Page 22 of Blurred Red Lines
Emilio returned from outside and must’ve heard the noise too, because he immediately turned toward me. Furrowing his dark brows, he wiped the knife on his jeans. He took three steps toward the chef’s cart and paused a few feet away from me. I held my breath, curling my fingers into my palms until my nails pierced my skin.
I wondered what it felt like to have your fingers cut off. Was it quick and painless, or was every slice of tendon and muscle pure torture, until the bone cracked? Vomit curdled in my stomach again, and I let out a small squeak, preparing to run to my brother.
Until I heard my name.
“Eden? Are you fucking here Eden?”
At the same moment that Emilio called out to me, Nash inhaled a rattling breath and yelled across the kitchen. “Hey! Are two fingers enough? You need more? I mean, don’t you need five to jerk yourself off?”
What the hell is he doing?
Emilio jerked his head around. Darkness glinted in his eyes as his face twisted in anger. “What did you say, asshole?”
Now was my chance to move. Nash gave me the opportunity to take Emilio out. Sneaking a hand to the top of the cart, I curled my fingers around a cast iron skillet. It’d be loud, but if I got a running start, he’d go down before he could turn around.
As Emilio charged toward Nash, I reached for the handle. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Nash’s eyes bounce from his attacker to my movement. With a pained grimace, he shook his head forcefully.
“Gumshoe! Gumshoe, damn it!” The exertion spewed more blood out of his mouth, and he collapsed onto the block, his eyes half closed from pain.
I froze mid-movement.
Emilio did as well, pulling Nash up by his hair. “What the fuck? Get a grip, Lachey! You’re goingloco.”
With his head wobbling, Nash held it suspended in midair, and our eyes locked. Mine pleaded with him not to hold me to a pledge between two teenage kids, who thought they knew everything. His demanded I honor a trust we once held more sacred than any promise.
I opened the cellar door and it creaked with the loud moan of a dying man. I might as well blow an air horn announcing my late arrival. The darkness creeped me out, and shadows wrapped around foundation pillars, making my eyes see things that weren’t there. It was the thing horror movies were made of.
The stairs creaked as my sneakers touched them, each one sounding like a gunshot.
Shit! Why were sneakers so loud?
Turning the knob, I slowly stuck my face through and peered through the mud room. It seemed quiet. Dad was in bed, or passed out on the couch. Either option worked for me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door wider and stepped into the bright room.
“Where you going, boy?”
I froze with one leg in the mud room and one still stuck in the cellar. My father’s voice carried from the kitchen, and from the trajectory I knew he was headed my way.
“Gumshoe,” Nash yelled, much louder than necessary. “Damn gum on my shoe. Stay there, Dad, I’ve got it. I think I tracked it in here. You don’t want it on yours.” His voice elevated louder. “Damn, gumshoe.”
Our code word clicked. Gumshoe.
The stupid word from our childhood we used to use during freeze-tag. As teenagers, we morphed it from its original detective meaning, into a code word alerting each other to, ‘stop what you’re doing and hide.’ No ifs, ands, or buts.
Gumshoe had saved my ass more times than I could count.
I climbed back down and waited until Dad had fallen back to sleep to sneak upstairs.
“Gumshoe.” Nash whispered again as Emilio backhanded him. His eyes never wavered from my face. They were serious and hard, as if begging me to do this one thing for him.
Nodding, I slowly crouched back behind the cart. The relief on his face was something I knew I’d never forget. I felt shameful in watching my brother’s pain, yet helpless to stop it.
Mercifully, Emilio ended his torture, dropping his knife back in his pocket. “You know, lucky for you, I’ve reached my limit for today, Lachey.” He checked his reflection in the chrome refrigerator and smoothed back the sides of his greased hair. “My crew will stop by in a few minutes to take you back to your store.” He glanced at the floor and smirked. “Try not to bleed too much on my floor.”
I held my breath as he walked out of the kitchen, and I didn’t release it until the cantina door closed. As soon as the chime rang, signaling his exit, I threw the chef’s cart aside and scrambled on all fours toward my brother. I reached out to help him, then stopped. I didn’t even know where to touch that wouldn’t cause more pain.
“Nash,” I whispered as my voice broke. When he didn’t open his eyes, I panicked. “Nash, answer me!” My fingers clamped around his bleeding wrists, shaking against cold and clammy hands. The more I touched him, the more hysterical my voice became. All the pent-up fear I’d harbored hiding behind the chef’s cart came spilling out in a tirade of anger. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into? Drugs? Fucking drugs, Nash? Jesus Christ, are you’re mixed up with a fucking drug cartel? They cut off your damn fingers, Nash!”
As if my asinine statements of the obvious woke him, Nash cracked one eye, and his tongue darted out to lick his cracked lips. “Is that what happened? I thought he was doing…cough…my nails.”
