34. Riot
Riot
I was brimming with excitement at the prospect of making some real money with the wind chimes and whirligigs. Reassurance and inspiration wove in my gut when Avery approached me, recognizing me not for the violent crime I’d been convicted of, but for the artwork I’d spent so many hours on.
Iwaseager to get home and startworkingon some new pieces but first Ineededmore materials. Ihadscavengedthe dump and Benny’s scrap yard pretty thoroughly. Therewasonly one other spot in town IthoughtI might be able to scrounge up some new materials.
Hank Taylorwasone tough son of a bitch as the Fire Commissioner when my dadworkedfor the department.
At leastthat’show ten-year-old merememberedhim,seeinghim around town.
Heownedan antique junkyard now not too far from my house.
Ipreparedto knock on his door when a voice from the corner of the porchstartledme.
“What can I do for you, Riot?” Hank sat in the corner, a glass in his hand resting on the arm. His gray hair was still thick and cut tight.
“Sir,” I nodded, regarding him, pushing my hands in my pockets. “I was hoping I might buy some of the antiques you got here. For a… project I’m working on.”
Hank’s faceremainedimpassive. His narrow eyesheldme for a longbeat, the only sound the slight creaking of his chair against the wood porch.
“Don’t see why not. Come see me after you pull what you need.”
I didn’t wait for him to change his mind .
It didn’t take me long to pick some pieces IthoughtI could use. Iwasidly aware of Hank’s eyes on me from the porch. Iwonderedwhat hewasthinkingbut to be honest,I’dalways been a little afraid of him.
When I re-approachedHank, Ipulledcash out of my wallet from the market sales earlier that morning.
He held his hand up, dismissing me.
“No point inpayingfor garbage, son. Sit a spell. Let’s catch up.”
My stomachdroppedand I could feel the anxious restlessness start tohitme. But you did what Hank Taylortoldyou to do.
Hepickedan empty glass off the end table next to him andpulleda bottle of light pink wine from underneath it where ithadbeensitting in a bucket of ice. Heextendedme the glass.
“Rosé?” he offered.
It might’ve came off as rude, but Ipausedfor a long moment,staringat the glass. Out of all the alcohol Hank Taylor couldhavebeendrinking, roséwasnot on the shortlist I wouldhavepredicted.
“Rosé,” I stated. I tried to mask the surprise, but he caught it.
“I’m too old to pretend to like the brown stuff.” He waved dismissively and lifted his glass. “It’s delicious and I enjoy it.” He punctuated the end of his sentence and it was the end of the discussion.
I brought the sweating glass to my lips and let it slide down my throat. Touché, Hank. It was delicious.
“You know it was your mother who first brought me a bottle of this.” His words drained the color from my face and I swallowed hard, waiting for his follow-up. But it didn’t come.
I nodded. “She wasn’t much of a drinker,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Probably didn’t even know what she was buying.”
Hank smirked, and it put me at ease a little.
“You know,she’dspend hours at that church,prayingfor that brother of yours.
”His headshookslightly and my breathgrewshallow.
My heartpickedup. But if hewaslookingfor answers from me, he didn’t give it away because he justkeptgoing.
“Iusedto tell her, ‘You wanna point that boy in the right direction, you go be a good mama and daddy. Teach him to cook a meal, make himsetthe table, teach him how to wash the dishes properly. Hold eye contact whiletalkingto adults. Keep him close but not too close, otherwise,he’lljust getbent.’ But whoamI to give a widow that kind of advice?
Our kidsweregrownwhen Sallypassed.” Hecontinuedto rock back and forth,watchingthe grasses blow in the light breeze.
“But she alwayssaidGod would answer her prayers one way or the other.”
“She was a God-fearing woman,” I sighed.
“Not always,” Hank droned. My surprised eyebrow lifted in his direction.
“She was always devout in her faith, no doubt. She loved that church. But before your father passed, she was just like anyone else. Church on Sunday and the holidays, volunteer here and there but after he died? That was when she dove head first.”
Hankrockedback in the creaky wooden chair, a familiar expression on his face that I couldn’t quite place.
“That kinda griefhasa way of…grippingpeople. Makes ’em lose themselves in an endless pit of sadness.
By the time they claw their way out, the world looks different.
Something they can’t recognize. Something they can’t understand.
So, they turn to the things they do understand.
For somethat’sthe bottle, for others the needle.
For your mother itwasGod. At least the church’s version of him, anyway. ”
I smiled, remembering the brief conversations my dad and I used to have about my mom’s faith.
“You know my dadusedto say that the churchissome kind of social construct. Peoplecreatedit to apply tangible theory to something inexplicable. It’s a physical place you can go.
The Bibleissomething you can physically hold in your hands.
Take all that away and all youhavearea bunch of people blindlytalkingabout magic. ”
Hank raised an amused eyebrow. “They burned women at the stake for less.” He coughed out a surprising cackle and took a sip of his glass. “That daddy of yours was her balance. Without him…” His words drifted off and his eyes gleamed with a distant memory.
That was when I understood that familiar expression on his face. Guilt. Technically, my dad had died under his leadership .
“Dad respected the hell outta you.” I rested my elbows on my knees, peering over to him. His eyes flashed to mine, albeit briefly. A moment passed between us and I saw his nearly imperceptible nod.
Wesatthere for another ten minutes,drinkingour pink wine in silence, a distant air of understanding and forgivenesssettlingbetween us.
When I got home, I unloaded all the pieces Hank had let me take for free. I was covered in rust and grease and I wanted to be clean when Nicolette came home.
There was a strange sense of closure after I’d left Hank’s property. I couldn’t put my finger on it but this day felt like it almost belonged to someone else, in another life. A life I was leaving behind.
Isteppedinto the shower,contemplatingthe foreignfeeling. Between waking up next to Nicolette in my bed (a complete first for me), to the art collectorofferingme a spot in her gallery, and then the bizarre exchange with Hank, somethingfeltdifferent.
Itwasas if lifewasstartingand Iwasn’tscared.
Quite the opposite. Iwasbeginningto feel like my lifewashappeningand a warmthbloomedin my chest when Ithoughtabout that life with Nicolette.
She didn’t want to stay here, and I stillhada little over four more years to serve probation in Spokane County.
Therewasa chance I could get permission to join the art tour but the exception to my probation for Hanniqua Islandhadbeengrueling and theywarnedme itwasn’tlikely to happen again.
IhadtoldAvery I probably couldn’t be there in person but shewavedme off, telling me agentsrepresentedartists on tour all the time.
I blew out a breath.
If IhadtoletNicolette go, I wouldlether go. I wouldn’t be the one to hold her back. And in four years, three months, and eighteen daysI’dgo search for her, ifthat’swhat ittook .
Because I loved her.
A soft tingle started across my back and wrapped around my chest. I whispered the words, “I love her,” to myself.
My lips curled into a smile. Even if she didn’t feel the same, it was a wonderful feeling, to love someone. It was glorious and terrifying and uncertain but hopeful and inspiring.
As Iletthe water cascade down my face, thefeelinggrewin my chest until IthoughtI mightburstif I didn’t tell her.
Iimagineda number of ways I could do it.
A date. Flowers. In bed. In the shower .
My cock jumped at the thought, and Iwasonce againremindedof how fiercely my bodylovedher too.
It didn’t matter how Itoldher. I justneededit to happen soon.
The scratchy sound of tires against gravel sent my heart bouncing into my throat. I grabbed a towel, hearing a car door slam shut. Jumping into gym shorts, I ran toward her room but was derailed by a knock at the front door.
A deep growlburieditself in my throat when Isawher Uncle Jacob standing on the other side.
Drainingthe oil from his carwasn’tenough.
After the carnival, Imadethe mental connection of why Nicolettehadjumpedfrom the second story window to get away from her uncle.
She’dfoundher video all over his computer.
Disgust and vengeanceswirledinside me.
Nicolette and I would neverhavea future if Iwentback to prison, so thathadbeenthe only thingholdingme back from beating thelivingday lights out of him over the last few weeks.
I paused at the door. He had a stupid, wide grin on his face. When I didn’t return it, his smile faltered and became defensive before it landed on pompous.
“What can I help you with, Jacob?”Ikeptmy voice neutral.
“Is my niece here?”
Ipressedmy lips into a thin line, unwilling to give him any information about Nicolette. Henarrowedhis eyes at me before taking a long look around me and then down the driveway. Her carwasn’there, so Iwasn’tgiving much away.
“She’snot here. Not sure what timeshe’llbe back. Can I give her a message? ”
Jacobsighedbefore handing me a small binder.
“This came in the mail for her. I wasn’t expecting anything for her so I opened it. Please give her my apologies.” There was that shit-eating grin again.
I took the binder from him without looking at it. I lifted my eyebrows, asking if there was anything else.
“Well, I’d better be going then,” he said.
I nodded a strong confirmation.
He took a backward step down. Before I could close the door, he turned back and added, “You know, I think it’s great you’re finally telling your side of the story. I look forward to catching it on the television.” He smiled patronizingly before disappearing to his car.
A chillwentdown my arms and I couldn’t help but look down at the binder in my hands.
Reading the cover page, my blood went cold.
Athena Studios Feature Episode Treatment Beyond Bizarre: Season 3 Episode 2 The Riot Asher Story A Golden Boy’s Fall from Grace
Black spots appeared at the side of my vision and began to close in. I screamed at myself to move. To do something. I shook my head. It couldn’t be what I thought it was. Nicolette swore she would never tell anyone.
When had this binder come for her?
I studied the torn envelope he’d handed to me underneath it. The post date was over three weeks ago. Before she’d even uncovered the truth about my mother’s death.
I made every excuse for her in my head. I convinced myself, my breath growing shallow, that there had to be some kind of explanation.
She was under duress. The studio kidnapped her parents and threatened to kill them unless she came here to finish the story. Or maybe she’d been injected with a lethal poison. The only way they’d give her the antidote was to get me to talk.
But I knew that was ridiculous. And when I read the handwritten sticky note on the inside cover, my heart crumbled to a thousand pieces.
Nicolette - Hereisthe official treatment for thefeaturedepisode. Therearethree possible narratives we can end with. Youletme know what you thinkwillmake the most sense with Riot’s version of events.
If anyone can crack him, it’s you, Bloodhound!
Go get him! -Melody
Ibeganto flip through the binder, the unfiltered truthslappingme in the face with each page turn.