Chasing Impossible

  “Car accidents!”

  “Speed is normal for boys.”

  “Shooting off fireworks from his hands.”

  “He was curious.”

  “Crashing on an ER table because he didn’t give himself an insulin shot for a week.”

  Bile sloshes in my stomach and Mom’s expression darkens. I was eleven and I didn’t mean for it to happen. It scared the shit out of Dad, it scared the shit out of Mom, and it scared the shit out of me.

  Dad points at me. “Logan’s irresponsible and if he’s going to live with you when he heads to school in the fall, you’ve got to give him boundaries.”

  Mom casts her worried eyes over at me and I immediately look away. Mom isn’t capable of handing down rules and if she was, she wouldn’t have a clue how to enforce them.

  Dad dropped the bomb last week that if I’m going to school in Jefferson County that they’re going to switch up the custody arrangement. Live with Mom during the week and him on the weekends. The news was the equivalent to being kicked in the nuts.

  “He’s not a bad son,” she whispers.

  Just like Mom isn’t a bad Mom and Dad isn’t a bad Dad. We’re just wired differently.

  Honestly, I’m too much like Dad and then too much like Mom. I often think the crazy inside me is the aftermath of the personality collision. Like how a tornado can happen when a cold front and warm front collide.

  “You’re not,” Dad agrees.

  I nod, thanking him for acknowledging me again.

  “But you have got to stop with the impulses. Learn some control.”

  Control. That’s what diabetes is—control. Control my diet. Control my routine. Control my insulin. Control my blood sugar. Control my exercise. Control, control, control and even when I do control it all—my levels still bottom out or go too high and it’s a constant seesaw that never goes away.

  My cell dings and when I pull it out it’s West: Abby’s asking for you. Wants to know if you’re going to do what she asked. She’s on painkillers, but she’s agitated—won’t sleep. What do I tell her?

  Me: Tell her I’ll do it

  At least for today. Many things are changing in my life, and the situation between Abby and I is one of them, but odds are whatever she’s asking for can feed my need for crazy for the day. I scrape the rest of my food into the garbage then deposit my dishes in the dishwasher. “That was West. Abby’s asking for me.”

  “We’re not done discussing the band,” Dad says. “Your future.”

  “I got to do this.” Abby. The band. To have a little crazy in the control.

  “Later then,” Dad says.

  “Later,” I agree.

  I accept and give a kiss on the cheek to Mom, grab my keys off the counter, and I’m out the door.

  Abby

  “Abby!”

  I jerk awake and when I do, pain slices down my chest.

  “Hide it,” Isaiah says, and I fist my fingers under the blanket. Damn that hurts. “You’ve got company you don’t want to appear weak in front of.”

  Isaiah hovers over my hospital bed. Shaved head. Several hoop earrings in both ears. I was there when he got two of those rows. That seems like lifetimes ago.

  When I ease up on my grip, Isaiah mutters, “Linus is here.”

  I try to rub the confusion out of my head, but it’s useless. “Alone or with guests hiding in corners?”

  “Says he’s alone.”

  I scan the room. No Mac. No Logan. Not sure what to think about either situation. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  Doesn’t answer the question yet it does. “I’ll talk to him, but do you mind staying near?”

  Isaiah nods then whispers, “Pain meds?”

  “No.” I’m already not thinking clearly, and I don’t need to be completely incapacitated with him. “Has it been days? Since I was shot?”

  “Hours,” he answers. No wonder I feel like shit.

  Isaiah leans his back in the door frame to my room and crosses his arms over his chest. The glare he gives down the hall is scary enough that the hair on my arms stands on end. A few seconds later Linus walks in, attempting to stare Isaiah down the entire time.

  Isaiah doesn’t cower, neither does Linus. Two warriors on opposing ends of a battlefield. When Linus is far enough into the room, he turns his back to Isaiah and Isaiah steps out. If I know him, he’s right by the door.

  Linus has dirty-blond hair, the coldest blue eyes on the face of the planet, and he moves like a predator. My father took him under his wing when Linus turned eighteen. Within a year, Linus was a prince to a king.

  “If you carried a gun last night would have turned out different,” he says like we’re discussing a bad grade on an English paper.

  “If I carried a gun, I’d be the killer.”

  Linus turns the IV machine as if he’s interested in my heartbeat and recent blood pressure numbers. “Better the killer than dead.”

  “I’m alive.”

  “You’re soft,” he snaps.

  Against every protesting muscle, I straighten in bed. “People fear me.”

  Linus assesses me out of the corner of his eye. “Normal people fear you. Most on the streets fear you because of your father’s ghost or because of Ricky’s protection. People should shiver at your name because you’re death on wheels.”

  I roll my eyes. “I stabbed whoever shot me. I should have gone lower. Cut off his dick.”

  That causes his always black rain cloud of an expression to lighten to a drizzle. “Should’ve. He probably wouldn’t have gotten a shot off then. In the end, good move with the blade. Hitting a running target is hard to do. That probably saved your life. Know what would save your life next time?”

  “Aliens?” I ask.

  His frozen expression mocks me, a reminder that he never finds me amusing. “A gun.”

  “I make the money.” I dismiss his gun with a princess wave of my hand. “You enforce the rules. There’s a reason for the system. My clients would wet their pants at the sight of you.”

  “I hear they wet their pants at the sight of you, too.”

  I’m too tired to decide if he means that as dirty or not. “It takes more than one chess piece for checkmate.”

  Linus eases into a chair near the wall and I spot that ghost lift of his lips that I sometimes mistake as a smile. “Rule number eight.”

  My body trembles from the exhaustion of being upright and I collapse back to the bed. Rule number eight.

  “Everyone else on our side make it out okay?”

  “Yeah. Tommy took a hit, but he’s good.”

  Tommy, the guy watching my back in the bar. He’s Linus’s equivalent to a best friend, or would be if Linus did friends. He doesn’t and often refers to Tommy as his trusted protégé. Best friend, not a friend, protégé—doesn’t matter. I grant Linus a few seconds to dwell on the fact that Tommy got hurt.

  “We’ve got problems,” Linus announces.

  My eyelids grow heavy, but the pain in my upper left shoulder helps me stay awake. “Eric has problems. That was pretty close to point blank and one of his people didn’t make the kill.”

  “They were rushed and you sliced him better than you think. I saw the blood on your knife. Which I have, along with your phone.” Linus extracts his bouncy ball from his pocket. We’re both trained by my father. “Our side was moving in fast and we have better kill shots. But we might be the one that has the problem.”

  That grabs my attention. “How’s that?”

  Linus tosses the ball off the wall, it hits the floor, and he leans to the left to catch it. “Did you get a look at who shot you?”

  “Nope—too dark. Do you think maybe he was a shadow? Like
not a real person? Like he’s the shadow of a serial killer that ripped himself away from his master? I think I saw an old Twilight Zone episode on that once. I bet that stuff is real and they say it’s fiction so people don’t freak.”

  “Pity on not seeing.” Linus never plays with me. Ever. I like Logan because he plays.

  “Maybe he was a ghost or a demon.”

  Another toss of the ball. Another bounce. Another catch. “Your boy Logan says he didn’t see your shooter, either. I don’t believe him.”

  A wave of ice slowly freezes the blood in my veins. “What do you mean my boy Logan?”

  Linus’s eyes smile and that’s like watching the devil commit murder. “He went hero and charged into the alley. He even thought about trying to take me out. Swooped you up, brought you to the street, and cradled you in his arms like you two honestly care for each other. It was all fucking tragic.”

  “Leave him alone.” Pissed-off Abby is about to pop out and do some playing herself.

  “I don’t plan on meddling. I’ve kept my mouth shut, you’ve been under twenty-four-hour Isaiah surveillance, and your boy played it cool with the cops. Him holding you tight on the street, smoothing your hair away from your face, and kissing your forehead over and over again played nice with his story to the police. As I said, fucking tragic.”

  This is why I opted to see Linus—not like Linus would accept no. “What story do the police have?”

  “They talked to Logan twice. Once at the scene and then right before he was about to leave the hospital. Both times he said you were on a date, he left you outside the club to get his truck, you went after him, got lost, and got caught up in some evil people’s drug wars.”

  There’s an unsaid but. “I’m about to get pain meds for free thanks to the state’s insurance and your continual blabbing is holding it up.”

  “You don’t like being high, plus it goes against rule number six.”

  Rule number six: don’t use the drugs you sell. I sigh. I’m tired, I’m in pain, and I didn’t get red Jell-O nor a bunny. All that adds up to cranky. “Why are you here?”

  “Ricky shouldn’t know there was a possible witness to your shooting yet he’s searching for the witness so he can find out who took a shot at you.”

  My heart stops beating right as the blood pressure cuff tightens. “You said you were going to stay silent.”

  Linus catches the ball and looks at me from the corner of his eye. “I have stayed silent. So have you and so has Logan.”

  My heart starts again, but it’s at a rate that’s too entirely fast. “Which means the shooter is talking and he knows there was a witness.” My mind trips over itself as I attempt to force my brain cells to work again. “I was shot hours ago.”

  “Street gossip doesn’t move this fast from Eric’s camp to Ricky’s. We either have someone with ties too close to Eric’s people or this was an inside hit.”

  Nausea crawls up my throat. “Which one was it?”

  “If we’ve got a traitor in our ranks and your boy is a witness to things they didn’t want anyone to see Logan can help me.”

  “Help you?” I shout. “When did this become about you?”

  “It’s always about me. My instincts have been telling me that we have a spy in our ranks for a while, but I could never sniff out who. If your boy saw the shooter, then maybe I can link back your shooter to whoever is causing problems for us.”

  I blink, repeatedly. “I don’t want Logan involved in our world.”

  Like always, he ignores me. “Two of my guys will be posted in the hospital, watching your back while you’re here. I’ve bought myself twenty-four hours until I meet Ricky face-to-face and I owe you for saving my ass last year. You’ve got that much time to figure out what story I’m telling him involving your boy. Any way you look at it, he’s falling down the rabbit hole. Just up to you how far.”

  And if he gets killed. Great. No pressure. None at all.

  Logan

  We play. Abby and I play.

  She’s a drug dealer. She’s chosen her path and she’s asked me to fill in and make sure a deal is done. Sure sounds like it. An address. A hidden envelope. A specific drop time. Bet she asked me to do this because I’m crazy.

  In the end, I don’t know her, she doesn’t know me, yet I’m here. Because I need a release from this itch under my skin...because I think of her—often. More than I want. More than I should. Maybe I like her because I’m insane.

  That sounds like me.

  The house wasn’t what I expected. It’s in an older part of Louisville. Built easily over a hundred years ago. Small. Stone. Like a cottage, but stuck in a neighborhood. It has a cement porch that’s covered by a roof. A swing is off to the right. Colorful wind chimes clank together in the summer breeze. Flowers are planted along the shrubs and are in flower boxes attached to the railing. The front yard is full of green grass. No weeds. Nicely manicured.

  The front steps are covered by a wooden ramp. The kind Dad built for his father when he broke his hip. The place definitely screams drug den.

  The clock on the truck’s radio flips to 2:45. I crack open the door and cross the street. Farther down, a car passes an intersection, but other than that, there couldn’t be a quieter place. Birds and boring. Almost like being back home.

  I’m fast as I move to the back and in the backyard a red birdhouse hangs from a branch heavy with apples. Along with leaves, sticks and shed feathers, there’s a key and that key fits in the back door. It clicks open and the scent of chicken drifts into my nose. My stomach grumbles and I want to kick myself for missing a meal, but I was caught up in driving. Caught up in figuring out Abby.

  I enter a kitchen and it’s yellow—almost orange. It’s cozy. Maybe three people could fit in it. There’s a stove, a sink, not even a dishwasher. The refrigerator’s covered in pictures and most of them are of a young girl and as I step closer, my eyes narrow. The girl has long brown hair, a glint in her eye and a devilish grin. Holy hell—is that Abby?

  “Can I help you?”

  I spin, and a black woman with long curly hair pulled back at the nape of her neck walks in. She assesses me like she’s not sure whether to welcome me or try to put me in a sleeper hold.

  “Abby sent me,” I say.

  She eyes me warily then places a tray of half-eaten food on the counter. “Abby’s usually here by now. Is she delayed?”

  “You can say that.” I glance out the back door and wonder if I should bolt. This lady is too calm. This situation too weird. “I need to go upstairs.”

  She checks her watch. It’s now 2:50. “If Abby came rolling in this late she would, too. I’ll be in the living room.”

  The lady leaves and not knowing what else to do, I follow, but at a distance. The area between my muscles and skin vibrates and I can’t tell if it’s my need to feel an adrenaline rush or if it’s because I’m in the opening scene of a horror flick.

  The next room is a dining room. Wooden floors, wooden table, a brown braided rug underneath, and white lace curtains over the windows. To the left is a staircase and the woman enters another room that’s straight ahead. On the china hutch is a screwdriver. This game all feels staged and I don’t like the sinking sensation it creates, like Abby somehow knew she wouldn’t return.

  Continuing the messed-up scavenger hunt, I grab the screwdriver. The points tally in my mind. Enter the house without being shot, one point. Finding the screwdriver, three. Does the pissed-off serial killer enter on level two? It’s no wonder she gave this task to me. I’m the only one she knows that’s this insane.

  On the second floor, the door’s closed to the first room. The next is the bathroom.

  I check down the hall. No sound of anyone coming. No sound of anyone else upstairs. I enter and feel like I’ve stepped into a time warp. Small tiled bath
room. A medicine cabinet that sticks out from the wall. In fact the entire house feels stuck in another era, circa 1930-something and/or before.

  Next to the claw-foot tub is a shelf holding towels. I push it out of the way and feel along the seam of the wallpaper. A slight pull and there’s a part of me that’s in awe over the Velcro that kept the paper in place. Using the screwdriver, I undo the door and open it to find cash in an envelope. So much that my gut twists. So much that the girl I know as Abby seems further away.

  I pick the envelope up and it’s a double jab to the face. Underneath is a gallon resealable bag that contains smaller zip bags and inside those are pot.

  I lower my head and attempt to swallow down the disgust and disappointment. Somehow, I’d managed to compartmentalize Abby the girl who challenges me from the drug dealer. Screw that—I chose to ignore it. To be aware, but consciously staying unaware.

  Earlier, a part of me desired to kick Isaiah in the head for how he talked about Abby, but now I respect him. He doesn’t ignore the parts of Abby he can’t stand, he accepts her and still has her back. And he was being her friend because he was questioning me—questioning my allegiance.

  I fall back on my ass. “Why do you do this, Abby?”

  Besides the air conditioner kicking on, there’s no response. I snatch the envelope, ignore how thick it is, and work to put everything back in place. Abby said I’d know what to do with the envelope. I don’t. I understand nothing of her world.

  Rage pushes out any confusion or hurt. Isaiah has her back, not me. He should be the one doing this, and then my face heats. I am a fool. Isaiah would have refused. He won’t cross over into her world, but she knew she could play me. Well, fuck that.

  I bound down the stairs, angry at Abby, angry at myself. Hate pulsating through my veins. I cut into the living room and as I open my mouth to tell this woman that Abby can fix her own damn problems, I whiplash as if I’d smacked headfirst into a wall.

  Cold. I go cold and I slightly bend over to wash away the shock.

  The woman with the long hair is settling an elderly lady into a chair that’s next to a hospital bed. She’s old. Very old. Almost like she’d dissolved into dust with a touch. White hair pinned into a bun on the top of her head. She wears a sweater and a long nightgown and she has this vacant stare that causes an ache.