Takeover (18 page)

“Yeah,” he says. “But they fired you, right? I mean, there’s got to be a severance package—”

“I’ll figure it out, James.” What is happening to me? “Look, my brother Andrew is going to come by tonight if that’s all right with you. It’s not that I don’t feel safe with you, I do, it’s just it might not be a bad idea to have someone else around in case anything happens.”

“What about a hotel?” he asks.

“I guess we could...” I trail off. I’m not particularly in the mood to uproot my life for an indefinite period just because I seem to be quite the popular target. On the other hand, I
do
seem to be quite the popular target, and I have no idea how far these people are willing to go to shut me up. Whatever that means.

“I think it’d be for the best. I mean, your brother can still come along if you like, but I really think that we need to get out of this house for a night or two.”

“There’s one minor hitch in your plan, James.”

“What’s that?”

“We have more security in the house. I know that hotels are a lot more populated, but strangers don’t really have a good track record with looking out for other strangers, you know?”

“What do you suggest?” he asks.

I look at him, a look that he hasn’t seen for a while. “Maybe I’m thinking of calling the wrong brother.”

“I thought you said that Andrew was your favorite.”

“He is sometimes. You have to remember that I have six to choose from, so it’s not always as simple as who’s my favorite at any given time.”

“Who are you thinking of calling?”

“Simon.”

James chuckles. “You’re being stalked, threatened and someone’s trying very hard to get you to be quiet about whatever it is they think you know. I hardly think that getting stoned is going to help with the paranoia.”

“That just depends on the trip,” I say. “So long as the parents aren’t around, Simon has a tendency to be pretty fun while imbibing.”

“You know that I haven’t done that stuff since high school,” he says. “I’m not sure I’m really in the headspace to handle something like that with everything that’s going on.”

I give him the look. It’s a look that I only give him when I really want something that he’s not going to approve. It’s worked so far. “I know that this isn’t exactly what you want to hear right now, but I could use an escape.”

“What about finding another job?” he asks. “That stuff stays in your system so long.”

This may be an argument that I’m not going to win, and my urge to get away from everything is kind of outweighed by my need to maintain peace in my relationship, so I relent. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll call Andrew and have him stay here tonight, but if you think that I’m not getting drunk, you’re out of your mind.”

“Well that’s different,” he says.

I’m not in the mood to argue the fact that alcohol is so much worse an idea than the alternative so I just pull out my phone and call Andrew. Apparently, he’s already on his way. Yep, tonight is going to be a drunken one.

*                    *                    *

“Y
ou are so full of shit,” Andrew laughs, between sips of his shot.

“I’m not,” I respond, drinking
my
shot like god intended: all at once.

“You’re actually trying to tell me that you made out with your physics teacher when you were a senior?”

James is mortified.

“We would have done more,” I respond, “but he was afraid that we’d forget to wipe off my ring of black lipstick. I guess he didn’t think his wife would have approved.”

I would feel bad about making James so uncomfortable if it weren’t for two simple facts: one, it happened over ten years ago, long before he and I were an item; two, I am really, really drunk and this is hilarious. I pour another shot and hand this one to James. If he’s ever going to find this story the slightest bit amusing, he’s going to have to get some liquor in him.

“What should we toast to?” Andrew asks.

“How about we toast to a different conversation?” James asks and drinks his shot without waiting for my brother and me to get prepared.

“Oh come on,” I say, nudging him in the ribs with my elbow. “I know what you and the other popular kids got up to when you had those parties.”

“It wasn’t as Caligulan—Caligula-esque—Cali...” Apparently the alcohol is finally starting to kick in. That last shot he just drank was number five. I don’t know if he’s always been a heavyweight when it comes to alcohol, or if being in close proximity with my family is what did it, but I’ve been tipsy since before I had shot number three an hour ago. “It wasn’t as decadent-Roman as you think it was,” he says, giving up his attempt at making Caligula an adjective.

“Right,” I chuckle, nudging him in the ribs again. “Weren’t your parties always clothing optional?”

James doesn’t have a retort, but by the smile on his face, I think we’re going to be okay. We sit up talking and laughing with each other for a while, but before too long we’ve all had a bit too much to drink.

I head up to bed a few minutes after Andrew passes out on the couch. James says that he’ll be up after he has a tall glass of water and some ibuprofen. Until then, I have this big, soft bed all to myself, and all I want to do right now is lie down, basking in its comforts.

I lie here, occasionally opening my eyes to convince my brain that the room is not actually spinning. It’s kind of funny how much a person can want to drink and then, the moment they’ve had too much, it’s so easy to want to swear it off forever. I’m not quite there yet though. If I can make it through the night without vomiting, I don’t think I’ll have any regrets in the morning.

The wind must be blowing hard again, because there’s a light rapping against one of the bedroom windows. One of the tree branches must be the culprit. It doesn’t occur to my drunken brain that the nearest tree would have to have fallen over in order for any part of it to come in contact with that particular window. The fact of the matter is, the bedroom’s on the second floor, so it’s not like someone’s trying to get my attention. I keep on thinking that, right up until one of the windows cracks.

I’m out of bed in a second, but too afraid to approach the window. I don’t know who’s out there, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to call out to James, because whoever’s on the outside might hear me and then they’ll know just where to send the bullet.

“Rose!” a voice comes from outside. It’s a woman’s voice. It has to be Melissa. I knew I couldn’t have trusted her to continue on with her medication. What the hell was I thinking? Maybe she’s the one that messed with my car. Of course, I never really pegged her as the automotive type. Then again, I never thought that she was the lie-to-the-police-and-get-me-thrown-in-jail type either.

“Rose!” the voice comes again; it doesn’t sound like Melissa. I don’t know who the hell it is, but she’s not giving up. What do I do? If I just stand here, there’s no telling what she’s going to do. She could break in or find a way to climb up. Andrew’s useless, but James is still up and moving. Sure, he’s drunk, but I have to believe that he can protect me.

The voice calls my name a third time and I have to do something. My phone is downstairs, but I need to see who’s standing out there. I know I should call the cops first and ask questions later, but I have to know.

I kneel down and crawl my way over to the window. I push the drapes out of the way just enough that I can see the front yard. It’s not who I was expecting.

I open the window. “Sam?” I call out.

“Oh, thank god,” my former cellmate calls up. “Can you let me in? It’s freezing out here!”

It’s the middle of the summer, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what she’s doing here, but I’m fairly certain that she’s not here to cause harm, so I make my way downstairs. James apparently came back into the living room to drink his water, but didn’t make it all the way through. He’s passed out on the couch next to my brother. It’d almost be cute if it had anything to do with affection instead of overconsumption of alcohol.

I open the door slowly, Sam’s already there on the porch. “Keep quiet,” I whisper. “My husband and brother are passed out on the couch.”

“Can you come out here?” she asks, clutching her arms and shivering.

“What happened? Are you all right? It’s like seventy degrees outside.”

“I know,” she says. “Just please, I wanna talk to you.”

“Fine,” I say. “Meet me around back.”

I don’t know if it’s drugs or what, but Sam’s not looking so good. We seemed to hit it off all right in jail, but I’m not so sure that I really trust her. On my way through the kitchen, I grab a paring knife, and wrap it in a napkin so it doesn’t stab me when I put it in my pocket. I open the back door and walk outside.

“I thought you wanted to come in because it’s cold.”

“That ain’t why I’m shiverin’,” she says. “Look, I need a place to crash for a while, but I didn’t know you had people over. I can’t let anybody see me, y’know?”

“Why?” I ask, moments before I come to the simple realization. “You broke out of jail.”

“I wouldn’t say I
broke
out,” she says with a half-smile. “It’s more like I saw an open door and I walked through it.”

“You can’t be here,” I say. “You have no idea what’s been going on in my life since the last time I saw you. If you stay here, we’re both going to prison.”

“Shit, girl tries to come to her cellie for some help an’ all you can do’s turn me away like I’m a stray dog or somethin’.”

“What the hell happened?”

“They was transferrin’ me up to the court for ‘rainment or whatever. Lady cop undoes my cuffs and leaves the door open on her way out. At first, I just was lookin’ through to see what the court room looked like, right? But door led to a hallway with a bright green exit sign at the end of it, so I took it as a gift from god.”

“Right,” I say, putting my hands on my forehead, trying to think what to do with this person.

“The fuck is that?” she asks, pulling the knife out of my pocket. She laughs. “You think I was gonna rob you or somethin’?”

“I didn’t know why you were here,” I say. “Like I said, things have been kind of messed up since I got out.”

“Messed up,” she says, using the tip of the paring knife to clean under her nails, “right. Rich white girl gets out of the joint and everythang’s changed.”

“Someone tried to kill me,” I say. “I don’t know who, so forgive me if I’m not exactly in the trusting mood right now.”

“Someone tried to off a pretty thing like you?” she chuckles. I have no idea what’s so funny. “Shit,” she says and hands back the knife. “Tell you what,” she starts again, “you hear me out, and if you don’t wanna keep me here or whatever, that’s cool. You think I’m tryin’ to gank yo shit, put that thing wherever you want.”

“Okay,” I say, and quickly feel compelled to clarify. “I’ll hear you out.”

We sit down and she tells me her sob story. She escaped the courthouse, somehow made it across town without someone noticing her bright orange jumpsuit with the words “DOC Inmate” on the back of them, only to find her boyfriend in his apartment screwing the girl that she beat up; the one that put her in jail. She fails to make another mention of the fact that the girl was actually his girlfriend to start with. After that, she looked me up and made her way over, thinking that the eighteen or so hours we spent in a cell together was enough to get me to risk my freedom for her.

“You know,” she says, “I can tell from your face you don’t want me here. I get that. You don’t know me outside of a cell, but I’ll tell you what. You give me a nice, quiet place to sleep tonight, and I’ll put that knife in any asshole tries to kill you, feel me?”

“Do people still say ‘feel me’?” It’s not the most pertinent question, but it’s the first one that comes to my mind.

“Shit,” she says. “You got a basement, an attic?”

“We have an attic,” I say, “but I don’t know how I’m going to explain footsteps coming from the ceiling to my fiancé.” I say that as if it’s the only problem I have with this proposition.

“I can be real quiet when I want to,” she says. “When’s your man off to work?”

“He doesn’t work,” I say.

“White boy’s got him a sugar mama, huh?”

“I don’t work either. I got fired today.”

“Look,” she says, turning to face me. She has a puppy dog look in her eyes that would rival that of—well, a puppy dog. “You don’t want me here, I understand, but I ain’t got no place else to go. Just give me a few days to figure out somethin’. You won’t even know that I’m here, aight? I promise.”

“If you get caught, I get caught.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” she says.

“No, you don’t understand. If you get caught, I’m going to go to prison for hiding a fugitive from justice. I can’t do this, not right now while I’m still on the police’s radar—”

“Fuck,” she says, standing up. “I knew you was a vanilla bitch first time I saw you comin’ into that fuckin’ cell. You think you such a goddamn martyr, bitch you ain’t got a clue what—”

“—that’s why I’m going to give you money for a hotel room,” I say. “Now sit down and shut up before you say something rude.” I’m starting to like this side of me. Sure, it’s still the side that’s going to pay for an escaped convict’s hotel room, but at least I’m starting to stand up for myself.

Sam stops in her tracks and looks at me. “Ha!” she says, a little too loudly. “I knew you was gonna come through for me.”

“First thing’s first,” I say, motioning for her to quiet down, “we need to get you out of those clothes or you’re not going to make it another mile.”

Aiding and Abetting

––––––––

B
y the time we get Sam into something that she doesn’t think makes her look like a prude, it’s almost three in the morning. I’m tired, and I’m certainly not driving anywhere. I don’t know how far it is to the nearest hotel, but I can’t think that it’d be too big a deal to let her stay the night. Sure, I’m probably going to have to explain it to James and absolutely not let my brother see her here, but maybe I can distract them long enough for her to make her way to whatever freedom she’s going to have.