AllFreeNovel
Share Us
If wishes were fishes I'd have a fucking sea, because I've spent the last two days wishing I'd had the sense to use my phone's video recorder. When I'm not wishing that, I’m making absolutely sure I heard what I think I heard. Can I trust myself?
I know I can, because there is one thing I remember clearly. It's that gut-shot feeling I got when I heard Priscilla say "He doesn’t want to hurt a lady." Before that, I'd let myself believe that Priscilla really didn’t have anything to do with Sarabelle, or if she did, she was as much a pawn as myself.
But I know now she’s not, and it feels like someone stuck their steel-toed boot through my abdomen. I've only felt that way one time before. It was when I was nine and Rita turned on me for the first time.
I'd had the chicken pox, and I was itchy and whiny. I overheard Dad worrying about my fever, which was high enough that I'd been delirious—although I was lucid at that moment, wrapped up in my Power Rangers sheet and spying on them from behind the couch. Rita sighed and said, "Maybe he'll sleep for a few days." She did this funny laugh that was deeper and said, in hushed voice, "Or more than a few."
Dad just laughed, and he told her to drink another glass of wine, but I had known by the tone of her voice that there was more. And there was.
I don't like thinking about that, so I try to stop. I'm in the basement underneath the arena, in a small, tiled locker room that reminds me of another basement. I need my mind clear tonight, so I try hard to think of something else as I shower and wrap my back.
I've been given some small black shorts to wear, but I can't face thousands of people in something that looks like an overgrown Speedo. Those things are bad enough in the damn pool, but I'll be jumping around out there. I'm well-endowed, and half the town doesn’t need to see it. I pull my black gym shorts out of my duffel bag and tug them on over boxer-briefs.
I take a long look in the mirror, running a critical eye over my sallow face and tense shoulders. If I went out shirtless with this gauze wrapped around my torso, I'd look like a hospital runaway, but I can't stand the thought of lifting my arms to put a shirt on. Tough shit. I pick a light blue shirt from a charity triathlon I did last year and I feel sick by the time I've got it on.
I think I have a fever, and I know why. It's because of my back. I should see about getting some antibiotics, but for some reason, I haven't. I tell myself it's because I don't want the headache. I tell myself it's because I can't go in for an exam; word would get around. Last time I went to the ER, with a fractured ankle from an impromptu game of soccer with one of the neighborhood kids in Napa, one of the local San Fran gossip rags ran some bullshit story about me coming from a 'certain' area of town where I used to get my coke.
That stroll down memory lane makes me pissed, and that should be a good thing, since I need a little energy boost for the fight. But pissed leads me only one direction, and that's Priscilla's. All I want to do now is smash my own reflection in the mirror.
My fist curls, and I come so close to doing just that, I have to go sit on the bench beside the shower and start taping up my hands. A shrink once explained to me the concept of mindfulness. It’s been useful before, and I try it now—paying attention to the stickiness of the sports tape. To the shape of my fingers as I wrap each one. I even give some thought to the scalding pain on my back, telling myself it hurts like hell, but I'm not dead or anything. Just keep breathing.
And I do.
But with every breath, I want to punch that fucking mirror.
How could I be so stupid?
How could I let her get so close?
Even before I thought I was being set up to take the fall for—for whatever the fuck is going on, I knew she was trying to blackmail me for sex. Why did I ever go along with it?
You know why.
Rita’s face follows me as I pace.
I check the clock on the counter: twenty minutes till show time. I inhale deeply, and I remember Marchant's reaction when I first told him Priscilla and Lockwood were trying to frame me, after the gala the other night. I remember the pity. He knows how much I loathe her, and he has to know there must be something more to my fucking her. Something sick and twisted.
And he's right—he just has no idea about the details.
I start jumping jacks. It's mundane and makes me dizzy from the horrible pain in my back, but it takes the edge off for a minute. Then I get too dizzy, so I sit on the bench beside the shower. I close my eyes and try to be still.
I wonder for the dozenth time about motive. Why me? And how far back does the plan go? Did Priscilla find out about my mother and decide that I would be the perfect patsy? Did Sarabelle get snatched simply because she was with me? Or was it just chance? Did Priscilla drug me out of spite, because I'd chosen Sarabelle over her, and Lockwood went for Sarabelle out of simple opportunism?
I think about the governor's mistress going missing two and a half years ago, right before he started fucking Priscilla. Just sixteen months after Lockwood stopped working security for him and started working security for Priscilla. How likely is it that Lockwood simply spirited the other woman away? Down to San Luis. Then into Mexico.
I feel sick, because Sarabelle is alive somewhere, being forced into God knows what. I want to go get her right now. And tonight in this fight, I want to bathe in Michael Lockwood's blood.
I slide thin gloves over my taped knuckles and remind myself that I can’t. He could be all we have to lead us to Sarabelle.
Ted Burts and Roberto are scouring San Luis at this very moment—starting with MIGHTY'S bar—and Julie and Dave are with Lay1a visiting Priscilla and Lockwood's places of residence while they're out. We think we’re close.
I’ve decided we’ve got three days more. Three more days to find Sarabelle or I'm going to the FBI myself. Priscilla can say whatever she wants.
I stare at myself in the mirror again, hoping I won't have to take that risk. Just the thought of it has me vibrating with rage. I check the clock. Marchant will be here in two minutes. I inhale deeply, trying to find the chill zone before we have to walk upstairs.
There's not enough time. I swing at the mirror, shattering it—and maybe my knuckles—in one mighty punch that sends glass raining all around me. The pain in my fist is good, blazing like fire.
I let myself drink it up. Inhale it. I take it inside.
