Rock'n Tapestries (11 page)

“Please,
Scott…”

“It’s
interesting how you’re willing to beg now that the tables are turned.” He
chuckled softly, and my stomach went into a knot.  “I like the sound of you
begging.  I’ll hear it again before this is all over.”

I
will not cry, I will not cry… 

“What
should I do to you, sweet Chelsea?  Torture you? Rape you? Both?  There was a
time when I wanted to fuck you.  Now I just find you repulsive.  I’m leaning
toward torture, actually. I’d like to hear you scream.  I want you to feel the
same kind of pain I feel right now.”

I
didn’t really believe I’d done anything wrong.  Still, I offered the words to
try and defuse the situation.  “I’m sorry.  I never meant for you to lose your
job. You just didn’t seem to care that someone tried to abduct me from the
parking lot.”

“I
didn’t care.  I don’t give a fuck about any of you.  The only thing I give a
shit about is the green that lays in the cash register at the end of the night.
Doesn’t matter how it gets there. So you nearly got taken by a bunch of bikers.
Big fucking deal. Who cares?”  I heard him fiddle with the gun. The hair on my
neck rose. Would he give me a warning before he shot me?

“And
now even that’s gone, isn’t it?  No more money for Scotty. No more money, no
more job, no more Tapestries. And when I got a little too loud arguing with my
old man, he put me out on the street.  I’m literally living in my car now.” He
leaned forward on the couch. I could see light glint off the weapon as he
moved. “You don’t mind me staying here for a while, do you?  Seeing as how I
have nowhere else to go, and it’s
all your fucking fault
!”

He
screamed the last few words at me.  I was tempted to tell him to be quiet, that
it was the middle of the night and people were sleeping. Then I thought if he got
loud enough, someone
might
call the cops.  

My
mouth went dry. He was nuts. I was dealing with a psychopath.  No one had a
clue he was here.  I was going to die.

“Whatever
you say, Scott.”  I settled back in the recliner. He had a gun. I had nothing
but my wits, and I wasn’t sure I even had very many of those. 

My
brain raced through all of my options and landed on the only one available to
me. Even though I’d worked late for the dance, I had to put in an early Sunday
shift later on that day. I was as punctual as Big Ben.  Would someone come
looking for me when I didn’t show up for work? Maybe, if I could keep Scott
calm, keep him talking and engaged, I had a chance of staying alive until
someone came to see where I was.

If
they came to check on me at all.

Someone
has to come. They have to.
I squeezed my fists and eyes shut tight. It was my one hope, and I clung to it.

Needless
to say, it was a long night.

Scott
was furiously angry one minute, bawling like a baby the next.  He’d tell me he
hated me and was going to kill me, and then the next thing out of his mouth
would be an apology for breaking into my apartment. It was like standing in
front of a snarling dog that was wagging its tail.  I didn’t know which Scott
Dreyfus to believe, so I sat quietly, giving only one-word answers if I had to
talk at all.

He
babbled, he raged, he seethed.  As time passed, he became even more freaking
unhinged. Scott was a great-looking guy who’d had most everything handed to him
his whole life.  Now that the silver spoon had been yanked from his mouth, he
had no idea what to do. The man had no coping skills whatsoever.  He’d been
handed a shitload of adversity and had not the first clue how to pick himself
up and dust himself off.   

Every
now and again, he’d escort me to the bathroom.  On the way back to the living
room, he’d throw a handful of pills to the back of his throat and grab a glass
of water from the kitchen.  I don’t know what kind of drugs he was taking, but
I really think they were the only thing that kept him from killing me. Fifteen
minutes after he’d swallow a handful, he’d list to one side on the couch.  I
couldn’t see him in the dark, but it seemed like he was sleeping.

A
couple of times I tried to slide to the edge of the recliner, hoping I could
tiptoe to the door, unlock it, and slip out.  Unfortunately, Scott seemed
really wired and jumpy in spite of the drugs. The slightest noise or movement
from me would cause him to jerk upright. Then he’d lift the gun, point it at
me, and curse.

It
was now dawn.  There were no windows in my living room, but I could see the
light of morning through the windows in the kitchen and my bedroom.

The
clock on the wall ticked the time by as Scott alternately ranted, cried, and
fell asleep.  When it got to be 10:30 a.m., my phone, tucked beside his leg on
the couch, rang for the first time.

Scott
took a look at the display then fixed me with the most horrifying,
demon-possessed look  I’ve ever seen.  “Fucking Asher Pratt!  Why the fuck
would he be calling you, Chelsea?”

I
shrugged and sank back into the chair.

He
was on me in less than a second, shaking me so violently that my teeth rattled,
before he threw me to the floor. He gave me a brutal kick for good measure.

I
covered my head with my arms, drew my knees up under me, and held my breath.

“You’ll
fuck him but not me. He’s a
musician
.” Scott said it in a snarly,
jealous, sing-song voice. “All the women love a
musician
. Bar owners
suck hind tit though, don’t they? I have to
pay
my employees to fuck
me
.”

He
was beyond insane. I lay on the floor, staring at an ant trying to crawl through
the thick shag rug, as Scott started to smash things in my apartment. My
computer monitor, my glass butterfly collection, my lamps.  I wanted to make
myself as small as that ant and sink into the carpet too.

I
heard him crush my phone beneath the heel of his boot in the kitchen then he
drew water from the tap. He was taking more pills.  Good. Maybe he’d fall
asleep and leave me alone.

I
lay on the floor for the better part of an hour as Scott paced and ranted about
what a stupid fuck Asher was. I barely heard a word he said. I’d been up for
over twenty-four hours, and all I wanted to do now was sleep.  Every time I
closed my eyes, Scott kicked me until I opened them.

One
miserable heap of regret, that was me.  I was too exhausted to be frightened
anymore.  I stared at the dust bunnies surrounding the ornate leg of the couch
and made a mental note to do better the next time I vacuumed.

Scott
finished his Asher-rant and sat down on the couch, planting his feet right in
front of my face. 

“Are
you scared?  You should be. You’re on my shit list now, and that’s a bad place
to be.  I mess people up when they’re on my shit list.”

I
wanted to laugh. I had always been on Scott’s shit list. By now, I was so
exhausted and numb I didn’t care what happened to me.

“Just
shut the fuck up and do whatever it is you’re going to do to me. You make me
sick.”

He
grew quiet.  Now that he could no longer taunt me with my fear, would he
escalate to torture? I hoped not. I wasn’t someone who could tolerate a great
deal of pain.

When
he said nothing further, I moved my head a fraction of an inch and glanced up
at him.  He had his head back, eyes closed, mouth open. The drugs had kicked
in.  I wasn’t stupid enough to think he was sleeping though.

I
had a lot of time to reflect then—on my parents and my love/hate relationship
with Asher.  I was glad I’d gotten one last chance to talk to Asher, at least.
I wouldn’t be going to my death with hate in my heart.  It’s funny how you
cling to the little things when your world is about to go down in flames.

A
pounding on the door shook me from my thoughts.  “Chelsea, are you in there?”

Asher.

Scott
jerked awake and pointed the gun at the door.

“No! 
It’s me you’re pissed at. No one else needs to get hurt today, Scott. Please.” 
I went to my knees in front of him.

“Then
get rid of that little fuckwad, or he dies too.”

I
drew in a deep breath, pushed myself up to a sitting position, and turned
toward the door.  “Go away, Asher.  You were supposed to come over last night,
and you didn’t bother to show up.  I want you to get lost.”

My
heart was racing a mile a minute. Would he get the message? 

There
was nothing but silence from the other side of the door. I clenched my fists so
tightly I cut grooves in my palms. 
Get out of here, you dumbass.
 

Finally,
Asher said, “Have it your way, bitch,” and I heard him stomp away. Relief and
regret flooded through me in equal measure.  He
never
called me a
bitch.  Had he understood? If he hadn’t, I was screwed.

Scott
relaxed and dropped the pistol into his lap. He was tired too. I eased myself
back into the recliner.  I needed to be able to move quickly if Asher realized
something was wrong and managed to get in.

Even
as I hoped, I knew it was hopeless.  I’d thrown the deadbolt, and the sliding
chain was firmly in place.  Asher wasn’t that big of a guy.  He’d never be able
to break the door down by himself, and if he took too long trying, Scott would
put a bullet in my brain.  And still, I refused to give up.

Scott
nodded off again. I sat back, my mind numb, wondering how this was going to
end. 

I
shifted in the chair and woke him up. More pills, more crying, more ranting
about how unfair life was. I was surprised Scott hadn’t killed himself with the
amount of drugs he was taking.

I
glanced up at the wall clock. It had been more than two hours since Asher
knocked on the door.  Scott leaned forward on the sofa, breathing heavily, his
elbows on his knees, gun held loosely in both hands and pointing at the floor
. 
Just pass the fuck out already.

Suddenly,
there was the sound of a small explosion from the kitchen—it sounded like
someone was pounding on the door with a baseball bat—and a multitude of things
happened all at once.  I jerked, and Scott slid off the couch to his knees on
the carpet, dropping the pistol as he lurched forward.

A
voice I didn’t recognize called from the other side of the door. “Police! Open
up!” 

In
the time it took me to lift my head and look out through the kitchen, the
police had kicked the door in.

Scott
stirred drunkenly and got a good grip on the gun. I shot to my feet and, legs
churning, headed toward the cop standing in the doorway.

I
don’t know what made me do it.  I wish to God I hadn’t.  As I was running, I
turned to look back at Scott.

He
was still on his knees. His gaze met mine.  His eyes were moist, blank with
despair and anguish. I heard him whisper my name just before he put the end of
the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I
was surprised to see the crowd gathered outside my apartment. It had snowed
overnight, about three inches. Traffic had already churned the snow into an icy
brown slop. The sky was gray and leaden, like my soul at that moment.

 A
dozen cop cars had the building surrounded. An ambulance sat behind them.  My
parents were there, as well as Marybeth, Willow, Mr. Dreyfus, and Asher.  I
hadn’t heard a thing inside.

The
wonderful hero cop who caught me as I sped toward my kitchen door had wrapped a
dark woolen blanket around me.  I guess he thought I was cold.  I was
shivering, but it was from an overload of adrenaline.

They
wanted to take me to the hospital, but I refused.  I just wanted my dad. I
broke down sobbing when they handed me off to him. He crushed me against his
chest and cried too. 

Scott
was surely dead in my apartment. The grim looks on the faces of the cops told
me I was right. I heard them call for the coroner as the ambulance team
unloaded the gurney.

Poor
Mister Dreyfus was bone-white and shaking, smoking one cigarette right after
the other.  They asked him to come inside to identify the body, but he just
stood frozen, a statue of grief, as smoke curled around him.  It was a horrible
thing to ask a parent to do. I felt like I should say something to him, but I
couldn’t think of anything.  It was beyond senseless.  I’d simply gone to get a
pair of shorts from my car on that night so long ago, and now his son was
dead.  

My
dad spun me around and placed me into Asher’s arms so he could interrogate the
police officer who’d brought me out of the building.  It was the embrace of a
trusted friend. 

“How
did you know?” I glanced up into Asher’s face.  It was rigid and lined with
relief, but he laughed a little at my question.

“How
could I miss that whopper of a clue you threw me?  You made it very clear you
were going home alone last night.”  He pulled me tighter against him.  “Mister
Dreyfus came in this morning looking for you. Scott left what was basically a
suicide note blaming you for everything. When you didn’t show up for work…Well,
I just knew. My heart was in my throat all the way over here. I wouldn’t let
anyone from Tapestries come with me the first time.”  He took a deep breath. 
“I didn’t expect you to answer me when I called through your door.”

“You
thought you’d find me dead?”

He
bobbed his head, a barely perceptible nod acknowledging the unthinkable.
“You’re coming home with me today.”

Of
course, I had to go
somewhere,
with my apartment being a crime scene and
all.  And I just didn’t want to deal with the fact that there was a freaking
dead body in my living room.  Still, Asher had no right to make assumptions.

“I
think you better clear that with my parents first, Mister Pratt.”

He
glanced down at me and smiled.  “Already done.”

“They
said yes?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“I
wasn’t taking no for an answer. And your father said he owed me one.”

I
sighed.  Maybe going home with Asher was for the best. I had never been so
tired in my life.  I needed some place where I could decompress and rest
without pressure and drama. That would not be my parents’ house.  My mom would
be all weepy and touchy-feely, and my dad would be homicidal that someone dared
to threaten his little girl.

I
peered up at Asher. “I’ll go home with you, but no sex.”

“Of
course
not.”

 I
giggled at his tone of exasperation.

After
some preliminary questioning, we were allowed to leave.  I think everyone could
see I just needed some peace and quiet (and sleep) for a day or so before they
started asking the hard questions.

 A
female police officer named Terri offered to retrieve my purse and some clothes
from my apartment.  There are still a lot of nice people in this world despite
what you may see in the media.

Asher
walked me to his bright red Pontiac GrandAm and opened the door.  I think I
might have been asleep before I hit the seat.

Asher
still lived in the two-story row house he’d lived in when I dated him before,
in a small Pittsburgh neighborhood called Panther Hollow in Oakland.  It
would’ve been an easy drive for his mother when she worked at UPMC Hospital.

I
was so incoherent with fatigue that he plucked me from the car and carried me
to the back door.

“I
have to put you down to unlock.” Asher stood me on my feet on the concrete
stoop.

“That’s
all right.  I think I’m awake now.” 
Just barely
.  I tried to blink the
sleep away.  My ears were ringing.  It felt as though the ground were shifting
under me.

He
walked me into the house and sat me down on the sofa.  “Wait here. I’ll get
your things from the car.”

The
sofa was large, made of bumpy brown chenille, so fluffy and soft it felt like a
big hug.  I snuggled back into it. The living room was small, but neat.  I
wondered if Asher did his own cleaning.

The
thing that struck me the most as I glanced around was the large portrait
hanging over the TV. Debbie Pratt, looking much younger than I remembered her,
was holding a five or six-year-old Asher in her lap. He had on a black, white,
and red-striped polo shirt, top button undone, collar loose and folded under,
as though he’d dressed himself and no one noticed. A mop of honey brown hair,
much lighter then, swooped off to one side above bright, intelligent eyes.  A
small white plastic guitar lay across his lap, his smile as wide as the Grand
Canyon.  The promise of youth.

Debbie
was a pretty woman, a dishwater-blonde streaked chestnut, with blue eyes and
fine sculpted cheekbones dusted with rose-colored blush. She had full lips that
she’d passed on to her son. His mother was smiling, one arm secured
protectively around his waist, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. 
She’d had it tough—a woman alone in a large city, raising a son by herself. 
She must have worried herself sick about Asher when she knew she wasn’t going
to beat the cancer. 

He’d
been fiercely devoted to his mother, even back when I dated him.  They were a
team, forged from adversity, and I always got the sense no one would ever come
between them. I frowned  up at the portrait.   Maybe that was the problem.  No
other woman would ever compare to his mother.

The
back door crashed open, and Asher struggled through with my bags. I silently
thanked Terri, the lady police officer who’d gathered my things for me, though
she’d gone a little overboard, packing two large and
heavy
overnight
bags.

I
jumped up from the sofa and took one from him.  “Let me help you with those.”

“God,
what’s in here?  A dead body?”

I
froze and choked. “That’s not funny.”

He
glanced at me, alarmed.  “I’m sorry.  I wasn’t trying to be funny.  They’re
really heavy though. I think I might’ve popped a nut.”

“I
believe that bag might hold every single cosmetic and bath product I own.” I
laughed. “We women know what’s important.”

He
headed toward the stairs in the living room.  “I’ll put you in the guest room
for tonight.  Follow me.”

I
got in line behind him but came to a halt.  “Oh.”

He
stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to me. “What’s wrong?”

“I
don’t have a phone anymore.  Scott crushed it with his boot.” A shiver settled
down my spine as I thought of the sound it made on my kitchen floor. Why did
that bother me so much?

Asher
gave me a patient half-smile.  “I have a phone here.”

It’s
not that, exactly.  It’s just that...my parents have no way of getting ahold of
me now.  I don’t want them to worry.”

“I’ll
call them when we get you settled and give them my number. You can tell them
you’re safe with me.”

The
sound of the phone being destroyed echoed through my skull again.  I dropped
the bag I was carrying and wrapped my arms around myself. 

Asher
dropped the bag he was holding and came to me.  He ran his hands up and down my
arms and stared into my eyes.  “Chelsea, did he...did he...
hurt
you?  If
so, maybe you should’ve gone to the hospital first?”

I
got his meaning.  “He didn’t rape me, if that’s what you’re asking.  He said I
was repulsive and had decided on torture instead. He
wanted
to hurt me,
but he took so many pills of some kind that he spaced himself out and couldn’t
do it.” I smiled wanly at him.  “He kicked me a couple of times—my back and
shoulders are sore, but otherwise, I’m not hurt.”

 Not
externally anyway.  I could feel the fine threads of self-control starting to
fray though.  Every time I thought of the crunch of the phone, I got sick to my
stomach and started to shake.

He
patted my shoulders, kissed me on the cheek, and then picked up my bags. 
“C’mon.  Let’s get you settled upstairs, and then I’ll draw you a hot bubble
bath.”

The
room he led me to was small and cozy, done up in creams, pinks, and mauves. A
double bed awaited me with fluffy pillows and clean sheets, the equivalent of
open arms to me just then.  I couldn’t wait to get into it, pull the covers
over my head, and shut out the world.

I
walked in, looked around, and got tangled up in those eyes of his again. He
dropped my bags on the bed, and we stood looking at each other for what felt
like an eternity.  I knew both of us were holding our breath.  Was he waiting
for me to cry? Have a break down?  Oddly enough, I didn’t really feel like
doing either. 

At
least not until he went into his mother’s room and sorted through her closet
looking for a bathrobe.  The sounds of the hanger scratching on the rod in the
closet sounded (to my ears) just like the hammer being pulled back on the
pistol Scott had. I lost my shit.

I
started to scream and went to my knees.  Asher was by my side in an instant. 
He pulled me into his arms, shushing me like you’d quiet a child who was afraid
of the dark.  I molded myself to him, clutching at him with both hands, and
sobbed hard.

“God,
Chelsea.  God.”  He wasn’t faking the pain in his voice. “I almost lost you
again.”

I
couldn’t have shaken anymore if you’d dropped me outside naked in a snowdrift. 
I tried to curl into a ball away from him, but he wouldn’t let me. He held me
with strong arms against him, and a bunch of things assaulted my senses—his
scent, his warmth, the sound of his breathing, his heart beating, just
him
—and
I made a decision that should have set off half a dozen warnings and didn’t.

Disastrous
choices
sometimes
feels like a career to me. I am totally a “here-and-now, instant gratification”
type of person. I want what I want when I want it. My mother always said, “Act
in haste, repent in leisure”, and I swear to God I’m going to have that
engraved on my tombstone.

I
had almost died. Again.
LifeisshortLifeisshort
… I lay in Asher’s lap and
couldn’t stop thinking about it.  My mind’s eye kept seeing Scott put that gun
into his mouth, the spray of red as he’d pulled the trigger.  I’d looked away,
but not before I’d seen one side of his face explode outward against the wall
of my living room, taking with it an eye so full of pain it stole my breath.