20. Palms Down Ass Up
Palms Down Ass Up
SARAFINA
I stood, hands on my hips, staring at the paint bucket in the corner of my room, deciding whether or not I was going to participate in this delusional assignment Professor Alden had given me.
I had nothing to lose and nothing better to do anyway, so against my better judgement, I hauled the damn thing outside. The minute I hit the threshold, I knew I’d made a mistake.
By late afternoon, I thought I might faint. I hadn’t so much as lifted anything heavier than a cheese stick since December. Saying I was out of shape would have been the understatement of the century.
As I struggled across campus in the heat of summer, I was really beginning to resent Professor Alden. Dragging that heavy bucket across the concrete, I decided if I didn’t wear a hole in the bottom by the end of the week, I’d just pour the damn thing out. She’d never know.
In a burst of delusional motivation, I hefted that fucking bucket up, and its very scratched rim snagged on the cement—I tripped, falling over the top of it before I could recover. I went down hard, palms first, ass up.
I cursed, wincing at my raw, stinging palms before I gave up completely. Silent tears streamed from the corners of my closed eyes as I laid in the middle of the sidewalk, wishing someone would just end my fucking misery already.
I hated this.
Hated this stupid assignment.
Hated dragging myself out of bed for class.
Hated dragging this damn bucket across campus.
Hated that my mother was dead.
Hated that my father had turned into a ghost, and that Liam seemed to be going on with life, while I was just stuck.
Hated that Carter didn’t text me back.
Hated that I didn’t text any of my friends back.
And most of fucking all, I hated myself for being so fucking weak.
My lower lip trembled as I suppressed a guttural scream that I didn’t even have the energy to utter.
An unfamiliar voice from above asked, “You okay?”
“No.” I snapped bitterly, not bothering to open my eyes. “You can’t tell from my pathetic form that I’m clearly trying to lay here and wallow?”
“Should I just leave you here, or?”
“Yes,” I grumbled. Who in God’s name was?—
“You sure you’re okay? Because you don’t look okay.”
“I literally just said I wasn’t okay.” I muttered, opening my eyes to find a random guy silhouetted against the sun. I couldn’t make out his face. A new paparazzi? I sighed, realizing I’d have to cut him a check, just like all the others I’d bribed to back the fuck off.
“What are you doing?” He asked, standing too close for comfort.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking a nap.” I threw an arm over my eyes and sighed because I had no fucks left to give. “If you’re here for a photo, that’s old news.”
“Really? Because it looks like you fell, your shit is everywhere.” He cleared his throat. “And no, I’m not here for a photo, whatever the hell that means. ”
“Sure you aren’t.” I glanced at the scattered contents of my purse before throwing an arm over my eyes again.
“Do you want help with that?”
I assumed he meant the bucket. “Can’t. It’s an assignment.”
“Carrying around the bucket?” He asked, and I could feel him still hovering.
“Go away.” I demanded, relieved when he didn’t respond.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I laid there, but the sun was scorching, and I finally forced myself to sit up, because if I didn’t move, I was actually going to faint from heatstroke.
I groaned when I realized he was sitting on a nearby bench. “I thought you’d left.”
“Nope.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out down there.” He crossed back over to me, and I tensed. “So, are you going to tell me what the deal with that bucket is?”
“Nope.” I pushed a strand of hair out of my face and stood feeling more than a little lightheaded as I ignored his outstretched hand.
“Fair enough.” He smiled and grabbed the bucket anyway.
“Put it down; you can’t carry that.” I argued, frantically grabbing for it—I nearly fell over when he let go of it and the weight swung back to me.
“Why?”
“Because I have to.” I snapped. God, what was his problem? Just go away, guy.
“You have to?”
I groaned, waving towards the bucket. “I have a dead mother.” I practically shouted. “Okay? Is that a good enough reason for you?”
He grimaced. “Are those her ashes?”
“No,” I said defensively. “I’m not a complete weirdo, despite what it may look like.” Maybe I was, but I certainly wasn’t going to admit it to this asshat. I stared at him while he watched me closely. Maybe he was a journalist. If he was, he was a really bad one .
“So if it’s not your dead mother’s ashes, what’s in the bucket, then?”
I groaned, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Seriously? Why do you care?”
He shrugged. “I don’t.”
“Good, I’m glad we got that settled.” I hefted the bucket up, dying to get away from him.
He walked backward in front of me. “So, you gonna tell me or what?” He blocked my path, and my shoulders slumped as I dropped the bucket. I did not have the energy for this.
“It’s paint. Okay? Black fucking paint.” This entire ordeal was probably going to end up on some shitty website tomorrow. Whatever.
“Well then, that wasn’t so hard.” He smiled. “I’ll just walk with you then, while you carry your big bucket of black paint.”
“I don’t even know you.” I glowered.
“I’m Isaac.” He stuck his hand out, and I didn’t shake it. “I’m in some of your classes.” Maybe he was, he did look vaguely familiar.
I took off again, and he paced alongside me, which wasn’t hard given my speed. “You know, this is typically the part where you tell me your name.”
“You don’t want to know me.” I grumbled, wondering if this was a new angle.
“I think I might.”
“I’m a mess.”
“I don’t mind messy.”
I stopped and looked at him. “You are very persistent, you know that?”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “You’re really pretty.” I squinted against the sun, looking at him for a long while. What the hell did he want? “You thinking about letting me carry that bucket for you? It’s okay to ask for help, you know.”
“I didn’t ask.” I reminded him.
“Right.” He laughed. “I think that’s the point. ”
“I have to do this, okay?” I put my hands on my hips, staring at him. “It’s important. I don’t know exactly why it’s important, but it is. I’m—I’m doing a process.” I explained.
“Okay.” He nodded, still not sold on the idea. “You’re doing a process.”
I was, and I wasn’t about to cheat, because I think I knew deep down there really was no cheating any of this.
Carter
I blinked my eyes open as something soft brushed against my mouth.
Meow. A cat was rubbing against my face. I didn’t own a cat.
A smattering of blood drops came into focus in front of me. I groaned, realizing my face was smashed against my kitchen floor, because I was still tied to a kitchen chair, but I was alive, so that was something.
Sharp pain dotted through my fingers as I tried to wiggle them. My hands were zip-tied so fucking tight I could hardly feel them at all.
The cat rubbed against me, and I groaned in disgust when it turned, nearly putting its butthole in my face. Despite my protests, he started purring and flopped over in front of me, blinking his giant bug eyes from upside down.
Then I realized how it’d gotten inside in the first place, my door was busted, hanging off the hinges. I opened my mouth to call for help, but my throat was dry as sandpaper and my voice came out barely louder than a whisper.
I attempted to push myself up, but my head slammed back against the floor, making my head pound even harder.
Straining my neck to look around, I realized the apartment was utterly trashed.
Couch filling all over the place, broken glass all over the kitchen floor, every drawer, and cupboard was open.
I shuffled towards the kitchen as best as I could, every heave making my shoulder scream with pain, but if I was lucky, maybe there was a steak knife on the floor.
I hoped I didn’t pass out from the pain before I could get there.
I tensed when my front door groaned open. “Carter?” Tatum filled the doorway.
I swallowed, my voice coming out hoarse. “Get me out of this, would you?”
Tatum hurried through the living room towards me, taking in the mess with complete shock. “What the actual fuck.” Tatum hauled the chair upright, and I winced as the blood rushed from my head all too quickly. He quickly pulled out a pocketknife and bent to cut the zip ties at my ankles.
“How did you know to come find me?” I rasped, head pulsing.
“You didn’t show up for work.” He said, chest rising and falling rapidly. “You weren’t answering your phone. Now I see why.” His voice was full of question.
I stared at the ceiling as Tatum cut the rope around my chest and the zip ties on my hands. How was I going to explain this?
“Oh fuck. Your shoulder.” He came around the front of me.
I grimaced. “Pop it back in.” He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my arm and did it fast, before I had the chance to tense.
I cried out, cursing every word under the sun as I gasped for breath. “Fuuuuck.” I couldn’t pull a breath in.
“It’s in.” He frowned, and I rotated my arm gingerly, nodding in agreement as I forced slow steady breaths through the nose. “So, what the fuck happened last night?”
I rubbed my wrists, pins and needles shooting through my hands. “Would you believe me if I said it was the cat?” I shot him a small smile before my face contorted in pain.
The orange stray was now sitting on my kitchen counter, licking its paw and dragging it over its ear—with total disregard for the situation.
“Was this some fucked-up sex shit?” Tatum asked, glancing around the room .
What the hell was I even supposed to say? Tatum just waited, totally dumbfounded.
“The blonde from the bar last night…” I started.
“What about her?” He asked, his expression perplexed.
“Apparently, she likes it rough.” I joked.
“Seriously?”
I shook my head in disbelief. “No. She, uh, she drugged me.”
Tatum blinked. “Drugged you?!”
I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck where I’d felt the prick. “Is there a mark?” I asked, leaning against the kitchen table as I turned.
He came around and looked. “I don’t know, I can’t tell.” Feeling weak, I slumped back in the chair. “What the hell happened? She robbed you, or?”
“I guess she must have seen my car and figured I had money.” I shrugged indifferently. “She had two guys with her.”
“This is so fucked up, man. They didn’t have to trash the place. Just grab the valuables and leave, you know.” Then Tatum groaned. “I’m guessing you haven’t even seen your car.” I winced, waiting. “It’s beat to shit. Like some real Carrie Underwood shit.”
I stared at him.
“You know?” He asked, and I shook my head no. He reluctantly sang a bar for me. “Dug my key into his car…” He waited, and then rolled his eyes and sang another line. “Carved my name…”
“Carrie Underwood fan, huh?” I teased.
“Jillian likes that crap, okay? It’s not my fault, and besides, her range is— it’s like really good .
” I wondered if he was impersonating Jillian as he said it.
Tatum shook his head, disbelieving he’d even admitted that.
“But yeah, your car is definitely in bad shape.” My head popped up in realization.
Finally, something was going my way. “Why the hell do you look so happy about it?”
“The Tesla has cameras around the whole thing.”
“Fuck yeah.” Tatum threw a fist into the air in triumph.
“But seriously, let’s get you to the hospital first. You look like absolute shit.
” He grinned. “I’ll even give you door-to-door service, like a gentleman.
” His grin dropped when I faltered as I stood.
Tatum lunged and grabbed my good arm, looping it around his neck to support me.
“You gonna be okay?” He asked, worry crinkling his brow.
“Yeah, I think so.” I panted.
He nodded. “Note to self, don’t piss off a dirty blonde.”
“I thought Jillian was blonde.” I mused.
“Exactly.” He muttered.