Chapter 32 – Keyshawn
Chapter Thirty-Two
Keyshawn
G oodbye, suckers. It’s crazy how much you can get done with nothing but the shirt on your back when you’re a born survivor. I’ve been in my fair share of sticky situations and this one has been the wildest. It does help that these boys – because they could not have been fully grown men – weren’t exactly born criminals. I told them to show up at Deacon’s casino in one week for their payment and promised them that I would convince him not to kill them. They got me a bus ticket and from there… I’m free.
I have to get Deacon’s address from my kidnappers and the bus ticket can only get me to the nearest major city, where I won’t have any money or any means of getting directly to Deacon’s house. I don’t have his phone number memorized. The only phone number I know is my cousin’s. The parts of the bus ride when I’m not sleeping, I work out how I’m going to weasel my way back to Deacon’s…
The first thing I have to do is find a phone.
I feel ten years older than my age when the bus stops. Is my back supposed to feel like this? Why do my knees feel like they’re made out of rusted metal? We’re still in the Midwest, so everyone around is friendly, but staring at me like they’ve never seen a black person before. They could also be staring at my baby bump. It’s hard to tell.
While I’m busy gawking around in search of a coffee shop, an older white woman touches my shoulder and says, “Love the hair, sis.”
Sis? I thank her and luckily, when I turn to face her and do that, I see a coffee shop. Yes. Society runs on the support of blue haired baristas. One of those Gen Z’s has to have a phone and the “mind your own business” mentality that folks in my generation don’t have at all. I hobble into the coffee shop across the street from the bus station, and while the barista doesn’t have blue hair, pink haired baristas function the same way.
“Excuse me? I’m in a tough situation and need to call my cousin for help. Could you put her number into your phone and call for me?”
“You have a number memorized?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glance at her name tag. “Ma’am” is actually Keighleigh, which is an absolutely outrageous way to spell that name, but I have to honor it.
“Okay,” she says. “No problem. It’s not even busy here today because a social media post about the rats went viral.”
She pulls out her phone and before I can follow up about the rats, I’m telling her Amanda’s phone number. She picks up after three rings and Keighleigh leaves me alone with her phone so I can call for help.
“Hello? If this is Donald, I’m going to call the cops.”
“It’s Keyshawn. ”
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE ALIVE!”
“Um… Yes?!”
“Remind me to fire that private investigator.”
“Okay. Amanda... I hate that I’m always down on my luck but I’m pregnant, lost in some town in southern Oklahoma, and I need to get back to my boyfriend’s house.”
“Holy shit!? What are you doing out there? Keyshawn, I swear, if it’s gambling–”
“It’s not gambling. I need to get back to my boyfriend’s house or he’s going to kill the people who kidnapped me and I need to stop him from doing that.”
“Is your boyfriend in the mob or something?”
“Worse.”
“Girl, you are crazy. How much do you need and what exactly can I do to get you out of there? Kidnapped? Do people even get kidnapped anymore?”
Fair point, girl.
“I don’t know. Maybe a car rental? I promise I can pay you back.”
“Pay me back? Are you crazy? Once you get home, just call me and give the goddamn tea. Pregnant. Kidnapped. Boyfriend. My life is boring as shit.”
“Thank you, girl. I swear… it’s just shit getting out of hand.”
She laughs and I hear typing. “Okay, I’m typing in a search for rental cars closest to you. Can you walk half a mile?”
“I’m pregnant, not dead.”
“Pregnant. Shit… That is so wild. I just celebrated my sixth anniversary of singlehood. No dates. No talking stages. No situationships. Sixth. ”
Damn.
“It wasn’t how I expected things to go. Trust me. I was doing just fine in Chicago.”
She types a little more before replying. “Okay. I got you something at a rental spot a half mile away. I sent them copies of your driver’s license.”
“How do you have that?”
“My private investigator isn’t completely useless.”
“Thanks, girl.”
“Get going, hope they don’t ask too many questions and call me when you’re safe.”
“I love you.”
“Same, cuz.”
I hand Keighleigh back the phone and practically run the half mile to the rental place. They received Amanda’s panicked email, payment, and all the information, plus she took out an enormous insurance policy, so they happily handed me the keys. Everything comes down to liability at the end of the day, and I’m not going to argue about the comfortable Toyota Camry, even if they didn’t have time to clean it on such short notice.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in a car that I forgot how freeing it can be to drive. The Top Adult Hits are terrible, so I have to turn those off and listen to my thoughts the entire way. I still don’t have cash, so I’m starving, which means the baby is starving too… I need to eat.
The closer I get to Deacon’s house, the crazier I feel. Not because I’m driving back to Deacon’s house but because… this means I’m sure. For the first time since we’ve been together I had a real choice about where to go and who I want to be with, and even with pregnancy hormones, a kidnapping, and one hell of a journey, I want to be with Deacon.
Deacon’s house looks like our home from a distance, but there’s a car parked out front next to Deacon’s. When I get closer to the house, I notice his fancy motorcycle is gone too. I don’t think Deacon went out for the day, but he could have. That doesn’t explain the spare car.
Another guy in the biker gang?
Unfortunately, I don’t have time to think. The baby has a foot pressed against my bladder and I feel the need to pee. I stuff the keys into my pocket, trying not to think about how gross I smell while I’m on my way to the door. I touch the handle and the door swings open on its own.
What the fuck?
I scream as a gigantic bald, bearded biker grabs my arm and pulls me into the house.
“Boss, this bitch is pregnant!”
“What the fuck? Who is she?”
My lips stay zipped. I can’t believe this.
“I NEED TO PISS!” I scream at them, even if I don’t really have to go. I just want this man to let me go and also, I don’t want them to kill me. Any bathroom here would offer me a chance at running away. I can’t say I would get very far but… I would try.
The man drops my hand, but there’s no point in celebrating because his fellow gang member rounds the corner and they both point guns at me.
Whoever the fuck they are… these aren’t Deacon’s friends. I put my hands in the air, jutting out my stomach, hoping they have empathy. But when I look at the men in Deacon’s house and really look at them, I realize I’m completely screwed.
I’m no expert in fucked up tattoos, but I know what a swastika is, and I know you have to be a crazy motherfucker to have one of those tattooed on your cheek. This situation might not be easy to remove myself from. All I can think about is protecting myself, and my baby…
The bald one gestures to a sandy haired, skinny-as-fuck gangster who drags me by the arm towards the basement. Blood rushes past my ears. They know exactly what they’re doing. Sandy throws the door open and a large scream pierces through the open door.
“MY HUSBAND WILL PUT YOUR HEAD ON A STAKE IF YOU DON’T LET ME OUT OF HERE!”
Sandy hair’s chuckle sends a shiver straight through me. Who the hell do they already have in this basement? I get my answer within moments as we turn around the corner towards the cell I haven’t seen in months. Why the hell would I go back to the basement on purpose?
The woman rushes at the jail cell as soon as she sees my captor.
“YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!” she yells, screaming at him as she shakes the bars. He ignores her, except for the confident smirk on his face.
“Stand back,” he commands her as he approaches the bars. She backs off a little, allowing me to understand why she tempers her fierceness so quickly. She’s pregnant too. My new prison warden unlocks the bars and shoves me into the cell. I have to brace myself against one of the walls so I don’t fall over. The woman in the cell approaches, ready to help me out. He slams the bars shut and locks it before disappearing upstairs.
The woman already inside the prison presses her hand to my back.
“Hey, I’m Zayna. Ruger’s wife. Are you… Deacon’s old lady?”
I’m still quaking with adrenaline and looking at her like I don’t know my ass from my elbow. This isn’t what I thought I was walking into, but I muster up a nod through my anxious shivering.
“Keyshawn.”
“What happened to the puppy?”
“Huh?”
“Ruger is going to kill me,” Zayna says, dropping her hands away and pacing with her palms pressed to her forehead. “I thought I would come check on the puppy while he’s out on this mysterious job… Eden is with Tamiya, since she’s in town with Gideon but… My husband is not right in the head.”
She exposes her ass, showing me a large black ink tattoo that says “Property of Bucky”. She’s part of the Rebel Barbarians organization.
“Deacon isn’t right in the head either. ”
We have more in common than our race and our pregnancy. Somehow, both of us got mixed up with the bikers.
“Two random men kidnapped me a few days ago, I convinced them to let me go because I thought Deacon might kill them. They could only get me a bus ticket to Tulsa, so I had to get a loan from my cousin to rent a car and get here. I thought Deacon would be here.”
“Instead, we have those motherfuckers. Neo-nazis. Ruger doesn’t talk about this stuff but… when I met him, he killed three of them.”
Zayna sits on the bed. I’m almost too nervous to join her. Those men could come down here any minute and assault us or kill us in that bed. But I need human contact, and we need each other to get through this. We’re black, pregnant, and trapped in my baby daddy’s basement. This isn’t how I thought my homecoming would go.
I sigh as I sit next to Zayna, wondering how screwed we are.
“Was Deacon involved in that?”
“When I met Ruger, he was alone. But it’s a criminal organization. I doubt they give a fuck.”
“We have to get out of here.”
Zayna grins and looks at me. “Yeah.”
“What are you smiling about?” I don’t want to be irritated, but I’m not finding anything to smile about.
“I have a weapon,” Zayna says. “They patted me down for guns but… they weren’t very thorough.”
“You have a gun?”
If she somehow brought in a gun that they missed in a pat down, I don’t want to know where she kept it.
“I wish,” Zayna says. “It’s a little complicated.”
“What is it?”
“A grenade.”
“How the fuck did you get a grenade in here?” I ask. I hope I don’t need to tell this woman – who might be crazy – that she can’t throw a grenade in a closed basement.
“Carefully,” Zayna says. “If we get distance from the house, I can throw it. I’ve been practicing with Ruger.”
“Throwing grenades?”
“No,” she says. “Throwing a football. But it’s the same thing.”
“If we screw up…”
“We’re fucked anyway,” Zayna says. “I didn’t think I could get a good spot to use it but now that you’re here…”
She trails off like I’m supposed to fill in the blanks.
“Yes?”
Zayna bites her lip and scrunches up her face.
“Listen, I have the grenade. I didn’t say I had a plan for it. But two heads are better than one.”
“Agreed,” I mutter. “When do you think they’re going to come back down here?”