while he tries to talk over the music.

He leans in close again, his aftershave coming in waves along with his alcohol-laced breath. “I’m too old for music this loud. It’s ridiculous. I’m going to bust a vocal cord trying to talk to you.”

I’m so surprised he’s actually funny that I snort into my now empty wine glass. I swallow and am sure the glass can’t be as clean as it should be. There’s a tiny amount of grit, residue from the dishwasher or something. I stare into my glass and wonder why my cheeks are starting to flush, and my skin is starting to itch.

My heart starts to pound erratically as the man beside me extends his hand. When I take it, and he strokes his thumb over my mine, my skin starts to tingle. “I’m Rick,” he shouts.

The floor seems to be tilting, my head a little light, and my breathing starting to speed. I squint at Rick, trying to work out if I’m even mildly attracted to him or whether I drank my wine too fast. The room is suddenly far too warm, and I’m filled with an impulse to feel the chilly air on my face, so I grab my phone and my purse and try to garble a half-shouted excuse to Rick that I don’t feel well as I slide off my bar stool on legs like Jell-O.

Someone grabs my ass as I try to make my way past, I hiss a slurred curse, growing more alarmed at how one glass of wine seems to have affected me so much. Maybe I’m more tired than I realized? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all? I try to convince myself that’s what the problem is when I stumble outside in the cold night air.

The difference in contrasting temperatures does little to counteract the dizziness I feel. I’m in no shape to drive, but I’m not going to stay out here either, so I take wobbly steps feeling as unstable as a new-born foal and fumble with my purse to find my keys. My fingers are so uncooperative, I drop my keys and have to get down on my hands and knees to pick them up.

I groan as I place a hand to my head and pull myself back up. My vision is swimming, pulse speeding as I click the door open. I make it inside, head spinning as I slump into the seat and try to regulate my breathing. My limbs feel heavy like I’m dragging them through water, eyes so blurry I can’t see. I pull out my phone and peer at the screen as I scroll through my messages so I can call Rosie and tell her something is wrong with me.

I start to panic, hyperventilating as my palms start to sweat, I take shuddering breaths as I call the first number I find. I press it to my ear and try to take a breath as the phone rings. I keep sucking in breaths, but I can’t seem to release them, stars are darting in front of my eyes. My skin is tingling; my clothes too tight. No one is answering the phone, so I try the next number on my list. My desperation only grows as my fingers start to go numb. I start to sob hysterically, speaking nonsense as I drop my phone. I scramble to pick it up, but the movement sends my head spinning so violently, my mouth starts to water.

I lean out the door and see a pair of shiny shoes and khaki pants. I look up, nausea still spinning through me and find Rick smiling at me so pleasantly I stupidly find myself smiling back at him.

“Looks like you could use some help?”

I’m so relieved I choke out a sob. “I think I’m dying.”

He laughs like it’s hilarious and I’m being melodramatic. “I can make you feel better.”

I cock my head at him and take a panting breath. “How?”

His smile grows. “Why don’t you lie down in the back seat? I’ll go get you a glass of water.”

“I need to call Rosie,” I slur.

Rick reaches down so he can touch my shoulder. His fingers slide down my arm as he starts to stroke the skin on my arm. “Sure. But how about you get in the back seat first? I can call Rosie, so she knows you’re safe.”

I’m not sure if I’m capable of making it to the backseat, so I wave a hand lazily in dismissal. “I’m fine here.”

A dark look flashes across Rick’s face, and he looks around as if he’s expecting someone. “Just get in the backseat, you stupid bitch.”

My mouth opens in a silent shout as he grabs my arm and starts tugging me out the door. This time I do manage to croak out what I think is a scream. My head smashes in the door as I hit the pavement in a heap. Pain shoots through my knees as I’m pulled roughly under my armpits. I try to struggle, but all the energy is draining from my body as he picks me up and shoves me into the backseat.

I manage to kick him hard enough to make him curse, but he’s ready for the next attempt and grabs my ankle, wrenching off one of my heels in the process. I fight with everything I have left and keep kicking and trying to punch him until he’s on top of me, his hands around my throat and I can’t draw breath. My fingers fly to my throat as black starts to crush in. He releases me and starts pawing at me as I suck in gasping painful breaths of air.

Cold chills creep over my skin as he pushes my skirt up. His breath is hot and ragged in my ear. “You’re all the same, aren’t you? Stuck up bitches who wouldn’t give an average Joe a chance. I saw the way you were looking down your nose at me.”

I try to shake my head, but he slaps me hard enough to make my ears ring. I start to sob, which only makes him angrier as he rips my dress, exposing my bra. “No, no, please stop,” I slur.

But he’s not going to stop. He planned this. He must have put something in my wine when he was yelling in my ear. He watched me leave, and there is no one here to stop him.

***

Connor

I’m faking smiles and nodding along like I care about Gina’s breast augmentation surgery, but aside from the fact that I’m not even the slightest bit interested in her fake tits, my first official shift as bouncer starts in five minutes and I can’t afford to mess this up.

Theresa was so happy with the clean-up job I did, she’s upped my wage and promoted me from boy Friday and general errand boy to bouncer. The bar is dressed up and judging by the amount of cars in the lot; the singles night is going as well as Theresa hoped it would.

“I can show you,” Gina says.

I jerk my head in her direction as my phone starts to ring. I fake another smile and pull my phone out of my pocket. I don’t recognize the number, but it might help aid a hasty exit. “Sorry, this is important.” Gina looks shocked. I’m not taking her up on her offer to examine her chest but doesn’t say anything as I open the door and put my phone to my ear. “This is Connor.” I don’t hear anything but heavy breathing for a while, which makes me chuckle. I’m about to end the call and head back inside when I think I hear a woman crying. I shove my finger into my other ear. “Hello? Who is this?”

I hear a lot of scuffling sounds like someone pocket dialed me, but given that there are a limited amount of people who have this number, and I don’t have the caller’s number stored I hang on for a couple seconds longer. My patience and time are about to expire when I hear a man’s voice.

“Looks like you could use some help?”

“I think I’m dying.”

I freeze and press the phone harder against my ear, wondering if this some kind of joke.

The guy laughs. “I can make you feel better.”

That gets a half laugh out of me. Who is this guy? She says she’s dying, and he’s trying to screw her?

“How?”

Whoever she is, she sounds hammered. Her voice is slurring, and she sounds almost sleepy.

“Why don’t you lie down in the backseat? I’ll go get you a glass of water.”

My eyes pop open. Got to give the guy points for trying. I shake my head and wonder if I’m being pranked somehow. I take the phone away from my ear to flick a look at the time. Whatever this is, I can’t afford to get involved. If I screw this up, I will end up at the strip club like Tessa keeps joking.

My finger is hovering over the end call button when all my blood runs cold.

“I need to call Rosie.”

Rosie? I jam the phone back against my ear. “Evelyn? Is that you? Pick up the damn phone.”

“Sure. But how about you get in the backseat first? I can call Rosie, so she knows you’re safe.”

My heart starts to pound as my veins fire. It’s her. Some dickhead is trying to get her in the backseat of his car.

“I’m fine here.”

I stop breathing, praying he’s going to let it drop. “Come on. Come on. She’s not into it, walk away.” I hear more muffled noises; then my heart nearly beats right of my chest.

“Just get in the back seat, you stupid bitch.”

Cold floods my body as I piece together what’s happening. I start to pace, the thump-thump of my heart competing with the music coming from inside the bar.

“Evelyn!” I yell into the phone.

More scuffling sounds, rapid breathing that fades in and out, then a thump and the sound of a car door opening. I pace back and forth, trying to think of what I can do to help. There’s no way she meant to call me, of all people. She doesn’t have my number; the only way she could have called me is because of the picture I sent.

More scuffling, coming from further away. Then a man’s voice.

“You’re all the same, aren’t you? Stuck up bitches who wouldn’t give an average Joe a chance. I saw the way you were looking down your nose at me.”

My blood is boiling hot as I punch the side of my head to try jarring a thought loose. “Think, Connor, think dammit.”

Images of Evelyn start to run on a perpetual loop in my head. She’s in trouble, real trouble, and I can’t do anything to help her.

The horrific sound of fabric ripping makes bile rush to my throat. Then Evelyn’s weak voice. “No, no, please stop.”

All my muscles are primed, adrenaline rushing heat through me as I pace back and forth like a caged animal.

The man snarls at her. “Shut up.”

I know she can’t hear me, but I yell into the phone. “Evelyn, where are you? Tell me where you!”

Evelyn’s voice is still weak. “I have HIV.”

I close my eyes and start praying for the first time in years. Making all sorts of promises, if this asshole will just leave her the hell alone. The door to the bar opens, bringing with it music and a couple laughing as they stumble through the doors.

I stalk further away from the bar and keep my finger pressed into my ear so I can still hear. Laughter echoes in my ear, and I whirl around thinking it’s the couple from the bar. I can see the woman as she clip-clops in high heels across the pavement. Her tinkling laugh echoes in my ear. I spin around, wondering if I’m crazy when I see a guy climbing out of the back seat of a car parked at the fringes of the lot where the light doesn’t quite reach.

His eyes are darting about, and he’s straightening his clothing as he moves to open the driver’s door. I don’t need to think before I’m running full tilt in his direction. I have no time for stealth. If he makes it into the car, he’ll drive her somewhere else.

I hit the car at a run, smashing into the hood before I wrench open the door. His eyes go wide as I grab him by the shirt front and haul him out. I punch him in the face and don’t stop until he goes limp in my grip. I drag and throw him against the side of the car while I yank open the back door.

Evelyn is sobbing in the back seat, her nose bloodied and dress torn. She’s so out of it; I’m not even sure she knows who I am. “Evelyn? It’s okay. You’re safe.” I don’t know if she hears me, her eyelids flicker as her head rolls to one side. With a growl, I wrench her attacker a foot off the ground. “What did you give her?”

His teeth are stained with blood as he spits the words. “Just a roofie.”

I punch the shit out of him until I’m pretty sure I’ve permanently rearranged his face. If Evelyn wasn’t lying in the backseat and I wasn’t worried she needs an ambulance, I probably would have killed the fucker. I leave him in the dust and open the back door, flinching as she tries to fight me off.

“Evelyn? It’s okay; it’s Connor, I’m going to get you out of here.”

She’s so out of it; she doesn’t stop fighting as I try to help her out. Her attempts are so weak, and she’s getting even more upset, so I leave her and dig around the floor of the car, looking for the cell she must have dropped.

I’m searching in the front when I hear a scream and find a woman with short red hair backing away. “What did you do to her? Oh shit, oh shit.”

Before I can say a word, she runs like hell back towards the bar, screaming ‘rape’ the entire way. I have enough time to grab Evelyn’s phone, put it on the passenger seat along with mine before I hear the sirens in the distance and I know exactly how this is going to play out.

I slump against the car, my eyes on Evelyn, as I turn around and slowly put my hands in the air.