Jacob's Ladder (2 page)

I gazed at Sander for a minute to see whether that was some kind of a lame joke. Nope. Didn"t look like it. I turned my back on him—which I knew he hated—

and growled, “Just leave me alone, you dumbass.”

“Who are you calling a dumbass?” Sander gripped my shoulder and spun me around. He wrapped his massive hand around my neck and shook me hard. The rage that always simmered beneath the surface of his skin started to bubble over, and even I had a moment of true alarm when his grip got tighter and his face darkened with pure fury.

Any other day it wouldn"t have—
couldn’t have
—happened. As attracted as I was to big, brutal men like Sander, I was combat trained in Krav Maga. I believed I would always be able to take care of myself, and up until that point, I had. But just as all my instincts kicked in, I almost blacked out from the damned flu. My first move, my instinctual move, was to snap the palm of my hand into Sander"s nose and break it, but because I was unable to follow through and put him on the ground for good, it only enraged him. Sander let loose a curse and struck me hard across the face.

“You fucking broke my nose!” I could see his panic. “My fucking
face
. You asshole. What are you thinking? Just because I got a little on the side?”

“It was instinct.” I tried to pick myself up off the ground but slid a little in the blood that had spattered from Sander"s nose. “I"m sorry. I"ll—” St. Nacho’s 3: Jacob’s Ladder

5

“You"re
sorry
?” Sander kicked me in the ribs, sending a blast of pain throughout my entire body. I saw flashing lights dancing in my field of vision as I rolled into a ball.

“You just killed my career.” Sander delivered another vicious kick.

Daniel always accused me of not knowing when enough was enough, and I had long since come to the conclusion that he might be right. I laughed weakly.

“Like you had one.”

In light of the fact that my lover was beating the shit out of me, my laughter seemed reckless, but I"d reached the free-floating part of a physical beating where I felt nothing. I"d been there before: that magical dimension between someone else"s rage and utter darkness. I"d decorated the space with memories from childhood and the ruined scraps of family life. It was as familiar to me as the sight of my own face in the mirror. I felt my cheek split under another blow from Sander"s fist.

Well.
Maybe not anymore.

Sander gripped a handful of my hair and pulled my head up until we were nose to broken nose.

I tried to move my head to spit the blood from my mouth, but Sander held me firm. I spit anyway. The blood I"d been holding sprayed all over Sander"s pale blond hair. Sucked for Sander.

“Aren"t you afraid you"re going to get whatever it is that I have? Swine flu?” As an escape technique, that worked rather well. Too well, actually. Sander dropped my head, and it hit the cabinet door on the way down. The blow split open the skin under the hair behind my ear.

As he left, I called after him, “You see? This is why we can"t have nice things.”
Getting the last word in…priceless.

I don"t have a clue how long I lay on the kitchen floor, drifting in and out of consciousness. Truth be told, the numbness was better than I"d felt all day. I listened while Sander dressed, and then heard him race around shoving his crap into a suitcase. When the door finally slammed shut behind him, I allowed my tense body to relax. It wasn"t the first time we"d brawled, but it was the worst. I had been utterly unable to defend myself. Until today neither Sander nor I had ever realized how far it would go if I couldn"t use my strength or my experience to put a stop to it.

Even if we should have.

The phone in the pocket of my baggy pants rang, and I fumbled with the flying pig-printed fabric until I could wrest it out.

“Hello?” I answered, absurdly trying to hide the fact that I was beaten half-dead from whoever was calling. Like hiding my stupidity from a phone solicitor counted for anything when I was physically unable to crawl to the front door of my apartment and ask my neighbors for help.

6

Z. A. Maxfield

“Jacob, it"s Phil. I"m hitting the road early today because I"m now suffering from an assortment of what are probably psychosomatic flu symptoms. You need anything before I head to the valley?”

I closed my eyes and laughed again. “Yeah, Phil. I do.” Already I could hear the neighbors banging on my door and, somewhere off in the distance, sirens. I hoped they weren"t for me. There was more than one person in my apartment complex who looked out for me. The most likely person at the door was one of my landladies.

“Mr. Livingston?” I imagined I heard the pitter-patter of aging feet in leather come-fuck-me-pumps so old
they
had bunions within which to house the bunions of their owner. “I can"t stand it! I"m coming in with the key, Mr. Livingston. That brute just ran out of here covered in blood and—” When she saw me, she covered her mouth in horror. “
Oh
.”

Great
. Today was apparently
Seven Year Itch
day, and Madeline, the femme fatale of the daring duo, was rocking a platinum blonde wig and a yellowing white satin halter dress.

I tried to halt her progress toward me just as she slipped in a pool of blood, but fortunately she caught herself on the countertop, so she didn"t fall. I held up a hand.

“Don"t get near me, Madeline. I don"t want you to ruin your nice dress.” St. Nacho’s 3: Jacob’s Ladder

7

Chapter Two

“Are you sure I can"t talk you out of this?” Phil asked for the fifth time.

I swallowed past my bruised throat. My lips were split, and my entire body ached. It was hard for me to talk, but I owed at least that much to the man who had been kind enough to help me.

“I"m sure, Phil. Going to see my brother will make me feel bad enough that getting the crap beaten out of me by my boyfriend won"t make me feel like such a loser.”

Phil said nothing. He didn"t have to. We"d argued about Sander"s temper more than once.

“I know. You told me so.” I leaned over and carefully picked up my duffel. I stopped Phil when he would have taken it from me. “I can get it.” Phil scowled at me. “I would never, ever say I told you so. Jeez.”

“I"m sorry.”

“I grew up wondering if my mom stayed with my dad because she had an unusually optimistic personality. But that can"t be it, because you"re a fucking shit storm of bad news. I"ll never figure out why either of you put up with that shit, but I won"t blame it on you either. It"s not my call to make.” The bus was ready to board. “I"m going to get help,” I muttered. I started limping toward the big diesel, walking slower than I needed to because I already knew it would hurt like hell to get up those steps.

“What?” Phil took my arm. “Sander"s the one who needs—”

“It"s not about Sander.” I blinked back tears. Fucking medication. I couldn"t hide my emotions at all. “I"m attracted to violence. It"s…familiar.”

“That"s…” Phil frowned.

“Go home to Hannah. Take care of her. She needs it a helluva lot more than I do.”

“I hope you feel better.”

“Thanks.” I looked down at Phil from where I stood on the steps of the bus.

“Give her my love.”

The bus driver gave me a flinty stare as I dropped my things into the seat two rows behind her. I usually like the seat right behind the driver, but there were two youngish girls there already. I had enough experience to know that no matter where I sat on the bus, I"d still smell the bathroom.

8

Z. A. Maxfield

I watched the girls out of the corner of my eye, long enough to see that they were already frightened. I didn"t blame them. As someone who often took public transportation and always took this particular bus to visit my brother, I knew they had reason to be afraid. They were lovely, maybe just out of high school, with ebony skin and handfuls of thick brown braids. Guys were already scoping them out as they entered the bus. The girls had probably been told to sit directly behind the driver by their mothers or the driver herself, and they were frozen in their places as if on display.

As the rest of the riders filed past me, I recognized the usual suspects. It was like a roll call of the worst life has to offer, like watching the seven deadly sins take their seats until the bus overflowed. The girls in front of me were already shivering.

An old man in a pair of polyester trousers with a plaid shirt and a worn sweater sat in the seat next to me. I glanced at his face and saw that behind his thick glasses he had a cataract in one eye. He wore a jaunty plaid hat at an angle that reminded me of my grandfather, and aimed a toothless grin at me. I couldn"t help but smile back.

A glance out the window confirmed that there would be rain before long. I closed my eyes and tried to find a comfortable way to sit. My knees were jammed into the seat in front of me. Even though the man next to me was diminutive, maybe five-six, and frail, I didn"t want to just stick my legs out and suck up all the space. I closed my eyes and succumbed after only a few minutes to the medication I"d taken for pain.

I slept fitfully with my head pressed against the window. It might as well have been the rock in the story about my biblical namesake. I dreamed my own dreams, some of which still bore traces of the violence I"d experienced the day before. When Sander fled, he"d taken only his clothing with him. Phil got his cell number from me and assured me that he"d phone Sander and tell him to get the rest of his things while I was out of town. Whether he did or not, I didn"t particularly care. He"d have his chance, and then I would change the locks.

The motion of the bus soothed me, and the grinding,
rumbly-chumbly
of its big diesel engine lulled me back to sleep.

It surprised me when I awoke and didn"t hear the engines. I"d coughed a little, taking care to turn my head and press the cough into my shoulder, the very model of good, ethical hygiene. When I dragged my puffy eyes open, I realized that the older gentleman who had been sitting next to me had left for parts unknown. So had the girls who sat in front of me. The pain meds had long since worn off, leaving me achy and febrile.

I focused my eyes and saw the face of the bus driver, angry and supercilious at the same time, floating above me. She was a thirtysomething Latina with a pretty face, but the kind of makeup I found theatrical: heavily lined eyes and eyebrows that didn"t look natural. She had a hard look, and she was glaring at me, which exacerbated it.

St. Nacho’s 3: Jacob’s Ladder

9

“
Sir
?” she demanded. I squinted at her. Apparently I was late for a party I didn"t know about. The light of day was gone, and rain sheeted down the closed windows of the bus. The air inside the vehicle was squalid.

“Yes?”

“Are you sick?”

“I have a cold, yes.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I just need to take some Tylenol, and I"ll be fine. How much farther to Santa Cruz?”

“You won"t be going to Santa Cruz.” She crossed her arms. “You need to leave this bus right now.”

“Excuse me?”

Her dark eyes flashed. “I have thirty passengers on this bus, Mister, and none of them want whatever you got.”

“Is this because of that flu thing? I was in the hospital this morning, and they let me go.”

“Did you bring a medical release?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Then you need to get off this bus.”

I turned to look at the other passengers. None would meet my eyes except for the man who"d sat next to me earlier. He looked at me sadly, then glanced away as though something had caught his eye in the darkness outside.

The driver tapped her foot on the nonskid flooring. “I don"t want to have to say it again, but I will. I don"t want to have to ask the passengers to help you off, but I will do that too. Please. Get. Off. The. Bus.”

I stood and edged into the aisle, enjoying the fear that showed in her eyes when I rose to my full height. Nobody knew better than I did what a mess I was. I took a step toward the driver, and she flinched.

“Where the hell are we?” I asked. I could see lights past the window, but they didn"t seem like anything I"d recognize. A sign for a convenience store maybe. An off-brand gas station. It wasn"t exactly familiar. The water rippling down the window glass distorted and obscured whatever the other sign said.

“We"re on Highway 101 in Santo Ignacio,” the driver told me. “This is the SeaView Motel. We wouldn"t strand you in the middle of nowhere, but I"m telling you to get off my bus.”

“I"m going,” I said, walking past her. “Are you going to open the cargo hold of this barge so I can get my duffel bag?”

“I am. I"ll be down in a minute.” She reached under her seat for a container of bleach wipes and handed them off to the old man who"d been my seat partner. He 10

Z. A. Maxfield

took them from her but held them in his hands as if he didn"t know what to do with them. Or maybe he just didn"t want to do it in front of me.

I disembarked slowly. I was going to feel this day"s adventure for a long time.

When the rain hit my skin, it began to dawn on me that I was being
thrown off
a Greyhound bus. How rich. If I"d thought for a second that finding my lover in bed with three men and then being beaten half to death by his "roid-sucking, faithless ass had been rock bottom, being thrown off a Greyhound bus had to be below it somewhere. My very lowest ebb"s deeper, fouler, and more craptastic cellar.

I got my duffel out of the locker and watched as the driver boarded the bus.

Soon the distinctive growl of the engine ripped through the silence. It rumbled for a minute, and then the bus"s pneumatic doors closed with a
psssshhhht
, and the bus roared off down the highway. Without me.

Crazy.

Fucking swine flu. If I"d had it, they wouldn"t have let me leave the hospital, would they? I counted myself lucky I"d only been on a bus. If I"d been with that same crew midflight aboard a plane, I"d be making a spectacularly wet, unscheduled
thud
on the ground right about then.