Gun Shy

Guard Ramsay is sitting across from me, a fifty-something weed of a guy with thick glasses perched on his nose and liver spots on his hands. He looks as bad as I feel, and that’s saying something.

  This place’ll break you if you let it, or if they keep you here for long enough. My sentence for felony DUI causing injury was nineteen years, so the fact they’re paroling me now is a fucking miracle. I haven’t even served half my sentence.

  As far as luck goes, I’m pretty much all out, but the one glimmer of hope in my case was the fact that, even though my dumb, drugged-out ass plowed off the road and into the creek at high speed, with an unrestrained passenger, I had a clean record. No priors.

  Sheriff King pushed and pushed the courts to give me the maximum sentence, and I don’t blame the guy. Technically I killed his wife, but she’s still locked in some vegetative state where she can’t eat or speak or do anything. She can’t even kill herself to escape what I did to her. She’s just a bag of bones now, bedsores and bedpans, because I was dumb enough to get behind the wheel, drunk and high, and fly down the highway.

  Guard Ramsay clears his throat, looking at me over the Coke-bottle-thick glasses he’s wearing as he takes a bite of his sandwich and chews. “You got something on your mind, boy?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir.”

  He leans back in his chair and takes his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looks dead tired. He’s old for his age. Old and worn out from being in a place like this. His sandwich smells like greasy, old lunchmeat.

  “Have you read through the conditions of your parole?” he asks.

  I nod, scrubbing my hand across my face. The razors in here are always fucking blunt. There’s no point shaving when you’re still left with a five-o-clock shadow, but by the same token, if you don’t shave every day you end up with a bushy fucking beard on your face. Nobody wants any more hair than absolutely necessary here. I’ve seen guys with pieces of scalp missing because they wouldn’t give up their cigarettes and someone decided to rip their hair out of their skull.

  “You go home. You get a job. You check in with the sheriff’s department every week. And if you don’t, son, your ass is gonna be back in that cell so damn fast, you’ll think you dreamed getting out of this shithole.”

  I nod, clenching and unclenching my fist.

  “Most people in your position would be a damn sight more excited right about now,” Ramsay says.

  I shrug. “Most people didn’t kill the Sheriff’s wife.”

  The blood drains from Ramsay’s face as he glances down at the papers in front of him. “Says here you’re in for DUI and bodily harm. Not murder.”

  “Wasn’t murder. And she’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.”

  “What the hell kind of statement is that, boy? You threatening that she might die if you go home? You got a grudge against this woman?”

  I sigh, scuffing my sneaker along the worn linoleum floor. Somebody has written RAMSAY IS A CUNT on the floor in marker. Obviously, he didn’t read my files to know what happened with Cassie’s mom. Nobody ever reads the files.

  “No threats, sir. She’s in a delicate state, is all.”

  Ramsay flips a manila folder open and reads something in front of him. I turn my head to try and see, but he closes it. “A persistent vegetable state,” he says.

  “Vegetative,” I correct him before I can think.

  He glares at me over his glasses. “That’s what I said. You got ears full of wax, boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  He leans back in his chair, studying me for a long moment. I’m itching from sitting in this chair and I need to piss, but I bear the time silently and wait for the guy to speak.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I nod. “It was a car accident. I was—”

  Truth is, I don’t remember the accident. Not one bit. All I remember is drinking a couple beers after the football game. Blacking out. The hideous sounds of twisting metal and sirens. And then waking up in a hospital in Reno, handcuffed to the metal bed rails, a cop standing guard at my door. The doctors said it might take time for the memory to return, if it ever did.

  It’s been eight years now, and I still don’t remember why the fuck I got behind the wheel of that car and drove. My dad was an alcoholic. He died of liver failure when I was ten. My ma still loves the hard stuff. Must be in the genes to drink ‘til our destruction.

  I don’t remember the accident, but I do remember the aftermath and I kind of wish I didn’t.

  “You were what?” Ramsay prompts, snapping me out of my flashback.

  “—I was… drinking, sir. I should never have been driving, but I was seventeen years old and I was an idiot.” A complete motherfucking idiot, I want to say, but Ramsay doesn’t like swearing.

  Ramsay’s mouth forms a hard line as he surveys me. “No drinking, no drugs, and definitely no driving a car. You find a job, you go to work, you go home, you don’t touch a single drop of alcohol, and you keep your ass out of here. Is that clear?”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “You need me to arrange an ankle monitor to keep you from the drink?”

  I shake my head quickly. “No, sir. I’ve got no interest in drinking anything.”

  “You’ll have to submit for random drug and alcohol tests as the sheriff’s department deems.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bentley. Keep your nose clean, son.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “This is your second chance at an honest life. Don’t piss it away by being weak.” I nod. I won’t.

  “What the hell were you thinking, getting behind the wheel with that much junk in your blood?” He’s referring to the massive dose of Oxy that was simmering in my veins when I most likely nodded off at the wheel.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  He rocks back on his chair, pensive. “You know you don’t belong here,” he says. I don’t answer him because I don’t know. Once upon a time I was cocky enough to think I’d be the one who broke the cycle, shattered the mold, but not now.

  He gestures to the door. “You can go.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek as I stand up, repeating the words inside my head as I walk back to my cell. As I try to figure out how eleven more years of being here just got shortened to seventy-two hours.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CASSIE

  NOW

  Crack.

  Someone claps their hands together; the sharp smack of skin on skin jolts me out of my deep sleep.

  I open my eyes and cringe at the harsh white light that comes in through the window. It’s snowing. It’s bright. People think snow equals cold, but when the sun reflects off white snow at the right angle, it can burn your skin to cinders.

  There is something burning me, just by coincidence. Not the bright reflection of snow.

  A pair of blue eyes. A frown.

  Damon. My stepfather, standing in my bedroom doorway, his hands still pressed together.

  I suck in a breath and sit up with a start; my head spinning. I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt that smells faintly like the guy I fucked last night; and in front of me, my stepfather’s eyebrows rise in disapproval.

  “Good morning,” he says, equal parts amusement and disdain. “You’re finally awake, party animal.”

  I rub my eye with the heel of my palm. I feel smashed, worn, like I’ve been run over. My entire body feels achy and dull, my head stuffed full of wool, and somewhere at the edges of my memory, I remember swallowing pills, the taste of their bitter residue still faint on my tongue. Jesus. My wrists ache, faint bruises ringing them. I hold my right hand in my left, counting the five fingertip-shaped bruises that punctuate my pale skin. Four on one side, one on the other. Four fingers and a thumb. I wonder how I’d explain them. If anyone will ask. Most likely, nobody would even notice the way my skin has been marked as large, hot hands held me tight and still.

  Damon clears his throat pointedly. I forget my wrist and look back
to see he’s fully dressed for work, the gold star affixed to his sheriff’s uniform glinting in the light. He’s clean-shaven and smells like pine needles and mint, his cologne drifting over to me from where he stands in my bedroom doorway. I catch a glimpse of that boyish innocence beneath his stress lines, his worrisome demeanor. I wonder what he’s worrying about today. It’s always something with him.

  “What time is it?” I ask. My voice comes out low, hoarse. Did I drink last night? The taste of stale whiskey lingers in my mouth, confirming my suspicions, and I have to stifle the overwhelming urge to scrape my tongue with a corner of the bed sheets. Just picturing the bottle of Jack makes my stomach twist. Don’t puke. Do-not-puke.

  “Almost eight.”

  Almost eight? Shit! I lift the covers to get out of bed; my underwear’s gone. I freeze, setting the blanket back over my thighs. I see him glance at my lap, what looks like suspicion sparking in his blue eyes. He takes a step toward the bed, and for one horrific split second, I imagine he is going to rip the blankets off me and see what I am – or rather, what I’m not – wearing. And if that happens, he’ll flip his shit.

  Fate decides to intervene, though. Thank you, universe. I hear the static buzz of a two-way radio, and Deputy Chris McCallister’s voice sounds in the kitchen downstairs. Damon hears it too, freezing mid-step.

  We continue to stare-off, his curious eyes pitted against mine, as the radio crackles to life again. The voice more urgent. Sheriff King, do you copy?

  “Downstairs in five, Cass,” Damon says with an air of reluctance, giving my lap one final glance before he turns and leaves. A moment later, I’m out of bed and pulling fresh panties over my bare legs, my skin rising in gooseflesh to greet the frigid air. Gun Creek is the coldest place in Nevada, and it only gets colder after Thanksgiving. Soon, the pass forms ice and it’ll be dangerous to drive on, just like it is every year.

  Just like the year of the accident.

  Coffee. I need coffee.

  I locate my pajama bottoms, stuffed down into my blankets as if they were kicked off in a hurry. Kicked or pulled, it’s all the same. I’m sore down there, and although I can’t remember much of the act itself, I’ve got a fairly good idea about what happened. It was quiet, but it definitely wasn’t gentle.

  I traipse downstairs, the tight feeling in my chest expanding with every step. Running late is a cardinal sin, according to my stepfather. Everything must be perfect. Everything must be on time. All the time. He frets if things are out of order. If things are messy. If things are not on time. I am a creature who is always messy, always out of order, never on time.

  The staircase stops at the entrance to our kitchen. We’ve got one of the bigger – and older – houses in Gun Creek, one of the original gold mining ranchers. Every window is large, rectangular, and framing a picture of mountains and empty tundra and snow.

  It’s beautiful to look out there if you’re in a good mood. If you’re not, it’s utterly desolate, miles of blank space waiting to swallow up your soul.

  I’m not in a good mood.

  “Hey, daydreamer,” Damon says, breaking my thoughts. He’s sipping coffee from an old Mickey Mouse mug my grandfather bought for me when I was eleven and we went to Disneyland. Something stabs me in the gut. I wish he wouldn’t touch that mug. That’s my fucking mug. Leo’s in jail and my mom is in a coma, and now I can’t even drink coffee out of the mug my dead grandfather gave me. My grey mood turns black, always balanced on a knife’s edge, and I grit my teeth together as anger stirs in my gut.

  I never used to be prone to rage, but I’m not the girl I used to be before all of this.

  “I made you cereal.” He pulls out a chair and points to it. “We’ve got ten minutes.” I do as I’m told, acting every inch the sullen stepdaughter. He tells me all the time that I need to curb my attitude, but my attitude is just about the last piece of me that’s still hanging on. After the accident, after Leo went to jail and Mom was just gone, I had a lot more…. Salt. I was feisty. I threw tantrums. In public.

  You should be nicer to Damon, more than one person has said to me. He’s doing the right thing, taking care of you all these years while your mother’s been sick. Fuck those people. My mother isn’t sick — she’s dying. I’m twenty-five years old with a brain-dead mother and a waitressing gig at the local diner. I’ve got nothing. And I don’t give a fuck about being nice.

  Damon sits across from me, pointedly eyeing my unbrushed rat’s nest of blond hair and my bare cheeks. His hair, by contrast, though short, is neatly combed, his badge shined, his shirt pressed.

  “You look like shit, sweetheart,” he says casually.

  I dig my spoon into the bowl and suppress a gag. The last thing I want to eat is something full of milk and sugar. My churning stomach needs dry toast, or saltine crackers, or preferably nothing at all.

  “You smell like a fucking pine forest,” I mutter around a mouthful of Froot Loops. Damon’s aftershave situation definitely isn’t helping my stomach. I stare down at the brightly colored cereal in my bowl and imagine myself down a well, or floating in a lake, just like Karen. I don’t know why I’m thinking of Karen now, not nine years after she turned up in Leo’s well.

  “Don’t swear at me,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “It’s not ladylike.”

  Getting drunk-fucked in the middle of the night and not being able to remember is pretty unladylike, too, but I don’t mention that. My life would be pretty miserable if I started talking about that. I throw my spoon down after two mouthfuls and stand up, in search of coffee. The pot’s been brewed a while ago, and the treacle brown liquid inside is lukewarm at best, but it’s better than nothing. I take another mug out of the cupboard and set it down on the sink, watching a moose wander by outside as I pour my liquid crack cocaine and take a sip.

  “You’re losing weight again,” Damon says, interrupting my daydreaming and moose-watching. His voice softens. “I worry when you don’t eat.”

  He wants me to keep eating. I sit back on my chair with great reluctance, washing cereal down with giant mouthfuls of coffee, even though I’m fairly sure what I’m eating is completely devoid of nutritional value. I drink two cups of caffeine just to get through my breakfast, all the while being watched carefully by Damon’s bright blue eyes. Another thing he frets about. Plates with food left on them and girls who don’t eat enough. He told me once how he was never allowed cereal as a kid. How he never had enough food. How I should appreciate him buying it for me. If he knew that I throw up almost everything that passes my lips - with the exception of alcohol, of course - he would be very upset, indeed.

  “Thanksgiving’s next week,” Damon says. “Did you get the turkey organized like I asked?”

  I nod. I’m lying. I haven’t. I will. Damon’s a traditional guy, wants the roast turkey and all the trimmings. I hate turkey. To be truthful, I hate food in general. The little I do eat to keep up appearances I purge as soon as I can. It’s comforting to be in control of some part of my life; and besides, the thinner I am, the less tits and ass I have, the less attention I get from the male population. I’m almost androgynous, with cheekbones that could cut glass. Except for the long hair I can’t bear to part with and my tits that, while small, refuse to disappear entirely no matter how hard I restrict my calorie intake.

  “Pick up the prescription from the pharmacy?”

  “Yup.” I left it on the hallway table, like always.

  “Did you get the wood chopped?”

  My stomach twists nervously. Damn. All week I’ve been walking around in a state of semi-anxiety, knowing I’ve forgotten something. “I’m planning on doing it tonight,” I say quickly. “I was busy with the shopping.”

  Damon’s face turns from dispassionate to frustrated.

  “You’re useless,” he mutters.

  “Really.” I roll my eyes.

  “Cassie. You can’t even get out of bed in the morning without being reminded. You’re like a child. A retarded child.”

&nbs
p; “You’re supposed to say ‘intellectually disabled.’ It’s more PC.”

  He slams his palm down onto the table, hard enough that my cereal bowl dances. “Do you know how goddamn hard I work to keep this house paid up? To keep your mother’s nursing bills paid up? To buy fucking prescriptions of that shit that keeps her alive?”

  I swallow cold coffee, unmoved by Damon’s martyr speech. I work just as hard as him, turning tables, pulling double shifts whenever I can, pouring every cent I earn into Mom’s medical care, the bills, this falling-down house. So I don’t care about poor Damon.

  For the first time this morning, I notice his face is puffed out on one side, and there’s a small cut above his right eye.

  “What happened to your face?” I ask.

  He glares at me.

  “Get dressed,” he says, making a face after he drains his last inch of coffee. “Coffee machine’s broken again.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the operator,” I say, leaning over to the counter and lifting the lid on the machine, slamming it down again so it locks properly. After a moment, dark black coffee starts to flow into the pot underneath. “There.”

  Damon stares at me, unimpressed. “Hurry. Up. Or I’ll take you to work as you are.” He gestures to my pajamas.

  “I bet the customers would love that,” I reply, pushing my chair back and standing. I jump as a hand curls around my upper arm and yanks me so my upper half is bent across the table.

  “That’s not funny,” Damon grinds out, his face inches from mine. “You want everyone thinking you’re the town whore?”

  “No,” I say softly.

  His hand squeezes tighter. “You know what happens to girls who act like whores?”

  “Yeah,” I say, meeting his steely gaze. “I’m thinking it’s pretty similar to what happens to girls like Karen.”

  “Karen?”

  “Murdered Karen,” I clarify.

  “I know which Karen,” he snaps, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “Why the hell would you bring that poor girl up after all these years?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. She’s the first town whore that came to mind. Unless you count Mom before she got knocked up with me.”