Chapter 4 Chase #2
“Don’t do that pity-party shit, man. Who in their right mind shoots at a guy who’s just trying to feed his dog?
That’s a hell of an overreaction.” He swerves onto a side road and barrels toward my part of town.
“Deadly force isn’t justified against a person who poses no imminent threat. According to Google, anyway.”
I cringe.
I’m dreading the legal mess I’ve landed myself in.
The cops came, asked their questions, and left.
The clerk’s story kept changing. First, he said I lunged at him.
Then it was that I had something in my hand.
Everything about that moment is a black-tar haze, but I know I didn’t do anything to warrant getting shot.
Vermont’s got strong self-defense laws, though none that cover putting a bullet in a man for pilfering a three-dollar can of dog food. They took the guy in on an aggravated assault charge after security footage confirmed I made no violent threats and had no weapons on me.
Maybe he’ll go to prison, maybe he won’t.
Either way, I’m the one left sitting here in this rusty Honda with my oddball boss, half numb from painkillers, staring out the window at the slushy pavement like it might have answers.
“He was panicked,” I finally say. “People don’t act rationally when they’re scared.” Clearly, I’m an expert on the subject.
“How’d you get away? Your car is still at the warehouse, deader than disco. Saw your phone in there too.”
I drum my fingers on my knee, debating my answer.
Interestingly enough, the cops never drilled me about a grand theft auto charge, nor about the woman in the back seat of the stolen car.
I can’t help but wonder if she covered for me.
Still doesn’t make any fucking sense. “There was a witness. She gave me a ride to the hospital.”
But I don’t think that’s true.
Images glimmer to life—arms tightly wrapped around me, hauling me up my driveway, small hands winding bandages around my thigh, the ugly chandelier in my living room going in and out of focus while whispered words floated to my ears.
“All right, rock star. You’re not dying on me tonight.”
She brought me to my house like I begged her to. Tried to fix me herself.
“Lucky break,” Sol muses, scratching at his beard. “Who knows if that dude would’ve taken you all the way out if you hadn’t gotten away.”
Something tells me he wouldn’t have. I don’t think he ever meant to shoot me in the first place.
Guilt tunnels through me, mingling with the residual pain. I glance out the window, up toward the sky that’s finally clear and swimming with ethereal white clouds.
I recall standing in that empty parking lot after Solomon broke the news that he didn’t have my money. Again. I looked up at the star-freckled sky and swirling snow, waiting for a piano to get dropped on me after my car refused to start.
There was no piano. No cosmic punchline.
No miracle either.
But as I peer down at the wad of money on my lap, I decide this is as close to a miracle as I’m going to get.
Minutes later, Solomon pulls up to my faded blue gable-roof ranch. It’s about the size of a shoebox and has as much charm as a gas station bathroom.
Too soon, my brain chides.
“Alrighty, my man.” Sol pops the gearshift into Park and unlocks the door. “Keep me posted. If you need anything, you know my number.”
And thank fuck for that. If I hadn’t known his number, I likely would have found myself walking the twelve-mile commute home on a bum leg.
“Thanks again.” I force a smile, holding up the envelope full of cash. “Appreciate everything.”
“You still crankin’ out custom guitars?” He nods at the house. “You should sell that shit. Maybe you can double those funds by the time you’re back in the warehouse spinning oak and cedar into an upper-middle class mom’s dream credenza.”
“Yeah, I’m working on it. I’ll have extra time to get things sorted.”
“Do it. You’ve got talent, Chase.”
I send him another smile, less forced this time.
“Thanks. I’ll keep in touch.” It takes a grotesque amount of energy to push the door open, collect my crutches, and plant my feet on the snow-dusted curb.
Close to ten inches have been barfed all over my front lawn, but at least a neighbor stopped by to clear the driveway for my invisible, nonworking car. “See you.”
He offers a quick wave before peeling down the residential street, leaving me teetering in front of my house with an empty feeling in my gut.
Back to the grind.
I manage the trek up to my porch, locate the silver key from under the dirty welcome mat, and push inside.
Toaster greets me right away, sailing from the couch and circling my legs with eager whimpers.
“Hey, buddy. Missed you too.” It takes too much effort to bend over, so I haul my ass over to the sofa and collapse, my dog jumping up beside me.
The emptiness is temporarily squashed by the feel of companionship and familiarity. Toaster sniffs my leg, almost as if he remembers the blood pooling around it last week.
I lean back with a sigh, my fingers tangled in slightly matted fur.
The house is mostly the same, aside from looking more organized than I remember.
While I keep the space sanitized, the size is equivalent to a dorm room, so clutter is inevitable.
But somehow it’s tidier, like a mysterious housecleaner zipped through in my absence, picking up stray jackets off the floor, fluffing pillows, disposing of a few empty beer cans, and even folding two of Stella’s old quilts into neat stacks on the adjacent loveseat.
Definitely not Rock.
Blowing out a breath, I glance at the four guitars lined up against the far wall, unfinished yet so close to completion I can almost taste it. The bodies are sanded smooth, the curves just right, but I still need to fine-tune the neck profiles, wire the electronics, and perfect the finish.
There’s also the branding, logo, website, and the way I’ll convince people that these aren’t just guitars; they’re something special. Something worth owning.
I may have a busted leg and legal hassles on the horizon, but my mind is sharp, my dreams are big, and my hands work just fine. It’s fucking time.
Standing from the couch to let Toaster out for a potty break, I decide that my plan will be to sleep for the next twelve hours, then catch up on bills before I lose water and power.
Toaster follows me to the sliding door off the kitchen and disappears outside, swallowed by snow and winter air. I take a few minutes to eye my guitars, new ideas and technological advances brimming to life, before letting my dog in and retreating back to the living room.
I stall, staring down at the worn couch cushions.
More memories wash over me—a bleary picture of dark hair and crystalline eyes, the sensation of chilled fingers hooking around my hand, and songs I recognize but can’t place.
Pretty sure I passed out on this couch. Nearly died.
But the blood has faded into the upholstery, almost like someone tried to scrub away the stains.
Huh.
Just as I go to sit down, my attention snags on my missing wallet resting on the coffee table, a little napkin beside it. Inching closer, I gaze at the black ink, squinting, trying to process the smeared words and unfamiliar handwriting.
A warm tickle travels through me and shocks my heart.
Every word is a defibrillator paddle, zapping electricity to my chest and giving me new life. Tiny waves of second chances.
Picking up the note, I read it again, again, again.
I read it every hour, on the hour, over the course of the next two days.
I read it until I start to believe it.
All the best songs have bridges
The strongest ones don’t burn