Page 226 of Things We Hide from the Light
“You’re gonna pay for that one, sweetheart.”
He was still off-balance, so I planted both hands on his chest and shoved as hard as I could. He stumbled backward into the endcap display of Diet Coke, sending cans of soda everywhere. A shopper holding a box of cereal in each hand screamed, threw both boxes in her cart, and then ran away.
Liza J appeared out of nowhere on one of the store scooters. She rammed him from behind at full speed. It knocked him close enough to me that I could make my next move. I brought my heel down on his thigh with an axe kick, making sure to lead with the stiletto.
He howled in pain.
“Take that, you son of a bitch!” Liza J crowed.
The store manager, Big Nicky, himself appeared, holding a mop like it was a jousting lance. “Leave the lady alone, sir.”
“For fuck’s sake,” the bad guy muttered. He reached into the waistband of his track pants and produced a gun.
I put my hands up. “Easy there, big guy. Let’s talk this out.”
Apparently, he was done talking. Because he aimed at the ceiling and fired two shots.
The store went dead silent for a second and then the screaming started. It was followed by the sound of stampeding feet and the incessant beep of the automatic door opening.
“Let’s go,” Cereal Aisle Guy said stonily. He picked up the bag of Fruit Gems and grabbed me by the arm.
“Umm.” The manager was still standing there wielding his mop, though he looked significantly less confident now that firearms were involved.
“It’s okay. I’ll be all right. Go make sure everyone else got out,” I assured him.
Cereal Aisle Guy dragged me toward the front entrance, both of us limping, him from the injury I’d inflicted with my boot and me because his hard-ass thigh broke the heel right off.
I took a mental inventory of the situation. Getting taken to a second location was almost always a very bad thing. But in this case, I was finally going to see Duncan Hugo’s hideout. I had my phone in my jeans and Lucian’s ridiculous condom tracker in my jacket pocket. I’d left a voicemail for Nash, and I’d missed a call from my mother during the rehearsal dinner.
Help would be on the way soon.
We stepped outside into the dark parking lot, and he held the gun to my neck. “That’s a really small gun,” I noted.
“Too hard to carry concealed. The bigger barrels stick halfway down my ass crack. It’s uncomfortable.”
“Bad guy problems, am I right?” I quipped.
FORTY-SEVEN
PANTSLESS AND ASS UP
Nash
Dear Nash,
This feels awkward. Writing you a letter. But I guess most things have been awkward between us for a good portion. Why stop now?
Things here are pretty good. Three squares a day, which means I’m putting on weight. I have my own room for the first time in two decades.
The group therapist looks like he’s twelve years old, but he’s assured us he graduated from medical school.
Anyway, he was the one who suggested we write letters to our families or the people we’ve let down the most. Looks like you and your brother are both. Lucky you. This is an exercise in apologizing and taking responsibility. You know, getting the words out and putting them down on paper. We don’t have to send it. I probably won’t send it.
And since I’m not gonna send it, I might as well be fucking honest for once.
I don’t know if I can kick this habit or addiction or disease. I don’t know if I can survive in the world without something to numb the pain of existence. Even after all these years, I still don’t know how to “be” in this world without your mom.
But I am still here. And so are you. And I think I owe it to the both of us to give it a real shot. Maybe there’s something else on the other side of all that pain. Maybe I can find it. Whether I do or don’t, I want you to know my brokenness was never yours to fix. Just like it wasn’t your mom’s job to hold me together while she was here.
