Chasing Peace (6 page)

I’m frustrated by another Saturday slow enough to be boring,
but busy enough that I don’t get to leave early. Of course I can’t afford the
time off, but I wouldn’t mind the occasional early night.

Boston just left, leaving me alone to find Lyla and let her
know I’m leaving too. I head down the utility hallway to her office.

“Lyla?” The lights in her office are on, shining down on
papers strewn across a normally neat desk. The clutter tells me she’d been in
the middle of something when she left. She can’t be far.

Looking to the end of the hall, I spy the door marked
emergency exit. It’s cracked open. “Lyla?” I call, pushing on the door. I’d
never been here before.

“Hey sweetie.” Lyla looks comfortable and familiar, leaning
against the block wall of the building, right knee bent, cigarette dangling
from her fingers. “It’s a dirty habit, I know, but I love it,” she confesses.

We’re in a wide alley for hotel delivery and pick up
service. It looks neat and clean for an alley, as far as I can tell, dumpsters
along the length of it, trash contained, lights outside several doors dim but
keeping the gloom at bay.

I lean against the wall next to Lyla. “I don’t mind. I guess
I’m used to it.”

She shakes her head wryly as she exhales a stream of smoke
in the other direction. “Don’t ever start. It’s hell to stop when you want to
and impossible when you don’t, but know you should.”

I chuckle at her assessment. “You do what you need to do. I
won’t judge.” I’d seen too much judgment from people who have no idea how
harshly we judge ourselves.

“Thanks sweetie.” She dropped the finished butt, grinding it
out with the toe of her shoe before bending to pick it up. That’s when I saw
him.

“Uh Oh,” I breathe. Lyla pops back up like a dolphin leaping
from below the surface, turning to follow my line of sight. I’d recognize him
anywhere. A shadow in the darkness, but my mind screams Logan based on his
outline, his shape, his gait, and I’m not wrong.

Lyla hollers at him, her voice gruff and protective. “You’re
not allowed back here. Go on. Get outta here.”

“It’s okay Lyla. He’ll just wait for me out front. We really
need to talk and at least here we won’t have an audience.”

“I don’t know about this Sterling. I can’t believe he’s
cooled off any since last week.”

“I’m still angry,” Logan grouched.

“Give us a minute Lyla. He won’t hurt me.”

Of course he’d hurt me before and then I hurt him, but not
with violence, never violence.

“I’ll be right inside the door. Just holler if you need me.”
Lyla backed away with reluctance in her movement, keeping her eyes on Logan.

I watch him too. He simmers, a barely controlled rage just
beneath surface, ready to burst forth and it’s my fault. It weighs me down, the
heft of it draining me.

“What can I do Logan?”

“I’ve lost everything, college, football, Emma, and it’s all
your fault.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t
fix it. I can’t go back. No matter how much I wish, how hard I try, it’s never
going to be the same. You need to talk to someone, find a way to go forward.”

Good advice I give, my eyes pleading, his seething. Too bad
I don’t try it myself. I can’t talk to anyone and I hope with every fiber of my
being he doesn’t really want to talk to me about this. My tenuous grip on my
life will disintegrate and fall right through my fingers if I have to talk
about it. Better to leave it alone, keep the door closed on that part of my
life, than to lose the new life I’m building. Logan has taken enough from me. I
won’t let him take my new life too.

The despair is there just below the surface making him grim
and a little gray, unless that’s the color from the alley. Clenching tight, I
stiffen my spine and push it away. Hiding it behind barriers has helped me to
move on, I think.

I am yanked forward with the speed of a striking snake, his
fingers wrap around my upper arms. A quick startled sound pops out of my mouth
and then I am quiet and still.

“You shut the fuck up!” he snarls, every word punctuated by
a vicious shake tossing me like a rag doll. “I don’t want to talk about it with
you or anyone else. I want to do something about it. I want you to lose
everything like I have. I want you to feel just like I feel.” My head lolls and
I chuckle hoarsely. Little does he know I’d already lost everything. Guilt
gnaws at me every minute, no, every second, of every day.

“Look at me!” His hand in my hair, meaty fingers tangled and
gripping with relentless force tilt my head to meet the vengeance in his eyes.
A small squeak escapes from my throat, but I’m not afraid. I deserve his rage
and if this is punishment for my part in his grief, I can endure.

My knees buckle and I slump, my right knee crashing into the
pavement, my weight suspended from Logan’s hands back on my arms. It doesn’t
hurt. Instead I feel relief as if the pain lets the pressure out. I can handle
this and I can believe for just this second that it might take away the pain.

* * *

“Sterling?” I hear the panic in Lyla’s voice as if from a
distance. I can’t tell if she’s heard the scuffle or if she just thought to
check in, but she’s coming and I can’t manage even a squeak to stop her.

Logan growls. He drags me toward the mouth of the alley as I
stumble along behind him.

“Hey, let her go.”

In his obsession, Logan assumes the voice came from inside
the building, came from Lyla. He couldn’t be more wrong and his mistake put him
right in line with Boston, heading in our direction from the street, just as
Logan had done minutes before.

Logan tosses me away, the side of my head hitting the corner
of a dumpster and making everything fuzzy. I try to watch, worried about
Boston. They’re about the same height, but Boston isn’t near as big as Logan
and the differences continue. Boston plays piano; Logan plays football. And
most terrifying, Boston just stands there when Logan lunges in his direction.

I could hear flesh smashing flesh like a thunderclap, the
movement too quick for my fuzzy mind to discern.

“Stop it!” Lyla shouts from the door and the noise stops. “Sterling?
Are you okay?” I struggle to my knees intent on stopping them, but the damage
is already done.

Boston looms over me as I shuffle to a stand. Looking past
him, I spot Logan across the alley, sitting with his back against the building,
head slouching to his chest, legs splayed in front of him, hands limp at his
sides as if discarded. “I’m sorry. Sorry Sterling. So sorry,” he blubbers.

“I’m sorry too Logan.” I can’t tell if he hears my apology
or not. My voice is thready, not from pain or weakness, but from embarrassment
as I witness, yet again, the destruction I’ve caused.

Boston turns my face away from Logan with gentle fingers at
my jaw. “I think she’ll be okay Lyla,” he says.

“I’m fine,” I snap, my voice crackling with irritation as I
pull away. “I don’t need anyone to save me.” I stand on uncertain legs, making
a move toward Logan.

I don’t want solicitous treatment from Boston. I just need a
few minutes to wallow. He ushers me through the door and, following Lyla’s
directions, into her office.

“Sit,” Boston commands.

“No.”

“Fine, then stand and when you fall down, don’t blame me,”
he says, pushing me backward with a hand at my chest until I find the edge of
the desk beneath my butt. My knees buckle as the adrenaline seeps from my
bloodstream.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” I didn’t know, raising my
eyes, I find him looking at Lyla, asking her, not me. “We’ll need some ice too,”
he directs, “unless your kit has a couple of ice packs.”

Boston turns back to me as I begin to slump and just before
I topple, he hooks his forearms under my arms and lifts until I am sitting
firmly on the desk. Kneeling in front of me, his chin at my chest level, one
hand on my thigh. “Hey,” he pats my cheek. “Don’t pass out on me.”

My eyes snap fire. “I’m not going to pass out.”
At least
I’m not now
, I think, as Boston inventories my injuries. I’m irritated at
being pulled away from Logan. This is all my fault. I deserve everything I get.

“You’re going to have a shiner. Did he hit you?”

“No. Logan let me go when you confronted him. I hit my head
on the dumpster.”

“So it’s obviously my fault.”

Contrite I mumble, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Logan isn’t a
violent man. I didn’t need you to protect me.”

“It sure looked like violence to me.” His hands are on my
lower leg, one cupped behind my ankle the other under my pant leg, sliding up
my calf. I’m buzzing like the adrenaline is back. “You have abrasions on your
ankle, scrapes and a contusion on your knee, a black eye and probably a sore
scalp.”

“Logan’s in pain and lashing out. It’s my fault. I deserved
it.” I’m shaking my head in the negative, my gaze pinned to my fingers twining
with nerves and hope and embarrassment.

“Hey.” Fingers at my jaw lift my gaze from my hands. “I can’t
accept that you did anything to warrant this kind of treatment and even if you
did, victims shouldn’t seek retribution for their grief.”

“He’s not the victim. It’s Emma who’s dead.”

“Well obviously he’s been victimized by her loss.”

I had nothing to say and appreciated the interruption as
Lyla arrived with the first aid kit, a bucket of ice and a couple bar towels.
My world is clearer now, but my strength has not returned.

“Here. Lean back.” Boston pushes me back with a palm against
my collarbone, fingers curling over my shoulder. Not yet strong enough to
resist, I slouch on the desk, my shoulders resting against the wall behind me
as he wraps ice in a bar towel. Shoving it into my hand, he moves my hand to my
temple as if I’m an invalid. “Hold it there.” The authority in his voice left
no room for dispute. Besides, my strength is meager. The excitement of starting
school combined with the grief and nightmares of the past summer have taken
their toll. I begin to drift, not asleep, but not aware either.

I’m not really hurt; my injuries are minor. Something else
is troubling me now and it’s not physical.

Breath sizzles from between my teeth pulling me back to the
here and now. Boston dabs something against my scraped knee and it stings like
a sonofabitch. He tapes a bandage in place just as I can’t grasp where my pants
leg has gone. Before I have a chance to ask he balances another homemade ice
pack on my knee. He’s moved to the desk chair, my foot propped in his lap.

Hissing again as his fingers probe my ankle, I am no longer
drifting. I can feel frost seeping into my temple, the iciness working its way
to my eye. My knee is numb, whether from shock or antiseptic or ice, I don’t
know. Tape is pulling at my ankle as Boston works my flat black slip-on back
onto my foot. Something pulls at my hair too.

“Ouch!” I turn my head to find Lyla threading her fingers
through my hair.

“Sorry sweetie. Just checking to make sure there isn’t any
torn or bruised skin on your scalp.”

I’m glad it’s Lyla and not Boston. He makes me nervous and I
don’t think I could stand his fingers combing through my hair.

“Looks like you’ll survive,” he says while closing the first
aid kit.

“Of course I’ll survive. I would have survived without your
interference too.”

“Why didn’t you use any of your fancy self-defense moves
when he grabbed you?”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No, but what good is self-defense if you don’t use it?”

“I didn’t need to defend myself. I already told you. Logan’s
not violent. He’s just in pain and lashing out.”

“Lashing out at you,” says Lyla, still sitting on the edge
of her desk and stroking my hair.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” It’s been a long day and I’ve had
more than my fair share. I jump from the desk, some of my vigor restored. “I’m
going home.” I toss the ice pack in my hand into the ice bucket. The other
falls to the floor and I ignore it as I attempt to escape the well-meaning duo.

“Sterling stop.” Lyla wants to help.

“Let her go,” says Boston. He seems to know that if they try
to stop me now I will lash out, even if I don’t want to. At least I know I
would.

They follow me down the hall, into the lounge and behind the
bar. I pull my purse from below, digging out my car keys.

“Can you give me a ride?” Startled by his request, I stop
moving, my eyes going to Boston, suspicious of ulterior motives. “I missed the
last bus of the night.” His eyes are soft, friendly and a little needy,
although not at all weak. It feels good to be needed for a change.

“I’m sorry you got mixed up in this.” I feel bad now, having
pulled him into my life. “Sure.”

As we leave the lounge, I hear Lyla say, “Take care of my
girl.”

My scalp aches and my knee and ankle are hot, stinging with
the force of a thousand bees as we walk to my car. Surprisingly my temple doesn’t
feel too bad. Overall I feel better than I had in weeks, the physical gauntlet
providing a kind of release. For the first time ever I think I finally
understand cutting, a practice I could never comprehend. Now I get it.

* * *

I deflated as we walked into my apartment, hoping he didn’t
expect me to entertain. I’d wanted to drop him at his dorm, but I couldn’t
convince him that I’m fine. If I’d felt better, I would have argued. Instead I
gave in. Maybe he has a point.

Wiped out, I drop my bag on my desk, wanting nothing more
than to pass out and sleep for about twenty hours.

“Can I get you a drink or something?”

“You don’t need to entertain me. I’ll be gone just as soon
as you’re settled.”

I want to sit, but I’m afraid I’ll never get back up.
Instead I rummage for yoga pants and an oversized tee in the dresser while
watching Boston drop his backpack on the desk right next to my bag. Hugging my
fresh clothes to my chest, I head toward the bathroom. “Kitchen’s here.” I
point left. “Bathroom’s this way.” He didn’t need to follow. You can see all of
the kitchen and the door to the bathroom from the front door to my apartment.