2. Daisy
DAISY
Get the fuck away from that door.
I don’t know who the voice belongs to, and I’m definitely not opening the door to find out. I consider for the briefest moment peeping through the curtains that close off the front window to the outside, but I’m concerned Chris might take the opportunity to smash the window to get to me.
When Annie, my boss, said I could rent this place from her at a discount, I wish I’d known I’d be living two doors down from a drug den before I agreed.
Worse, I wish I hadn’t been polite on moving day last week.
Chris offered a borderline creepy, weed-scented introduction, and I should have known when I shook his damp, limp hand that this wouldn’t end well.
My neighbor shared with me that Chris and his roommates use and deal in stronger drugs. Meth. Cocaine. Bath salts, which I’m guessing isn’t the same kind my grandma used to have in a box on the side of her bathtub.
But someone with a masculine voice has told Chris to step away from my door, and I blow out a breath of relief because, for now, the hammering has stopped.
“It’s gonna be okay, Els.” I glance over to where my young daughter is peering around the tiny kitchen island and press a hand to my sternum in an attempt to convince my heart it doesn’t need to beat its way out of my chest.
Through the tears, she tries to smile, even as her jaw shakes.
I peer closer through the peephole on the front door. This apartment doesn’t have much, but at least it has this one tiny safety precaution.
“Daisy, let me in,” Chris says, stepping forward to hammer on the door again in a move that makes us both jump. “There’s an idiot out here.”
“Tell him to go away,” Elsie whispers from her hiding spot. Little hands cover her ears, and the chaotic blonde curls she inherited from me flop around her face.
For someone who just turned five, Elsie has seen more than her fair share of trouble and loss already.
She used to ask where her father is, and I was vague.
He had to go away. It’s just us now. I’m sure at some point in the future, she’ll want a better answer.
And only when she’s old enough to understand will I tell her.
But it’s the reason I haven’t called the police.
Technically, we’re missing persons who want to remain missing. Calling the police will make us found, and we can’t afford that.
“I said leave us alone,” I shout.
Through the peephole, I see Chris looking to his left, the color draining from his face as he cricks his neck upwards at whoever is walking toward him.
“You got a problem with your hearing skills?” the voice says. “Because she made it very clear she doesn’t want you here.”
And then I see him.
There’s no indication where the biker came from. I know he’s a biker because I’ve seen a leather motorcycle club cut before. Not that I have any biker friends, but I also haven’t been living under a rock for the last twenty-eight years.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
The man is huge. Not bulky, but strong. Maybe it’s the fishbowl peephole, but it looks as though he’d have to duck to get through the doorframe.
“Just…talkin’…to her,” Chris offers weakly.
But the biker’s arm is out so fast, Chris doesn’t see it coming. The hand around Chris’s neck pushes him back to the balcony until he’s arching painfully over it.
“Yeah,” the biker says as Chris frantically claws at his wrist and arm. “Not any fucking more you aren’t.”
“Who the heck…?” I mutter as I watch the biker confidently manhandle Chris, even as he shifts his attempts to break free to the biker’s hands and face.
My heart is in my mouth, because it’s clear whoever my protector is that he’d have absolutely zero qualms letting Chris drop onto the dumpsters below.
Maybe the lid is open and he can die in there with the rest of the unit’s garbage that already smells like death on hot days anyway.
“What’s happening, Momma?” Elsie says. She’s cowering back there, even though I told her to go lock herself in the bathroom. I wanted her to go so I could grab the knife out of the drawer and hold it close in case Chris broke in.
But doing that while she’s sitting there, her knees tucked up beneath her chin, would only terrify her more.
“A man is standing up for us and telling Chris to go back to his apartment. It’s going to be okay, baby.”
At least, I hope it will be.
Elsie jumps to her feet. “He came.”
I’m about to ask her what she means, but then Chris screams. He’s kicking and scrabbling, his heels floundering on the chipped concrete.
But this man has the kind of biceps you’d never get both your hands around.
As he moves, I catch the flash of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans, and suck in a breath.
He might be my savior tonight. But that doesn’t mean he’s my friend. What he represents isn’t anything I want around Elsie. I didn’t fight to get us out of one toxic world to plop us right down into another.
She just turned five, and we had to celebrate it moving into this godforsaken apartment. The birthday banner I picked up at the dollar store still hangs on the wall behind the sofa. My momma sent me the money for some clothing Elsie needed.
It seems so unfair that a kid should be so happy getting clothing basics like a new five-pack of panties and socks for her birthday.
One day, I’m gonna have her wake up to the biggest pile of gifts.
A bike, maybe. As it was, I picked up a doll and stroller from a local online marketplace for five dollars and cleaned them up while she was sleeping.
I managed to get a bag of used clothes for the doll for another three dollars online that required a quick run through the laundry.
I made some little clothes hangers from one of the moving boxes and Annie, my boss, gave me one of those small expandable rods so I could put a clothes rail in the bottom of Elsie’s small closet for her doll’s things.
Some days I look in the fridge and pray for a miracle, because while I’m pretty thrifty when it comes to making money stretch, even I can’t face another pasta surprise or special soup made up of whatever is left at the back of the fridge.
And today was one of those days.
When I opened the fridge, I found half a pepper, an onion, and an apple. There was also half a chicken breast left over from dinner last night that Elsie hadn’t eaten. I concluded that it would classify as a stir-fry as long as I tossed it all in a bit of soy sauce.
But, instead, I added rice and turned it into something more curry-like so I could toss in the apple too.
Thankfully, Elsie isn’t a picky eater. I don’t know how moms on limited budgets handle kids who have sensory and dietary challenges.
It’s hard enough when I could shovel anything between two slices of bread for my daughter.
Behind her is her eye-patch chart. This one is a princess, and she sticks every used eye patch on it to make it look like the skirt of her dress.
One of the things about Elsie’s focal lens cataract that sits slap bang in the middle of her pupil is that it has the power to make the brain start ignoring the information from that eye.
So, to keep it healthy, she has to patch it for two hours every day to keep the neural pathway open.
At least, I think that’s the technical explanation the specialist gave.
And during that time, she has to do things that force her to use her weak eye to strengthen it so in future she could have surgery if she needs it.
Although the doctor said we should wait because the surgery for it has a risk of blindness and the technology for fixing eyes is improving all the time.
So we should wait until we know just how much it affects her schooling and whether or not it improves enough for her to drive before we make a call.
He looked at me and told me it would give me a chance to save for the surgery too, which, looking at the state of my fridge, will never happen because if I had money to spare, there’d be more protein in this fridge than half a chicken breast.
“Joe,” Chris shouts out. “Mark.” I’m assuming those are the names of his two crackhead friends. It’s one in the morning, and my little girl should be enjoying a good night’s sleep after a fun day at summer camp rather than sitting terrified by our neighbor.
Which is unfortunate, because Annie, owner of this apartment and the bar where I got a job, is some distant friend of my mother’s goddaughter. Jobs are hard to find when you move around as much as Elsie and I do. Apartments with the kind of flexibility we need, even harder.
But Annie was able to provide both. She offered this place to us without any credit or rental checks. Just took my word we’d be good tenants.
So this trouble with Chris couldn’t have happened at a worse time. I need to make good with the neighbors, not witness one of them getting killed.
“Did he come?” Elsie says, hurrying to me and wrapping her arms around my legs.
I place my hands on her head and run my fingers through her soft light blonde hair.
Her question doesn’t register at first. I’m too focused on the biker outside who looks like he’s about to kill Chris and wondering whether I would call the police to report a murder or help him bury the body.
“What do you mean, ‘did he come’? Chris? He’s been outside the whole time.”
Elsie shakes her head, the brown eyes she inherited from her father so earnest. “No. Vandal. He said he’d help.”
I drop away from the peephole and crouch in front of her, trying to calm my already racing pulse. “You called someone?”
“I called for help.” Elsie wipes tears from beneath her eyes. “He said he’d come.”
“Where do you—?” There is no point asking where a five-year-old finds a burly biker bodyguard from right now. “Never mind.”
I pull her to me and hug her. I hate that this child has rarely known a moment of safety in her short life.
Maybe one day she’ll hate me for taking her away from a life she might feel entitled to.
Especially when Elsie stands in secondhand sneakers and lives in this small but clean apartment because it’s all I can afford.
And I’ll never ask Elsie’s father for anything, because I don’t want him to ever know where we are.
But what I deeply hope is that someday Elsie understands that I did all this to keep her safe. To keep her away from prison visits and messed up family dynamics. Maybe if she understands all that, she won’t resent missing out on a more financially blessed life.
“Fine,” Chris says. The words are thready because I guess that’s what happens when you’re being choked over a balcony. “I’ll leave her alone.”
“For good. Not just tonight, not when I leave. They’ve got my number now. And I’m not the police. You don’t get to present your fucking case to a jury. I’ll kill you next time. Understood?”
A dark stain blooms on the denim near Chris’s crotch. I’m not sure if this classifies as a teachable moment, but maybe he’ll understand what it feels like to be terrorized by someone else.
Chris nods frantically, still gasping for breath.
“Good, now get the fuck out of here.”
The biker then drops him, and Chris crumples to the ground on all fours. He’s sucking in air like he’s been deprived for hours, not seconds.
“I didn’t say sit there,” the biker reminds him. “I said go.”
Chris scrambles to his feet, then hurries out of sight of the peephole.
I blow out a breath and wonder what I should do now.
But the biker surprises me by gripping hold of the balcony and letting his head drop between his shoulders.
I watch the large, embroidered patch on his back that declares him an Iron Outlaw rise and fall as he takes ten deep breaths. I count them, do them with him, even.
Then he takes one last deep breath, stands up tall, straightens his cut, runs a hand through his hair, and then turns.
And I take a large step back from the peephole, because he’s looking straight at it. There’s a mess of scars over his eyebrow in a jagged line. And there is a one-inch strip of hair missing with the most painful-looking scar that runs from one ear to the other over the top of his head.
If it were Halloween, he’d make a good Creature from Frankenstein.
But his eyes are like molten metal, a steely blue, darkened by circles beneath them. They’re red and bloodshot, and from the slight sway, I’d say he’s drunk.
He’s brutally attractive and the walking dead at the same time.
I don’t know how both things can be true, but they are. And somehow, I know I’m looking at a ruined man.
“Momma?” Elsie asks as I gasp when he raises his hand to the door.
He knocks. Politely. No hammering. “Hey, Elsie. It’s Vandal. You in there?”
I glance at Elsie, but I’m too slow to stop her pressing her face up against the door. “I’m here, Vandal. It’s me, Elsie.”
I step back to the peephole in time to see the corners of his mouth twitch in a smile at her response. He places the palm of his hand on the door and drops his head between his shoulders again.
“You and Sir Bearington Boo Boo Bear are okay now.”
Elsie lifts her face to mine. “Can we open the door so I can say thank you?” she asks in a whispered voice, and the hope in her eyes makes it impossible to say no.
So I reach for the lock and open the door.
And as soon as I do, Elsie charges to him, wraps her hands around Vandal’s leg, and hugs him tightly.