Sling It Out
Sling It Out
sixteen
“Can you come to the station later this afternoon, Ms. Brider?”
“Yes, I’ll be there around 4.”
Even though I know I didn’t do anything wrong, anxiety floods my body at the thought of talking to the cops about this, again. I’ve already been over this with them several times. The trauma of the event was awful, but the trauma of reliving it time after time is equally jarring.
Pouring the steaming liquid life into my favorite cup, I inhale the dark roast, letting it gather up all my fears and release them on a relaxed exhale. The smile that results is one of the first genuine ones in weeks.
Charlie left early this morning heading to the restaurant. He says everything has been fine without him there, and I truly hope that he isn’t lying. The guilt of taking him away from his baby would eat me alive. I’m glad he’s finally getting back into his routine instead of living in a constant state of worry over me, though I appreciate our relationship more now because of it.
The officer informed me on our last call that my order of protection case against Brad was rejected. Their reasoning for doing so stemmed from a bunch of upper class men saying that I didn’t have enough evidence stacked against him to warrant such drastic measures. His mommy probably paid off the damn judge, honestly. He comes from a family with plenty of money to throw at things like this which makes me believe even more that I wasn’t his first victim.
It’s such bullshit how people can do these awful things and just be set free like nothing happened. But it makes sense why many women don’t seek legal repercussions after assaults. The pain and suffering isn’t worth it to end up with no one on their side.
Today is the first day that I’ve been able to go back to work since everything happened, and I’d be a fucking liar if I said that I’m not terrified. Brad only lives an hour or so away from Dovehaven. It wouldn’t be a difficult trek back here to confront me about going to the cops.
Granted, it’s a small town, and the guys at The Dairy Bar know why I’ve been absent. They will have my back no matter what, but the nagging dread still squeezes its way into my chest as I walk through the back door for my shift.
The feeling of haunted eyes bores into my skull like I’m the center of some kind of horror attraction. Am I that transparent? Does everyone here know what happened? Is there a scarlet A in the center of my chest in place of my friendly name tag that Kate decorated with a lame ass smiley face?
Immediately, the trash can to my left catches the reappearance of my breakfast, my nerves unable to settle. And here I thought I was getting past the psychological need to vomit every 60 seconds. Wishful thinking, apparently.
“You okay, love?” Mallorie asks as she scoops my ponytail over my shoulder.
“Yeah, sorry. Must have eaten something bad this morning.”
She gives me the kind of sympathetic smile that lets me know she knows I’m full of shit but isn’t going to call me out on it. I appreciate her for that more than I want to admit. Sharing my feelings and pouting over my misfortune isn’t what I’m here to do.
“I’m good. Promise.”
“Just let me know if you need me.”
“Thanks. I will,” I shoot behind me as I move around her to get busy.
On any given day, there’s usually six or seven people running this shit show. Today, the dream team is in full swing. David and Sean are cooking in the back while Mallorie, Rachel, Kate, and I work the front.
Thank goodness the lunch crowd isn’t holding us hostage today. Wednesday’s are usually pretty laid back in comparison to the rest of the week. It’s Fridays and Sundays that are the absolute worst. Nobody wants to start their weekend by cooking at home, and the church crowd on Sunday damn near carries the building away. Those fuckers are some of the worst tippers, too.
I needed a calm day to jump back into the swing of things, and David was more than willing to help me out. I’m sure his current lusting after Kate had nothing to do with it. Regardless, I’m happy both of them are here with me today.
Walls of neatly stacked food supplies cage me into the walk-in cooler while I add to them as Kate appears in the doorway.
“You making it back here?”
“Doing good. Figured this was as good a hiding place as any. Y’all ok out there?”
“Getting a little busy, honestly. Could use some help soon.”
“I’ve got about 5 cases left to unpack, then I’ll be up there.”
“No hurry.”
While I appreciate all the help everyone is willing to dole out, I’m not made of glass. If the helicoptering doesn’t end soon, I’m going to shatter for a totally different reason.
I won’t be the only one getting cut if everyone continues to hold me as if I’m broken. I just needed a little glue, that’s all.
The work day flies by since I only worked half a shift. I insisted on coming to the station by myself, determined not to let this minor bump in the road completely derail the shred of mental stability I’ve been building up since childhood. My therapist would be so proud of me. Stepping up and shit. Though, now that I’m here, the urge to turn tail and run back to my little house by the woods is all too enticing. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here. My entire body is overrun with jitters.
The car door closes softly enough that I have to open it to see if it actually closed, which it did, but I had to double check. Turning toward the entrance of the run down station that likely hasn’t seen a real case since the 60s, I release a staggered exhale in a failed attempt to calm down.
After a slight detour to the bathroom for my loose nerves, I finally make it to the front desk. The lady sitting there looks like she’d eat me alive and still be hangrier than a starved gremlin at 11:59 at night. Dark circles under her eyes with more than a few days old makeup gooped all over her face. Bright Barbie pink lipstick that made its second home on her top front teeth. A button down blue shirt that looks splattered with either coffee or the remnants of some dude’s asshole explosion.
I’m going to hell for that. Sorry Jesus.
“Can I help you?”
Damn, her voice matches her appearance. She must have downed three packs of Marlboros since this morning.
“I’m supposed to meet with Detective Martin at four.”
“He’ll come get you. Take a seat over there,” she points to the single row of chairs lining the far wall before she returns her attention to whatever she has playing on her phone. Real charmer, that one. I guess you would need to be pretty closed off to work in law enforcement.
It’s not like being particularly nice to the criminals would gain you many points anyway. Still, though. Not so helpful to those of us who haven’t broken the law, recently.
There were the few occasions of underage drinking and trespassing, but that’s different. It’s basically a rite of passage growing up in BFE with nothing else to entertain the youth.
“Haedyn, you ready?”
I look up to find Detective Martin walking toward me from behind the main desk.
“Mhm,” I give a small nod as I follow him through the doorway to the right.
He leads me through a large room of roughly a dozen mostly empty desks and into a small interrogation room.
I assume he wants me to sit in one of the two chairs at the only table present, so I do without him saying so.
“I don’t really know what else I can say about it,” I start, looking up to him as he takes the seat across from me.
“That’s okay. It’s nothing serious. I just need to get your side of the story on recording for the hearing next month. We just want to make sure we have all the necessary details to put this guy away. Let’s start from the beginning, if you don’t mind. How do you know Brad Higgins?”
“We met several years ago at the annual Camp Robinson trail ride. I was in high school, and he was recently graduated. We hooked up a few times, but we never saw each other away from the campsite. I moved away for college and thought everything between us was ancient history,” I explain, feeling the drop of my stomach and the sweat gathering along my spine.
I know that it doesn’t look good to admit that we have a connected past. I fiddle with the stacked bracelets on my wrist to distract from the uncomfortableness in the room.
As I finish the rest of the story and meet his eyes, there’s no trace of malice or disbelief in his face. He looks at me with a mixture of leashed anger and sympathy before he finally speaks.
“Look, I know this is hard. I can’t begin to know how you’re really feeling, but I’m on your side. I’ll do everything I can to make sure this bastard gets put away. I shouldn’t need anything else from you until court day.”
He slides a business card across the table. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything between now and then, though.”
“Thanks,” I toss over my shoulder on my way out of the drab little room. The draw to get the fuck away from here and back home to my safe place is overwhelming.
The slide of my tires across the gravel of my driveway brings such raw satisfaction to my chest that I yank the wheel to the right with one hand, heading to the trail beside the pasture that leads to an empty hay field where I’ve been known to blow off some steam.
Hell, that’s half the reason I fixed this old Bronco up in the first place; she’s a beast to play with. The stereo blasts my moody playlist mixed with rock, country, pop, and everything in between that makes me feel like the bad bitch I’m used to being.
Slinging dirt in every direction as the engine revs beneath the hood brings me the sadistic feeling of control that I’m desperately craving. A powerful machine doing my bidding is addictive. Tight rings form on the ground the more circles we turn. I can’t contain the smile taking over my face or the laugh that bubbles up as I spin out.
With the slight drizzle that came through yesterday, the ground has the perfect amount of moisture to make sliding across the top of the mud perfect without causing deep ruts.
I used to get in trouble with Grams for tearing up the field, but coming out here to fuck shit up was the only thing that kept me sane some days. Sure, I could’ve rolled over and gotten hurt, but that was half the fun. Everyone knows that.
There was one time I came out here to do donuts, but the ground was sopping wet. Naturally, my poor Bronco’s tires sank too deep into the mud to keep going. I had it buried almost to the top of the tires. Of course, I kept trying to get it out myself to avoid the tongue lashing I was sure to get when I told Grams.
Eventually, after both the truck and myself were thoroughly covered in mud, I had to fetch the tractor to pull the truck out. The entire rest of the summer I had to spend countless hours fixing the ruts I made. Worth it. Now that there’s no one here to stop me, and we don’t use the field to plant hay and sell it, I can do what I damn well please out here. Tearing up the ground out here is a better alternative to crying my eyes out, again. I’m tired of crying. These little moments of joy found with my horses, my man, or my truck are the only things holding me together at this point.