Chapter Eight
Ricky
Fists clenched, pulse pounding in my throat, vision red, I take a step forward, ready to pound into dust an old woman who could not pass a “You must be this tall to ride” sign at a children’s carnival, yet who inexplicably seems to hold both our lives in our hands, and who, somehow, has something about her that intimidates me — which feels funny to admit, because I want to die, yet this woman looks like not only would she make my death a very painful experience, but also make me feel guilty and ashamed for forcing her to murder me in the first place.
Hell, she’d probably make me apologize to her.
I don’t want to beat up this grandma, but I will. My mind is set on that, especially after the sharp look and words she exchanged with Adriana. I have the feeling that not only would she have me killed without batting an eye, she’d do the same to Adriana, too.
Grandma is a stone-cold killer.
Adriana knows it too. I’ve known her for only a handful of hours, and even less of them sober, but I’ve already committed her face to memory; sought, carved, burned into my brain the angles, the lines, the marks, the curves of her lips, the beginnings of crows feet at the corners of her brown eyes — lines of life, worry, stress, fear, happiness, darkness, much of which I’m sure are new, worn there by the pain I put her through — all signs of stress that have deepened the moment this old woman opened her mouth and snapped something at Adriana in whatever language it is she’s speaking.
To save us both, I’m going to have to land a haymaker to grandma’s face, pick Adriana up, and try to break our way out of this place before any of the other old ladies leave their mahjong games and turn this grandma beatdown into a bloodbath.
The warning sits on my lips — “Get ready” — when Adriana leans into the old woman and whispers a few unintelligible words.
The old lady stops immediately.
Says something back in a halting voice.
Adriana answers. Three syllables, but sharp as a razor and as clear as a fresh spring morning.
The old woman nods once, deferentially.
“We will let you stay. Come with me. I’ll show you both somewhere where you may get cleaned up.
Then I will have tea sent for you, as you are our honored guests.
” She pauses, then gives me another long look.
“But only after you have cleaned up. You must be presentable. At least, as much as you can be.”
For the first time in a very long time, I feel a pang of shame about the dirty condition I’m in.
Why?
No fucking clue. I don’t know this old lady, don’t give a shit about her, but the judgment in her look is stronger than a kick to the groin.
She leads us deeper into the club, past an open garden courtyard lit by candles and filled with tables that sing with the click-clack of tiles.
Art hangs from the walls, photos, too — of families, of friends, and of groups of dark-suited men, some of whom I swear I’ve seen before — and then up a flight of stairs and down another hallway until we come to a plain wooden door.
“In here you will find a shower, towels, robes, and a bin of clothes that have been left behind. You are welcome to all of it,” she says to Adriana, who enters. I approach the door, ready to enter too, but she holds up a hand and, with a single finger to my chest, brings me to a stop.
“What?” I say. I try to make it sound challenging, loom over her, let some of the anger and indignation inside me find its way out through my eyes. She sniffs.
“What do you do for a living, young boy?”
“I ride with a motorcycle club. The Twisted Devils MC.”
She nods, processing, then rolls her eyes. “Your parents must be so disappointed.”
“They’re dead.”
“Then they see everything you do and know everything about who you are. They must be very disappointed, then.”
Before I can close my mouth, which is hanging open like a barn door, she turns and elegantly totters away. It’s then I realize that, even if I found the words to retort or the desire to take a swing at her, nothing I say or do could actually hurt her.
Stung, I put my hand on the door and push it open, my mind reeling with regrets and shame that I haven’t felt in months — about something other than what I did to Vanessa.
Then I hear it in the dark. And see it, too. A sight and a noise that ease my pain just a little.
Although she hates me and wants to — hopefully — murder me, I see her and hear her: smiling and giggling.
Smiling.
What a fucking sight. I can’t help it — I smile too.
Until I see the rest of the room.
Then my smile disappears.