Old Lady (Iron Disciples Book 2) (12 page)

There’s a much used and tattered phone book siting on the
desk alongside what looks to be an untouched Gideon’s bible. It’s a sad state
of affairs I’m thinking, when the yellow pages gets more attention than the Holy
Bible. I pick up the yellow pages and let my shaking fingers do the walking.
They begin in escorts and fortune tellers and finish in the guns section. Right
now I’m not really interested in fucking, the future, or shooting anyone so I
set yellow pages back next to the bible and consider what to do next. In one of
the drawers there’s a pen and note pad. I take out both items and begin to
scribble ideals regarding my current employment situation. As long as I stay on
the west coast, in California, Oregon, or Washington I have a pretty good shot
at relocating as long as whatever office I land in has a budget to pay my
salary. Maybe I can even convince Stacy or Jason to work for me again wherever
I end up. But who am I kidding. I’m on the run from the cops. Why do I keep
forgetting that small detail? I need to find out where I stand; like how close
the police are to catching me. Do they even know it was me? I have to assume
that my biggest worry is the club and how they’re taking Cade’s death. Geeze, I
just had a thought. Eddie can’t stand his twin brother. He might even want to
thank me for the giant service I just did for him. With no blood on his hands
he can fully control the club without ever having to worry about his brother trying
to get the gavel back sometime in the future. What a strange bizarre turn of
events this could end up being. Suddenly I feel better; for all of about twenty
minutes before the loneliness hits me again. I don’t have anyone to call. My Hail
Mary pass yesterday to my aunt ended up an exercise in futility. Oh well. It
was a long fucking shot anyway.

I flop down on the bed and turn on the TV. For the next
couple hours I flip around from channel to channel looking for anything
interesting enough to watch. I need a distraction. The second I don’t have
something distracting me my body begins to rebel. My heart begins to go nuts, I
can’t seem to catch my breath, and my stomach threatens to spew forth what
little contents still remain; but mostly it’s the dry heaves. I hate dry heaves
so I decide to be proactive and drink some water so that if I start vomiting
I’ll have something to spew forth and that’s so much better. I’ve never been
prone to panic attacks until now. One more time I can feel a huge wave of fear
crashing down over my head. I can feel my body tumbling along, head over heels
and powerless to stop what is going on with me. I can’t live this way. I sit on
the bed watching the antiques road show. I’ve got my hands pinned beneath my
ass. I hoping if I just sit on them I won’t get into trouble. By trouble
meaning I’m hoping to stop myself from attacking the mini bar in my room. I
look at my watch. I give myself ten minutes.

Five minutes later I’m lying in bed cradling an arm full
of those damn bottles again. I take a quick count while I nurse tequila. I’ve
got a total of 3 more tequila’s, four Jack Daniels, and Two Vodkas. I polish
off two more Tequilas and Vodka while the antique show raps up. Clearly these
are not going to last long. By four I’ve got a pretty good buzz going on. More
importantly, my episodes of panic are subsiding. By six my phone begins to ring
again. Once more it’s that number I don’t recognize. Whoever it is called six
times yesterday and five times so far today. Someone really wants to talk to
me. I’m just not sure I want to talk to them. At seven Stacy calls three more
times but declines to leave a message. When ten o’clock rolls around the
anonymous person calls again. Half drunk and thoroughly pissed off I decide to
answer the damn phone and tell off whoever it is that’s bugging me.

“What the fuck do you want?” I bark into the phone, not
caring how much of my anger comes through in my voice.

“Morgan honey?”

“Mom?”

“Auntie Swift dearie.”

What the fuck? She’s got Alzheimer’s. How the hell is she
calling me?”

“Morgan are you going to talk to me?” My aunt asks
plaintively.

“I thought…how do you know it’s me. You know I called you
a couple days ago. Why didn’t you talk to me then?”

“I didn’t know you called. Of course I would have talked
to you honey. You’re like my own child. You are my child Morgan and I love
you.”

Tears. Holy shit! Tears are streaming down my face.

“I tried calling you…many times, a long time ago but you…
you didn’t know me anymore.”

“I didn’t know you called. Of course I would have talked
to you honey. You know I love you right?”

“I-I know… Hey do…do you have any more of those letters
from my mom?”

“Honey what letters?”

“You know the ones you used to give me that she wrote
just before she died. Those letters. Do you have anymore?”

“Sweetie I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your
mother didn’t leave any letters for you.”

“But you…never mind auntie forget it.”

I shouldn’t have asked her. She really did throw them
away I guess. I went through the house after she moved to the retirement
community hoping to find the remaining letters but I couldn’t find a thing
except a letter from my mother to my aunt telling her to make sure to give me
the letters. That was the only thing I could find. I can feel my heart drop
even further as my aunt drones on about life in the retirement home. I doubt
it’s even half true but I let her talk thinking she must have something really
important to say as she must have called me twenty times in the last couple
days. It doesn’t help that my head is spinning out of control again and I’m
struggling to swallow back the bile that’s threatening to erupt. I unscrew the
last liquor bottle and down it in a few quick swallows. I don’t even feel the
burn as it goes down. As she continues to drone on I’m not sure if she’s
becoming even more incoherent or my brain is just getting too fried to follow
her logic. Then she suddenly sounds crystal clear like she hasn’t sounded in
fifteen years.

“Morgan, what did you need to tell me when you called the
other day?”

I freeze for a second, not sure if I really want to get
into this now or not.

“Morgan, have you done something wrong? Did you get in
trouble for insider trading or something?”

Wow, she is definitely lucid.

“I have to tell you something auntie and you’re not going
to like it, but I have to tell you what I’ve done. I need you auntie, like I
have never needed anyone before.”

“I’m here sweetie. Tell me what happened.”

I wasn’t really going to spill my guts like this but once
I got started I couldn’t quit. Must be the alcohol lowering my defenses because
I would have never confessed to her so easily. I tell her about the day I met
Cade and how I feel about him. I even profess love for the dethroned president
of the Iron Disciples although I’m not really sure what it means to love
another person not related to you. I tell her how I went behind Cade’s back and
ratted on him and how much I hurt him. Then I finally confess to the blackouts
and waking up to find his blood everywhere. I feel so ashamed that about half
way through my confession I begin to cry again and I just can’t turn the faucet
off. Well, not until I’ve finally vomited up everything I have done these past
ten days or so. My auntie’s a good listener, I’ll give her that. Finally I come
to a slow crumbling halt. I take a deep breath, waiting for her to come at me
with both barrels like she used to when I fucked up.

“Morgan honey, why did you call me the other day?” She
asks.

Shit!

“Could you go to the corner market and get me some kale.
I hear it has a lot of vitamin C. Are you taking enough vitamin C sweetie?”

And she’s gone again. We say our goodbyes with promises
to keep in touch but I know for my part that this is the last time we’ll be
talking on this earth. She had a few last moments of lucidity and I am grateful
she called. During my thirty or forty minutes of confession I have no idea just
how much she understood. I get the feeling that I may as well have been talking
to the wall. For a few minutes it did make me feel better unburdening my soul like
that, but now I just feel like shit again. I hobble over to the telephone and
dial room service. With any luck they’ll still be open and I can score a bottle
of wine or something. If I’m going to have any hope of sleeping I’m going to
need some help.

By midnight I’m back in bed nursing a bottle of some
moderately expensive wine. I’m sure to have a hangover tomorrow but right now I
could care less. I cannot hope to maintain any kind of grip on my sanity
without help. Everything I have done, all that I have experienced these last
ten days is sitting on the edge of my consciousness and pounding on my brain,
threatening to crush my soul into oblivion. I don’t know how people like Cade
keep functioning after everything they have done. As far as I can tell Cade
doesn’t drink very much and other than maybe a little weed he’s not really into
drugs, so how does he do it? Well…how did he did he do it?

An unearthly loud clanging in my brain tears me out of a
deep slumber. I open my eyes and have to close them immediately. The glare of
the sun stabbing into my skull is intolerable. Instead I feel around with my
hands until I come up with my cell phone.

“Hello?”

My voice sounds and feels like sandpaper. My throat is so
damn dry I can barely speak.

“Is this Morgan Swift?” A woman asks.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Clarissa I’m one of your aunt’s caregivers.”

“Hi Clarissa.” I croak.

“I stumbled across something yesterday that I think you
should see.”

“Okay…”

“Is there an address I can send this to?”

“Yes.”

Then after a long pause. “Ms. Swift, are you still
there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to give me an address?” She persists.

“Sorry… it’s the Holiday Inn in Berkeley, 2712 San Pablo
Avenue, Room 403. Zip code is 94707 I think.”

I disconnect the call and feel around the bed until I
come up with a bottle that is actually not empty. Without even looking I pop
the cap and pour it down my throat. Strangely it both burns and soothes both my
throat and soul. The next couple days feel like one long fogged out ordeal of
misery as I try my best to drink away memories of the last two weeks.

By the time I come up for air I don’t know what day it
is, what time it is, and how much time has passed since I last talked to my
aunt. Slowly I sit up in bed. I blink several times and wipe the sleep from my
eyes. My bed is littered with empty bottles. Absent is anything remotely
edible. I have the idea I haven’t eaten anything in several days or more and
have just been living on alcohol.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand
shakily. The room is no longer spinning and I feel mildly lightheaded. My mouth
tastes like shit and my stomach is only partially nauseated. I’m just about to
head to the bathroom to pee when there’s a pounding on my door followed by a
voice.

“Ms. Swift, you have mail.” A woman’s voice says.

“Just…just slide it under the door.” I yell.

“Sorry ma’am, but it won’t fit.” The woman answers.

Great. “Just leave it in front of my door. I’ll get it in
a second.”

“Sorry ma’am but I can’t do that. If someone were to
steal it we’d be liable.”

“Fuck! Okay fine. I’m coming. Just cool your jets for a
minute.”

Instead of going to the bathroom I stagger over to the
door and pull open, making sure to keep the chain intact. I don’t want some crazy
pushing his way into my room. I peek out and it’s just one of the hotel staff
and she’s holding an envelope out to me. I take it and shut the door. Who the
hell is writing to me? Nobody sends letters in this day and age, and who the
fuck knows I’m staying here? I look at the address where it originated. It’s from
my aunt’s retirement community. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I totally
forgot that her caregiver called asking for my address here. Holy crap, that
means at least three days have passed since I hung up the phone and cracked
open a new bottle of booze. I wobble over to the bed and sit down where I
carefully open the letter. I recognize the familiar spidery scrawl from my
aunt’s hand. Her normally difficult to read script has become next to impossible
for me to decipher.