[fic] a wicked game

[ohstarryeyed]

Running would give her away too easily. Draw attention to herself more than she thought she already did. She could slip through, pass by the chaos unravelling on the street and keep going, get home. She silently removed the can of mace from her bag and stuffed it in her jacket pocket, her eyes warily watching. She had to move. Now.

She walks with a pace that brings her breathing in hard, or maybe it’s the adrenaline or the fear. Her head bowed, breathing in smoke and sulphur and the damp heat in the night air. Flames flash in her eyes, followed by the hoots and hollers and crashing. Her mind screams at her like an alarm: danger, danger, danger.

She can’t turn back. Not now.

Shadows block her path, hard-lined bodies with sharp smiles. She takes a step back, her head lifting. Men in leather with calloused hands and wide, dark eyes. “Where you goin’, honey?”

“Nowhere.” her accent brings a short chorus of yowls and sniggers.

“English girl, huh?” one of them drawls, “Man, I’ve never been with one of you before.”

“I heard they’re frigid as fuck, man.” a second chides in. “She ain’t putting out.”

The third steps closer, “She ain’t gonna be frigid by the time I’m done with her.” he utters darkly.

“Back. Off.” came her reply from behind gritted teeth, the can of mace yanked out her pocket, aimed at the closest one.

They laughed at her, taking a few steps forwards. This was fun to them, she thought. This was just a game. She swallowed thickly, her face darkening into a scowl. She was not their game.

“You ain’t really gonna use that.” said the closest to her, he didn’t move away.

“Wrong answer, dickhead.” Cassie spat, squeezing her finger down, spewing burning liquid into his face.

With a shriek, he stumbled back, blinded and cursing – his roar louder than anything else going on. “Fuck, fuck, you fucking whore, you fucking--”

Cassie felt dizzy, everything was too loud, too fast. She didn’t think she’d actually mace the guy. Her eyes were wide in fear, staring at the other two whose faces of initial humour had turned to violent rage. She saw the glimmer of metal pulled from a belt, one of the two left standing moved forwards. Her stomach tightened, nausea rising-- what had she done?

“The fuck you been, girl?” a fourth voice spoke with a thick southern drawl, “Was wonderin’ where you were.”

She felt an arm slung around her shoulders and with a sharp tug, she collided with a warm body that smelt of sweat, cigarette smoke and an alarming amount of whiskey. The man’s head dipped close to hers, lips brushing against her cheekbone before he murmured, his voice calm and precise: “Calm down. Trust me.”

Cassie blinked, her mind reeling; she didn’t want to lower the can of mace in her hand but he held her steady. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him.

The two men still standing were frowning, then took a step back. “Fuck, Crash. You know this crazy bitch?” one of them asked.

“She’s my new girl.” the drawl had returned. “You think I wanna spend all my time with you fuckers, huh?”

The words came without thinking. “You know these arseholes?” her eyes were still wide, unblinking. He’d stepped in, spared her from what might be coming. Or at least for a moment. Could she trust him, though?

It was him or the knife.

Finally, she lowered her hand. He squeezed her shoulder in reply.

“She fuckin’ maced me, man!” the one on the floor moaned in agony. “The bitch maced me!”

“Well, the fuck you expectin’ to happen?” Crash said incredulously. “I gave her the stuff for shit like this.”

“Your old lady’s whacked, man.” came the unamused grumble. “We thought she was some random frigid bitch,”

“Yeah, well.” he shrugged lazily, tucking her hair around her ear. “She’s a good girl, really. But… need a little crazy in a good girl, right?”

He winked and paused to light a cigarette. Cassie turned her head slightly to look at him. What a peculiar way to hold a cigarette, she thought. The two standing laughed, finally disarmed, and pulled the third from the floor. “Damn, Crash.”

Crash smiled before turning both him and Cassie around. He walked easily, waving with the hand that held the cigarette. “Gimme five, boys.”

With their backs turned on the men, she let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her heart skipped in her chest. Immediate threat was gone but then… who was this? This… Crash. The knots in her stomach tightened. She felt sick.

Silently, he walked her into an alley. It was only then that he pulled his arm away, turning from her slightly. He flicked the cigarette away, closing his eyes as he exhaled. He looked thoughtful for a moment before he turned to her, stepping close. She stepped back, brickwork pressing into her.

When he spoke, the heavy southern drawl was pulled back again, just as it had been when he’d whispered into her ear. His voice was low: “You picked a damn time to be out here,”

Cassie still looked alarmed, she shook her head: “I’m… I’m just trying to get home.”

“You got any idea who you just maced?” he asked. “We’re the Iron Crusaders.” Her face drew a blank. “Know much about biker gangs?”

She shook her head. They stood in silence for a moment, the chaos of the street seemed so far away now. Finally, she could look at him properly: he towered over her; his face was sharp and dark and as much as his eyes seemed focused, they were distant and watery, his pupils huge and black and wild. He studied her carefully for a moment before sighing heavily.

“Shit.”

He paused again and then nodded. “Okay. Listen. I’m gonna get you home but this ain’t gonna be easy. Stay close.” he said. “They think you’re with me now but I can’t just up and leave them to deal with you. You stay with me and I’ll get you through the night and when I can, I’ll get you home, alright?”

Cassie stared at him in disbelief: “Do I have much of a choice?”

“Hey,” he stepped back, throwing his arms open with a cold smirk. “You wanna take your chances on a night like this, be my guest.”

“You don’t have to be such an arsehole about it.” Cassie spat, scowling.

His raised his eyebrows at her.

“Fine.”

“Alright. Your name is Stella.” he told her, “You got that?”

She nodded, “Crash, I take it.”

He hummed a reply, not looking at her for a moment. “Here.” He stepped closer, raising a hand to her face. She flinched from him, her brow furrowing and he paused. “It’s alright.”

With surprising gentleness, he pressed his thumb to her lips and dragged it across. She looked up at him but his eyes were lowered to her mouth in quiet concentration. It took a few moments before she realised what he was doing, his thumb worked quickly, smudging the lipstick. He was making it look like they’d been up to what she thought he’d led to her to this alley for.

He brushed his thumb against his own mouth, leaving the traces of soft pink across his lower lip, dipping it onto the skin of his chin. He stayed close, turning his head to glance back to the way they’d come, making sure they were still alone. Without looking back, he ran his hands through his hair; pulling at it and leaving it dishevelled.

“Muss your hair up,” he told her. “And untuck your shirt.”

“Hey, Crash!” a voice yelled close from the alley’s entrance. “Where you at? You can fuck your girl later, we got shit to do!”

Cassie quickly wrenched her blouse from the waistband of her jeans, her hands flying through her hair, tangling and tousling it to mimic a frenzied moment of lust. A brief look of panic passed her eyes and she looked up at him questioningly. Crash nodded reassuringly before finally stepping away and turning towards the figure who’d appeared at the alley’s entrance. He stood impatiently, looking at them.

“Shit,” he drawled in reply. “Give me a break, motherfucker.”

“Break’s over, c’mon!”

Crash gave one final look to Cassie and motioned with his head for her to move. With a deep breath to steady herself, she pushed from the wall. He slung his arm around her shoulders once more to walk her back out.

“Stay quiet and stay close.” he told her in a hushed voice. “I’ll get you home. Promise.”

But what lay between this moment and her front door was a long, long night.

Comments

part two: 1995.

[ohstarryeyed]

Sometimes he thinks he sees her, here in Louisiana. His mind almost tricks himself into believing it, too. He’ll see a woman her height, with the same hair and everything is rose gold; freesia and starlight hitting the back of his throat. Everything telling him that it’s her and he almost wants to reach for them, to check, to make sure. He never does.

He remembers waking up alone in the hospital, so sure he could feel tears on his skin and the ghost of a kiss on his lips. Was she there? Did she make it out okay? And the lights of the room burn his eyes that he can’t bear to look but the alternative doesn’t seem much better. He could still see her when he closed his eyes, playing it over in his mind, skipping like a broken record: panic in her eyes and blood on her hands-- his blood on her hands-- and the world tilted a little too far for him. He doesn’t want to see that, he can’t. He doesn’t want that to be the last thing he remembers of her; for her, just for her, he hoped of something better.

She’s alive, at least. They tell him that. She’s never brought up again. He knows deep down that she’s one less ghost he has to chase but there’s so many questions past she’s alive that he has and that will go unanswered that he’ll chase her all the same. He never sees her again, though.

Two years later. January, 1995. Dora Lange. It fills his head, consumes him and he allows it. Something to fill all the holes within himself, something to stop him falling into those holes. He never can fill them completely.

She teaches music classes part-time at the community college, tutors a few kids of parents who have more money than they know what to do with. She spends hours in her kitchen, baking with a calm fury; sometimes she donates them, sometimes she sells them at farmers markets, sometimes she brings them into work to the delight of her colleagues and students.

At night she sits on her porch and squints past the light pollution for the stars. It’s in the quiet moments there does she remember his face: sharp with wild eyes, who felt so heavy in her arms, who she kissed goodbye on a hospital bed and was escorted out to sit in smokey interview rooms for hours. They’d bought her silence for what information she could give and told her to leave the state. She didn’t go far.

She moves on, or rather, returns to what she was before that year. People call her Cassie instead of Stella. She keeps her boots and jacket in a box at the bottom of the closet, stored with a few trinkets: a half-used tube of lipstick, a star pendant, a photograph and a knife.

It’s mid-afternoon on a warm spring day, she stops to speak to a colleague and they see one another from across the street. He stands motionless, a cigarette in one hand and a large black ledger in the other - pressed tightly against his side. Her colleague, noticing her distraction, asks if she’s alright and she smiles gently, not looking away from him. Cassie asks if they can catch up another time and the other woman nods, leaving her standing alone on the sidewalk.

He wouldn’t say time had stopped. Rust finds the notion a little too romantic for his liking and it’s a notion he would quickly squash beneath his shoe. Everything had instead become out of focus in contrast to her sharpness from where she stood. He stared, half-blinded by rose gold and the familiar taste of her in his throat. All those other times, when he thought he’d seen her, he’d been wrong. That taste had never been as strong. He almost chokes on it.

Slowly, he brings his cigarette to his lips. She hasn’t moved. He takes a long draw and flicks it in the gutter; before he can think of anything else, he starts moving, crossing the street. He stops a few steps short of her and it seems like a crevasse has formed between them. Neither of them moves for a few moments.

Finally, Cassie speaks, her voice is glitter gold: “Rustin.”

Rust’s head dips in a slow nod, his brow furrows slightly. “How long you been here?”

“A little over two years,” she answers, “You?”

“They give you trouble?” he dodges her question with one of his own, “The police, afterwards?”

She shakes her head, “No. I had to answer some questions but--” she trails off, her lips pursing for a moment. “-- do you want to go talk somewhere?”

His answer is automatic - before he can say anything else: “Yeah.”

part three: 2010

[ohstarryeyed]

Love, I know you'll be alright; your chapters end so well.
Love, I love your welling eyes; you're happy I can tell.
Love, I know you're doing fine but I can't help but feel sorry,
Cause love, your tale will end just fine but mine is a different story.
Mine is a different story.

He stands at the door of a house in a quiet neighbourhood-- a nice neighbourhood-- and there’s a kind of comfort in that. The address hadn’t been difficult to find. He doesn’t knock on the door just yet, though. Part of him doesn’t want to be here. He should walk away, not disturb whatever peace she might have found here. This is the house. This is her house.

And he darkens the door with his shadow.

Eight years ago, he opened the door to her concerned eyes. She gaped at him for a full minute at the swollen, bruised and broken skin of his face, shocked into disbelief, and half of him wished he hadn’t opened the door to her. She’s worried and he already felt bad. “What the hell, Rust.” her hand reached for his face, “What--”

He ducked away from her, avoiding her gaze. “Don’t.”

He left the door open for her, turning his back to return to his boxes. Cassie stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She noticed the boxes. “What’s going on, Rust?” her voice was so quiet, the glitter-gold seemed dim.

“I quit.”

The silence between them was unbearable. It had been a long time since a silence had felt like that between them. Cassie faltered, shaking her head slightly. “I thought you were just suspended, I--”

“I fucked Maggie.” he interrupted and the words seem so sour in his mouth. They’re spat out like bile, full of bitterness and self-loathing. Cassie took a step back, stunned. “Marty found out. We fought. I quit.”

Another silence. Rust didn’t look at her, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Shit. That bitterness bubbled away in his stomach, acrid and vile. He wondered what she thought of him, if it was any worse than what he thought of himself and in her silence, he couldn’t seem to tell. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He heard her shift a little on the spot, she wrung her hands: “You’re leaving.” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.” he exhaled.

“You can’t.”

He looked up. She was looking at the floor. Had she even looked at him? What did she think of him? No. He couldn’t stand this, not from her. But then… he made no move to clarify. Maybe it was the anger in his stomach, maybe he thought too much of her silence.

“Because you say so?” he spat back, brushing past her. “You think ‘cause you say so I’m going to just stop and stay here?”

“I just--”

“’cause you’re so important,” he scowled, “You’re no different to anyone else, it’s all about you. That’s all any of you are. It’s all about you. You don’t mean shit. I mean, why are you here, Cassie? Really? Why are you ever here? What am I to you?”

Her breathing was coming fast and he knew she was trying to stop herself from crying. She finally looked up at him then, her eyes were glossy. The sour taste in his mouth was stronger now. She would make him want to stay and he couldn’t let her. Not after this. “You’re my friend, Rust.”

His jaw tensed. Friend. Marty and Maggie were his friends too.

“Bullshit.” he said slowly, still glowering at her. He sniffed indignantly. “I’m just some broken nobody you think you can fix so you can feel better about yourself.”

He sparked something in her chest, Cassie fixed him with a look: harsh and defiant. “Stop it.” her words came from behind gritted teeth. “Don’t say that.”

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want,” he told her flatly. “If you never liked it then you knew where the door was. I’ve had enough of all of you.” He gestured, “Fuck all this, man.” he continued. “Fuck Marty, fuck Maggie, fuck everything and fuck you too, Cassie.”

Her voice was louder, quivering. She was so close to tears. She stepped towards him, a hand reaching for him. “I don’t want you to go.”

He caught her wrist, “You don’t get what you want, Cassie.” he told her.

“Why are you being like this?” she asked. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

He didn’t answer her.

“I’m your friend.” her voice was breaking, rose gold shattering with every syllable. “I’ve only ever wanted to be your friend. I care about you even though you don’t care about yourself, even if you don’t want anyone to care about you.”

“You care,” he said coldly. “’cause it helps you sleep at night. ‘cause you’ve deluded yourself enough to think you can make anything good in this world. It’s bullshit. This whole fucking planet is a cesspool of shit. You think you can make it all better? You’re wrong. You can’t do anything right, so you know what?”

He gripped her wrist tightly, pulled her close to him. His words are like cold, rusted iron: “Go play happy fucking families with your boyfriend, go live in your happy fucking dream-world and leave me the fuck alone.”

She inhaled so sharply it felt like a knife in the gut. He knew he’d hurt her with that. He firmly shoved her arm away and stepped back from her. Tears pricked at her eyes but he couldn’t look at them. He could barely look at her at all. Somewhere, beneath it all, he loathed himself for talking to her like this.

“Don’t come back here again before I’m gone. I don’t want to see you again. We’re done.”

For a moment, she was motionless. There was nothing but the sound of their breathing: Rust’s heavy and slow, Cassie’s shallow and quivering. She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t reach for him again or say another word. A tear slipped from her eye as she turned and left, leaving him alone.

That was the last time he saw her.

He steels himself. Knocks. The wait is almost unbearable. A girl answers the door. She’s barely older than thirteen, dark brown eyes and blonde hair that falls over her face. He takes a step back, whatever he’d done to brace himself for this opening is lost by the sight of her. His mouth falters, no words come out: she looks so much like her. All he can do is stare.

The girl takes a step back, clearly uncomfortable by the sight of him.

“Aunt Cassie?” she calls behind her.

Aunt. Her niece. He remembers. She had flown home when the baby had come. Returned with pictures and a joy about her that blinded him with light. And he’d remembered his daughter and he couldn’t look at the pictures. And then she’s there-- her hurried pace slowing as soon as she sees him. The familiar taste returns to the back of his throat and this time, he doesn’t choke on it. He finds himself realising he’s missed it.

There’s a tightness around her eyes he doesn’t remember her having. Her hair is short, faint lines mark around her mouth and eyes. As she reaches the doorway, she stares for what feels like a long time before she gently directs the girl back inside the house. “Go watch your cousin, okay?”

The girl looks at Cassie and then to Rust before nodding, heading back into the house. Rust swallows thickly and looks away.

“I should have called,” he says finally.

He looks at her again. Her mouth is a thin straight line as she steps towards him and before he can say or do much else, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him into a hug. He still doesn't choke on her. He lets those sounds, colours and tastes wash over him like parched sand washed by the first wave of the sea. Her breath wavers in her throat, he can feel it fluttering; words on the tip of her tongue she can’t say. Gently, he places his hand on her back.

Cassie makes coffee and they sit at her kitchen table. For a long time, there’s silence, punctured only by the voices of two children outside and the low hum of the refrigerator. She pushes an old mug towards him for an ashtray and he sits and smokes and tries to find a starting point.

“Your niece looks a lot like you,” he comments, his gaze lifting to the window. They sit on a tree swing. The boy’s feet dangle in the air, the girl kicks up dust as she gently pushes the swing with her foot. A folded paper shape twists in her hands.

“Caity. She’s Adrian’s oldest,” she says with a small smile.

He utters the name under this breath, his brow furrowing for a moment in thought. “Named after your mom, right?” he pauses again, “Caity. Catherine.”

“Yeah. She wanted to come visit for the summer.” she says with a nod, “My brother and his wife visited just over a week ago. They’re doing some sight-seeing while I look after her.”

“And your boy. He’s...” he nods with his head, he can’t say it. He’s your son, isn’t he?

“Cole.” she says, “He’s six.”

Her answer burns. His eyes glance up at her and she sits with the smallest of smiles on her lips. Fuck. He doesn’t know how to process that. After how he’d spoken to her, she went and named her kid after him? A wave of emotion hits him and it threatens to drown him. Rust takes another long drag on his cigarette, smokes it down to the nub before he can do anything else.

“You’re married,” he remarks quietly.

“Widowed,” comes the gentle reply, she's not looking at him. “Two years ago. He, uh-- it was a heart attack. Undiagnosed heart condition.”

There’s a wedding invitation in a drawer; his name written on the envelope but no address to send it to. She’s still kept it. She doesn’t know why.

“I’m sorry.” his voice is barely above a whisper. He lights another cigarette. Of course. Of course, he missed it. He missed her wedding and missed the funeral. For a moment, he pictures each day, the contrast of her face. He can’t quite see the joy of how she would have looked on her wedding day, not anymore. It’s the grief he can picture more clearly. It hurts to think of her like that. “What was--”

“Rust.” she interrupts him, leaning forward in her seat. He catches her gaze for a moment and quickly looks away. His comments and questions trouble her. One after the other, as if he’s on autopilot. He hasn’t said a single thing about himself since he stepped through the door. Nothing about their argument, about why he left, where he went. “Where did you go?”

“Back to Alaska,” he says finally.

“I thought you didn’t like the cold?”

“I don’t.”

“And you went anyway.” she pulls in a breath, taking a sip of coffee. “I.. I wanted to write, call, something. After a while, I found out what had happened-- I don’t blame you for wanting to get out. That wasn’t fair, what happened.”

“Yeah, well.” he shrugs, shakes his head. “You still talk to them?” he asks, and then after a short pause, a little more carefully. “Marty?”

Cassie exhales, “Maggie, yeah. I talk to her sometimes, it’s not really the same, though.” she pauses, pursing her lips for a moment. “I haven’t seen Marty since the funeral. He came to that. I think he just avoids me for the most part.”

“He’ll think you blame him.” Rust offers with a shrug.

“I do blame him,” Cassie says, unashamed. “He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants and I lost my friend.”

Rust looks down. Cassie still watches him carefully before she reaches across the table for his hand. His hand goes limp in hers but she holds it anyway and he still can’t look up.

“You said those things on purpose.” she tells him, “You didn’t mean them, though. Not deep down.”

“Why did you leave anyway?” he asks. “If you knew? Shit, Cassie. You’re one of the most stubborn people I know – you put up with me for all those years. You gotta be stubborn for something like that. But… you just walked out the door.”

“I won’t lie, what you said did hurt. It’s just...” she trails off and sighs softly. “I guess I knew you couldn’t stay. I guess I knew there wouldn’t be anything I would say that would convince you to. You were hurting, Rust. You just… did what you had to do for yourself.”

Rust nods, her words crackle like electricity in his stomach. He wipes his face. He’d lashed out at her and she knew. She didn’t blame him for it, either. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Why did you come back, Rust?”

He doesn’t answer her. Maybe he shouldn’t. She has no idea what he plans to do. He takes another drag, still looking down.

“Stay,” she says finally. “Don’t leave like last time.”

He can’t give her the answer he knows she wants to hear.

“You wanna stay for dinner?”

Finally, he can answer. “I can’t.” he says, “I shouldn’t.”

He looks up then. The look on her face already tells him he’s lost the argument.

It’s the most awkward he’s felt in a long time. Her niece keeps texting under the table with a small smile despite Cassie’s insistence on ‘no phones at the table’. Her son stares at him curiously and he can’t look at the boy. He feels out of place, this is too normal for him.

She convinces him to stay the night after dinner. Cassie puts her son to bed and her niece soon follows. He stands silently in her kitchen, drying the dishes she washes, listening to her talk. She talks about her son, her family and with a sad reluctance, her husband. He remembers him vaguely. The last man he knew she was dating before he left and he cringes inside: ’Go play happy fucking families with your boyfriend.’

She talks about her job, how she spends her time, all these little things in her life he doesn’t know about, what he’s missed in eight years. He’s comforted by the fact she’s happy, despite her loss; that she’s doing okay, that she’s remained the same: gentle and kind.

They sit on her porch, looking out onto the backyard. He swigs from a bottle of beer, looking up at the stars. She lives in a quieter neighbourhood, away from a lot of the lights. The sky is clearer here. Not as clear as he’d like but he gets why she moved here. She’s quiet, it’s a nicer kind of silence. A little more comfortable. She’s missed this. He’s missed it too.

Perhaps he should explain, he thinks. He can’t really tell her it’s goodbye but he can at least explain why he’s back. It’s easier than making this his goodbye to her. After everything, he owed her that. And well, he guesses, they just weren’t the two for making goodbyes. They had never been.

“You asked me why I came back,” he says finally. “I got debts.”

“How’d you mean?” she turns her head to look at him.

“You remember that case Marty and I worked on, back in ‘95?”

She pauses for a moment in thought, “Dora Lange, right?” she asks and then frowns in realisation: “You still kept all those pictures and things on your walls afterward. It wasn’t finished.”

“I need to put it right.”

Silence falls once more. She looks at her hands for a moment. “I’d expect nothing less.” Cassie nods, smiling sadly. “You have to do what needs to be done.”

She falls asleep next to him on the sofa and he shifts her, letting her rest on him. The weight of her pressing on him like an anchor and he appreciates it, he always has. Maybe he didn’t thank her enough. It’s one last regret of their friendship he adds to his list.

When he leaves the next day, she presses her phone number on a folded piece of paper into his hand. He dutifully places it in his back pocket but he can’t quite look her in the eye. When she hugs him goodbye, he holds her a little tighter than he realises.

“Come back, okay?” she murmurs into his shoulder. “You know where I am if you need me. You’ll always be welcome here.”

“Thank you,” he tells her. It’s all he can say.

Rust knows it’s a promise he can’t keep. He’s glad she can’t see his face.

end: 2012

[ohstarryeyed]

***

He speaks to her one last time, almost two years later. He’s already said his goodbye but he wanted to hear her voice once more. The home of William Childress awaits them. She tells him the detectives have spoken to her about him and Marty, just as they had spoken to Maggie. He interrupts her, he doesn’t want her to talk about that; he asks her about how she’s doing, her son.

He’s silent as he listens, his face softening. She’s okay, still. He can hear the worry in her voice though and he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop that.

When he says goodbye, he thinks back to the night they met. Her voice was starlight, cutting through the haze and rush of chemicals. He’d slung his arm around her shoulders, whispering into her ear: Calm down. Trust me.

“Take care.” he says into the receiver before he hangs up. He means it.