Chapter 5 #2
He shakes his head while the person at the other end of the line rattles on. "Yeah. Okay, I got it. Thanks." After he hangs up, he tears at his dark, curly hair, bouncing his leg. "That fucking…"
"I mean, you did catch her on fire again."
"When does the punching start? I'm getting impatient."
"I don't…" I look up at the door, but I'm seconds too late; he's already getting into his car. I shouldn't have let myself get distracted. "Fuck, that's him."
He walked right by the Porsche, too. If he reacted, I missed it.
"That's him? Talk about a dude who really needed a beard—he's a fucking catfish under there."
"We're following him."
I don't try to be discreet about it. I stay right up against his bumper, running red lights to make sure I don't lose the silver sedan on dark, rainy side streets as it makes its way back to campus.
I pay attention to his own driving. Surely, he notices the Porsche following him. Is he running? Is he driving in circles or trying to lose me?
It doesn't seem like it.
Eventually, he turns into a public lot and gets out of the car.
After pulling my hoodie over my head, Dax and I do the same and follow him into a coffee shop that becomes a wine bar in the evenings.
We stand right behind him while he orders a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, and then watch as he sits in the back corner and takes out a Vonnegut book.
"He doesn't really look like a guy who's scared," Dax says. "He hasn't even looked at us."
"No, but…"
"But what? What if we just got really lucky? What if sometimes good things happen to very bad people, and this dude is alive and doesn't even remember ever meeting you or Saige, let alone anything you've done to him?"
I'm not convinced. If I knew someone was following me and was scared shitless, but also knew I needed to act like I didn't have a fucking care in the world…I'd probably come to a place like this.
Busy enough, but not a dark, crowded bar—not a place we could corner him without others noticing.
It's a place where he can sit with his back to the wall, sipping a Cab and looking like a pretentious, bald-faced little bitch instead of a woman beater.
"I'm not taking any chances." Not with Saige.
We order a couple of glasses of wine and sit in the booth across from him. And then, we watch him do absolutely nothing for the next thirty minutes.
"This is boring," Dax says. "Boring, boring, boring. And my drink is gone. I'll be right back."
While Dax gets a refill, Miles closes his book and heads for the washroom. I watch, expecting him to look over his shoulder, but he doesn't.
If he's worried or aware of my presence, he certainly doesn't show it.
I don't get it. Maybe we did get lucky.
"I'm going," Dax declares.
"No, wait a second—"
But he's already up and walks into the washroom before I can even get out of my seat.
Fuck. This is not how I wanted this to go. I shouldn't have brought Dax; he's too eager.
"So, shitty weather we're having, eh?" I hear Dax say as I push the door open.
"I don't—look, man, I'm not really into chatting while I'm taking a piss."
"No, I get it," Dax says. "Totally. We all have our things."
Miles zips up and then looks at me, standing in front of the door, and freezes. "What's going on?"
"What's your thing, Miles?" Dax asks. "Is it beating women?"
"What? No. How do you know my name?"
"Funny. What do you think, E?"
I cross my arms in front of my chest. "Undecided."
"Look, I don't know you, and I don't know what you're talking about. I don't beat women. You must have me confused with someone else. Just…let me out of here, or I'll call the police."
"Wash your hands, Miles," Dax says. "Jesus."
Miles walks over to the sink and turns on the water while Dax stands uncomfortably close behind him. He's scared—definitely—but that's not necessarily an indicator. Anyone with fucking sense would be afraid of us in this scenario.
As he struggles to get the automatic soap dispenser to work, Dax asks, "When did you break your nose?"
"What?"
"My older sister got drilled by a volleyball in her first year of high school. It totally fucked up her nose, but she was thrilled because she'd been begging my parents for fucking rhinoplasty since she was thirteen. Anyway, that's Jules for you."
"What's this have to do with me?"
"Oh, well, they felt like they had to do it because when it healed, she had what the doctor called a deviated septum.
I can't tell you how many times I heard the words deviated septum screamed throughout our house; it was all we talked about for months, and now, it's just something I notice.
So, anyway, who deviated your fucking septum? "
Fuck. He's right. I guess I'm glad I brought Dax. I lean against the door, barricading it, and let him handle it.
"I don't know," Miles says. "Something happened to me, but I don't know what it was—I swear to god."
"It's still a little swollen. I wonder what would happen if I just—"
Dax reaches around Miles, grabs his nose, and squeezes. And it brings the man to the fucking ground.
"Fuck!" he shouts, his eyes watering.
"Yeah, that's still kind of fresh," Dax says.
"You put your hands on my sister," I say. "You think I'm going to let you get away with that?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" he shouts. "Help!"
Seconds later, someone pounds on the door.
"Hey!" the man shouts. "Open this door, or I'm calling the police."
I step aside, and the manager moves into the space.
"We were just leaving." I look at Miles and add, "This isn't over."
"Hey! Get back here!" he says as Dax heads for the door. "What are your names?" Knowing we won't answer, he turns to Miles. "Who are they?"
I laugh a little. "He doesn't know. He can't remember, so he can't tell you who we are…right, Miles?"
Fury darkens his eyes, his jaw clenched tight.
There it is.
There's the rage that I know—the recognition. It takes every ounce of what little restraint I have not to tear him the fuck apart.
"Let's go. We got what we came for."
Dax and I leave the washroom while the manager pulls Miles to his feet. We move toward the front door, Dax stopping to toss some cash onto the bar, then we jump into the car and head back to the townhouse.
"What do we do now?" Dax asks once we're inside. "Should I call my dad?"
"Maybe…" I tell him. "I haven't decided yet. But I think we might have to kill him."
"Yeah…well…we need to do a better job this time. Regroup tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow isn't a good day for me."
"Why? What do you…oh, right."
"Yeah."
"Well, if you need someone to drink with, I can take a break from hating you for at least twenty-four hours."
"I think I'm good. I have hockey practice, and then I'll probably just do the usual. Anyway, I'm going to bed."
"All right," Dax says. "Night."
Arcadia follows me upstairs, and then I shower and lie down in bed. I take out my phone to send Saige a text.
I got to Miles. He's lying—it was him. Don't go out alone. It's not safe.
Of course, I don't get a reply.