Trouble Read online

  “Shit!” I yell, taking a step back. I don’t think I meant to punch him quite that hard. His eyes narrow and I see the sneer coming over his ugly, ruined face. He’s sweating even though it’s not hot out up here. It’s rather chilly.

  “Run!” I hear the young girl scream. There’re three men coming around the building at a fast rate. I’m not that brave. I grab her by the arm and drag her back towards my bike. I manage to get it started just before they reach us and peel off into the dark. I don’t turn on the headlight. I ride by the moonlight.

  I hear the sound of bikes starting up in the distance and cuss under my breath as I veer off onto a side street. We miss colliding with a dumpster in a dark alley by inches, but she doesn’t make a sound. Her arms are wrapped around my middle with an iron grip, and she’s leaning on me hard. Every time I turn, she leans into it like I do as if she’s used to being on a bike. I feel her heartbeat hammering against my back, and mine does a strange flip flop at how fast hers is beating.

  Even though it’s cold, I’m starting to sweat, and my hands are feeling slippery on the handles. I turn down another alley and turn off my bike, listening for any that might be following us. I decide I’ve done my part and pry her arms off me.

  “Get off,” I tell her gruffly, keeping my voice low. She doesn’t move off the bike, and I turn to look at her face. She’s crying. There are tears streaking down her face like she’s a little kid. Her eyes are dark brown, and I’m suddenly reminded of my sister. She might be someone’s sister.

  With that thought playing in my mind, I grab her hands and put them on my middle again. Her fingers tighten in my shirt as I start the bike again and calmly pull out onto the deserted street. I’m hours from home, and I have no idea where this girl lives, or lived, so I’m just going to have to take her back to my apartment for the time being.

  It’s an hour and a half drive to Seneca Falls where I rent out an apartment on the outskirts of town. It’s an eight hundred square foot, one story apartment with one bedroom and bathroom. It was never enough for my parents, but for me it is. Who needs a fancy apartment when they’re living alone and never entertain? My sister’s been to it twice.

  “Where are we?” I’m shocked she has a voice by the time she gets off the bike. The gray of dawn is upon us.

  “We’re in Seneca Falls, home sweet home.” I tell her, not bothering to look at her as she gets off the bike. When I finally do look up she’s staring at the door to my apartment, her eyes half-lidded as she fights fatigue.

  It might not be protocol, maybe I should be taking her to a hospital or the police, but I fish my keys out of my pocket and open up the door. I flick on the lights as I walk in and grab some of the trash off my living room couch. I honestly do live like a caveman sometimes. Embarrassed, I stuff it into the half full trash can. By the time I have a spot cleared off for her to sit, the trash can is full, and I have to take out the bag.

  When I come back in she’s passed out on the couch with her chin on her chest, her hair falling in her face. I watch her steady breathing for a few minutes and then gently close the door. The click of the deadbolt has her eyes snapping open and her head rising. Her breathing is no longer slow and steady; she looks like she might be on the verge of a heart attack.

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell her, pulling off my shirt as I walk into my dark room. In an hour, the sun will be rising. It will be the fifth sunrise without my best friend on this planet anymore. At the thought, I collapse into bed and close my eyes. I want to miss this sunrise too.

  Several hours later the sound of water running wakes me up with a start. I run my hands over my face when I realize it’s the shower and roll over on top of the covers to catch a few more minutes of sleep. When I next wake up the sun is past my bedroom window and shining in the living room area, it’s past noon. I sit up in bed and grab the shirt from the night before. It stinks, so I grab a fresh one from my drawer and pull it on. My hair is probably sticking up at odd angles, but I don’t really care.

  I pick up all my dirty laundry and shove it into the hamper in the tiny closet. It still smells somewhat in here and needs vacuumed, but at least some of the evidence of my neglect is gone. It was never this vulgar, not until a few days ago when my best friend ended up mangled and unrecognizable. They had to identify him by his dental records even though I told them who he was. They still had to go through protocol.

  The bedroom door doesn’t make a sound as I open it and tiptoe out. She must have cleared off the couch after her shower and found a fresh sheet in the living room closet. It’s spread across the couch, and she’s stretched out on it with her legs up on the back of the couch at an angle, her head resting against the arm of the couch.

  Her eyes are closed, and her jaw is slack, so I assume she’s actually sleeping. The steady rise and fall of her chest tells me that she’s in a deep sleep, but her hair is still damp from her shower. When it’s wet it’s wavy near the ends. She looks pale and worn out, but otherwise I don’t see any signs of drugs or alcohol abuse.

  Satisfied that she’s not going to rob me while I’m in the shower, I grab a fresh pair of clothes from my room and hop in. I don’t bother locking the door. I’m not afraid of a girl that’s two thirds my size. I’m not a particularly tall guy either, average at six foot. I might be exaggerating; she might be a little over five feet.

  My shampoo is open, which means she used it. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I use it anyway. It’s not like she looked particularly dirty. But when I notice the rag is damp from her using it I step out of the running shower, drip all over the floor, and grab a fresh one from the rack over the toilet. I have no idea what the girl may or may not have and I can’t be taking chances.

  While the warm water runs over me, I wonder what Ronnie would have said about me taking home a girl from a fight. He’d tell me I did the right thing, but that I was a damned fool. Then we’d hang out after I dropped her off at home and have a few beers. We’d talk about the tattoos we might be doing this weekend, or he’d show me some of his drawings for clients. I lean my forehead against the side of the shower until the water starts running cold.

  Even then I can barely pull my forehead away from the tiles. I wish I could cry. But I swallow the lump in my throat and feel nothing but water running down my face when I turn to shut it off. I grab a fresh towel and dry off, and then I clean up the mess of water on the floor. I shove it all into the bathroom closet and sigh when I see the pile of dirty laundry there.

  When I open up the bathroom door she’s sitting up on the couch with her legs curled under her, her hair pulled up into some weird bun that allows a few strands to hang loose near her face. She looks at me with her dark brown eyes, and I wonder why I ever thought they looked like my sister’s. Maybe because it was dark because her eyes are nowhere near my sister’s; they’re darker than my sister’s.

  “Where you live?” I ask her, making it obvious that she’s not going to be staying here for long. The sequined top glints in the light as she shrugs one, small shoulder.

  “Nowhere, everywhere, mostly on the back of a bike.” I know my lip goes up in a disgusted sneer, and I cross my arms over my chest. Classic. “It’s not like I like it, and I don’t need you judging me!” She stands up off the couch and moves for the door. I watch her unbolt it and realize that her shoes are still under the now clean coffee table.

  “Your shoes,” I tell her, pointing at them. She looks down at her feet and huffs in frustration, and then grabs the shoes. When she bends over I have to look away, afraid I might see something I shouldn’t be. I don’t look back up until she’s standing at the door, looking back at me as if I’m going to stop her. I wait.

  She opens up the door and closes it, walking out of the apartment. The door is solid so I can’t see her, but I wait about thirty seconds before I go to it to see if she’s actually gone. She’s sitting on the lone step I have that leads up to the door, her face in her hands. She’s not crying, but I can tell that s
he’s close to it. And judging by the way she puts her heels of her hands to her eyes, I think she doesn’t want me to see her cry.

  “What?” She asks angrily when I keep the door open.

  “If you don’t want to be judged, why stay on the back of some asshole’s bike?” I stare out at my neighbors fiddling with flowers or checking the oil in their cars. A few of them glance up and stare open mouthed at the girl sitting on my small stoop in her small jean skirt and her sequined top. This will be the gossip of the complex for weeks.

  “Nowhere else to go,” she mumbles under her breath, leaning down to pick at a particularly long blade of grass. Mr. Ishkner, my neighbor from across the street, stares when her sequined top bunches at the top and reveals some pretty impressive cleavage. At least it’s impressive to Mr. Ishkner. I see him grin at me and give me a thumbs up. I roll my eyes and hold out a hand to the girl on my doorstep.

  “Why don’t you come back inside and eat some breakfast,” I whisper the last part under my breath, “before you give Mr. Ishkner a heart attack.” She catches the last part and turns to look at the old man staring at her. She wiggles her fingers at him in a cute wave and smiles at him. I grab her and shove her in the door.

  “Ow!” She yells at me, glaring at me as I slam the door so that Mr. Ishkner doesn’t get any ideas. She crosses her arms over her chest, and I wonder if she’s actually trying to get me to look at her breasts, what is with this girl?

  “I’ve got cereal.” I tell her, pulling out a box of Captain Crunch. I slam two bowls on the counter and pour some cereal and milk in them.

  “What if I want pancakes?” She asks in a bratty tone, and I shove a bowl in her hands.

  “Too bad,” I tell her, settling down on the other end of the couch. It’s not a particularly large couch, so I put a pillow between us and grab the remote to the television. The little clock on the cable box reads four thirty in the afternoon. I guess this is dinner, not breakfast.

  It takes her about ten minutes, but when she realizes that I’m not going to entertain her with pancakes she finally eats her cereal. I flick on the news and cringe when I see an accident report that involves another eighteen wheeler. I quickly change the channel, but after that I put my bowl of half-finished cereal down and try not to throw up.

  “Listen,” she starts, and I turn to glance at her. She’s set her cereal bowl on the table and has her arms stretched out behind her. “If you let me stay here a few days I can clean, cook, and show you a thing or two between the sheets.”

  It must be some of the deals she’s made in the past, but I’m not that kind of guy. Sure, I’ve had one night stands with a few of my tattoo clients, and some pretty women from the bars. But I’ve never had to pay for it, and I’ve never had to make a deal for it. I look up from her C cups and into her eyes. Her body language contradicts what I see there, is that disgust?

  “No,” I tell her firmly, grabbing my bowl and her empty one. I dump out mine and angrily rinse them before I stuff them into the small dishwasher. I’m so glad my apartment came with one.

  “No?” She asks, standing at the opening of the small kitchen, her hands on her hips. She saunters up to me and purses her lips. “Why don’t you tell me no after a blow job, sweetie,” I gape at her and watch her start to go down on her knees. I put a hand on her shoulder and push her back from me, watching her fall on her ass on the floor.

  “Jesus, I said no!” I tell her, backing away from her. She managed to get my fly halfway down, and I zip it up quickly. “Look, you can stay here, but I don’t want you taking a step in my bedroom!” She’s crying on the floor. There are tears streaking down her face, and I hope I didn’t hurt her. Serves her right, though.

  I don’t help her up off the floor. Instead, I walk around her and grab my sneakers from by the door. I check to make sure my wallet’s in my back pocket and grab a jacket off the hook near the couch. She’s up on her feet with one of her flip flops in her hands, and as I close the door I hear it hit the wood. I narrow my eyes and walk briskly to my bike.

  It’s probably not a smart idea to leave an angry, prostitute, biker chick in my apartment. But I have a client to tattoo.

  Chapter Three

  “Hey Caleb, you’re late!” I shrug a shoulder as I pull off my jacket, my hair a mess from riding. I went to a funeral last night; I can’t be late for one session?

  “Ronnie’s funeral yesterday, got home late.” I grumble as I march past the shop owner, a man in his late forties with short, graying hair. He’s bulky like an ex-marine, probably because he is one. And he’s also a great boss, so I can’t complain too much.

  “I know, kid. How’d it go?” He puts a strong hand on my shoulder, and I stare straight ahead at the row of tattoo guns. “That bad?” I work my jaw, and he gives me a gentle squeeze before he lets go.

  “Where’s the client?” I ask, looking around the shop. I’m five minutes late. It’s not that late.

  “In the back getting dressed, she’ll be out in a few minutes.” I settle down at one of the chairs and start prepping. Like I said, Carl’s an ex-marine, he wouldn’t put up with a dirty shop. I’m cleaned up and ready to go when Delilah comes out from the bathroom wearing nothing but a strap across her breasts and a small pair of shorts. The strap is to keep her covered during the process; the shorts are just for show.

  “Delilah,” I greet her by name, watching her curvy body moving across the room.

  “Caleb,” she says my name like she says it in the bedroom, her red lips curving up into a smile.

  “What’ll it be today?” I ask her, looking at the lettering tattooed across her back. Delilah has a strange system going. Whenever something profound happens in her life, she has it written across her body.

  “The year and then the word ‘clean’.” I blink a few times and look at her to make sure I heard her right. She smiles at me, and I lift up a corner of my mouth to grin back at her.

  “Congrats,” I tell her. I get to work on the tattoo as she turns around. There are numerous dates lining her back and not one of them says clean. She’s been an alcoholic for years, probably started when I was around fifteen. Delilah’s about six years older than me, twenty seven.

  “Thanks,” she says as I start. It takes me less than twenty minutes to tattoo the numbers and words on her. She likes it simple, like someone is writing in a diary. I show her my work in a mirror, and she nods in appreciation. She smacks a loud kiss on my cheek, but I push her away, not tonight. I’ve got company back at the apartment, and I don’t need a cat fight. Something tells me there would be one.

  “Not tonight,” I tell her, smiling down at her. She pats me on the arm and heads up front to pay Carl. I clean up shop and pocket the tip she gave me. It’s not standard, but Delilah always tips, one way or another.

  “Heading home already?” Carl asks, counting the cash from Delilah as she heads out the door. He looks after her and then at me. He knows that I’ve taken her home on the back of my bike a few times. We’re both adults.

  “I am, but not with her. Listen, I’m in a bit of a pickle, Carl.” He stops counting, drops the cash, and motions for me to sit in one of the plastic waiting chairs. I sit down and let my legs splay out as I relax. I rub a hand over my head, a nervous habit.

  “Spill, Caleb. You know I don’t like trouble, son.” I bite my cheek as I think about how to explain, and then I just spill it.

  “Yesterday was rough.” I begin, letting out a breath. “I went looking for a fight afterwards and ended up running with a chick on the back of my bike. Someone else’s chick,” I finish, closing my eyes. It sounds extremely bad when I say it out loud.

  “Shit, Caleb, whose?” Carl comes around the counter and sits down in the plastic chair next to me. I don’t bother opening my eyes to look at him.

  “I don’t know, some guy named Big Man in Rochester. She looks clean, but I can’t be sure. And I’m pretty sure some people are going to come looking for me.” I don’t know if they’re going to c
ome out this far looking for their property, but it’s a possibility.

  “No more members for you to tattoo, Caleb. Can’t risk it.” I nod, glad that he understands. He puts an arm on my shoulder like he did before and lets out a long breath. “She got a home?” He asks, and I shake my head. As far as I know from what she’s said, she doesn’t.

  “No, no home. She’s pretty screwed up though, offered sex in exchange to be able to stay for a few days.” Carl grunts next to me, and I open my eyes to see his expression, it’s hard and calculating.

  “Course she did, it’s how run down women with low self-esteems get by, son. You didn’t accept.” He says it like a statement and I don’t bother confirming. Carl knows me; I’m not that kind of guy. I fish my keys out of my pocket and stand as Carl stands. He gives me a quick, hard hug and then I walk out the door without looking back.

  I gun the bike to life and stop at a fast food place to pick up some burgers and fries. I secure the bag on the back of my bike, underneath the helmet, and take it easy back to the apartment. When I pull up into my parking space there’s no one outside, and it’s starting to get dark. I pull the bag out from under the helmet and pull out my keys.

  When I open the door the first thing I catch sight of is a skirt on the floor by the closed bathroom door. I flick on the lights and squint as I realize that all her clothes are on the floor by the bathroom. Dropping the bag on the coffee table, I go to my bedroom next and flick on the light. No one there, but the bed is neatly made, and all the trash is gone from my dresser. Everything has been neatly wiped down in the few hours that I was gone.

  I have a sinking suspicion and go to my closet, yep, all my dirty laundry is gone. I thought I smelled laundry detergent. When I turn around, I wonder where the hell she’s at. I check the kitchen area, and finally come face to face with the bathroom door again. How long has she been in there?