Getting Dirty, Page 2

  My brother is named after Joe Louis, Dad’s number one favorite boxer of all time. He adores the name. He also adores boxing. I never bonded with Dad that way. Even though I can’t say I was very girlie growing up—I was more tomboy than princess—I was still a girl and had a very feminine mother. While Dad and Joe cussed out the TV during boxing matches, Mom and I had girl’s night out, shopping, getting our hair and nails done, and secretly gorging ourselves full of chocolate ice cream. It was a ritual from the time I could walk all the way up to high school.

  And then Garrett Marshall happened.

  On a Tuesday. In broad daylight. Just a door away from a gymnasium full of screaming teenagers. In my school, where I was supposed to be safe.

  Ever since that day, I haven’t felt like doing girlie rituals to pretty myself up. I haven’t felt like doing much of anything, really. If it isn’t drinking or sleeping, I’m not into it.

  That was three years ago.

  It feels like yesterday.

  What’s really fucked up is that I did everything right. I told someone immediately. I found a teacher—Mrs. Haring who taught Art and was responsible for my favorite time of the school day. She took me to the nurse’s office and called my mom first, then the police.

  The police took Garrett into custody while I went to the hospital and cried through five hours of torture as they completed a rape kit.

  My mom found a counselor that specialized in cases like mine.

  I spent days upon days crying with my family, talking to my counselor, and working with the police. I thought I could get past it. I thought I could move on. I thought I could get better.

  And then came the news from the prosecutors’ office. Not enough evidence to convict. It was Garrett’s word against mine and I didn’t have stellar standing when it came to sex and boys. Because I had multiple relationships in high school. It didn’t matter that all of the boys I slept with were boys I dated at the time. It didn’t matter that Garrett and I never dated.

  The only thing that mattered was his insistence that it was consensual, and I was an apparent slut.

  A rapist is walking around, free to hurt another young girl—rob her of her sanity, of her security, of her life—all because the prosecutor thought it would be too difficult to get a conviction.

  I’m angry.

  It took two years of therapy to figure that out.

  I’m scared.

  It took one night of sleeplessness to accept that.

  I’ll never be the same.

  I’m still coming to terms with that one.

  The hardest part, I think, is the look in my dad’s eyes when he sees me. It’s this mix of guilt, sadness, and shame. I can’t stand it. So I stay away as much as possible.

  I stay drunk as much as possible, too. It makes it all just a little bit easier to deal with.

  Some nights, when sleep is impossible, I fantasize about finding Garrett Marshall. I imagine what it would be like to take the knife I keep hidden under my pillow and shove it through his heart.

  Would I feel better? Would I magically transform into a newer, better version of myself? Would I be able to drive by a high school without my chest tightening? Would I be able to put the knife back in the drawer?

  Somehow I doubt it.

  But I can guarantee I would finally be able to close my eyes at night and sleep.

  Five

  Link

  I look at the men on the other side of the glass. There are six, but I focus all my attention on one. It’s him. One of the bastards that ruined my life. One of the four that took Livie away from me. I know it’s him. Every cell in my body is certain it’s him. I would never—could never—forget his face. The only differences I pick up on are the faint creases around his eyes. Those weren’t there four years ago. Living as a murderer must have taken its toll, forming premature wrinkles.

  My eyes narrow as I scrutinize his face. I memorize his clothing.

  He doesn’t appear as monstrous as the memory I’ve stored in my head. If anything, he looks weaker. Meeker. Milder. Pathetic.

  It pisses me off that I can remember him, but I’m beginning to lose Liv.

  “None of those are him,” I say, swiftly pivoting on my heel and heading for the door.

  “Linken,” Byers calls after me.

  I don’t pause. I don’t hesitate. I just keep walking. “It’s not him,” I repeat.

  “Are you sure?” he pants as he hurries after me. “You can take your time. We can ask him to speak—”

  “I said it’s not him.” I stop abruptly, causing him to run into my back. “Do you really think I would forget what the guy looks like? What any of them look like?”

  Byers doesn’t reply. He moves around me to look me in the eyes, quietly reading my expression. I offer him nothing. I’m a master at wearing this mask of indifference.

  “I see their faces every single day of my life. None of those men in that room were the men from that night. If one of them were in there, I’d tell you. I’d watch you charge him. Hell, I’d probably get myself locked up because I’d pound down the glass and beat the shit out of him. But. It’s. Not. Him.”

  “You wouldn’t beat the shit out of him because that’d be vigilantism. And you’d never play with the law like that, would you Linken?”

  I raise a brow as I stare blankly back at him. “I have to get to work. When you have a real lead, let me know.”

  He nods stiffly. “Take care of yourself.”

  I push past him, needing to distance myself. Because part of what I said was true. I want to go through that two-way mirror and bash the fucker’s skull in. I want to torture him the same way he tortured Liv. The same way he’s tortured me. And then I want to end his life.

  But that would only serve my immediate need for blood and do nothing for my long-term plan. So instead, I head out to my car and I wait, my eyes trained on the main doors. He’ll have to leave eventually.

  I don’t struggle with my decision to lie or the strategy I’ve perfected over the years while I waited for one of these men to surface. Even if I had ID’d him, there’s no guarantee justice would be served. The police have no DNA evidence. The men that killed Liv made damn sure of that when they dumped gallons of bleach over her lifeless form.

  There’s no way to know if the guy in custody would ever give up his buddies, either. If I allowed the law to handle it, he would probably bond out and be home within the week, awaiting a trial that could take years to come to fruition while his friends continue to go free.

  A trial would be a joke. It would come down to his word against mine. No other witnesses. No solid proof. I’ve done my homework. The only sure way these men will ever be punished is if I take care of it myself.

  Byers is right.

  I’m a vigilante.

  Or I will be by the time this day is over.

  ***

  It’s just before noon when the asshole I’ve been waiting on emerges accompanied by another man. My car is parked too far away to get a good look at the new addition, but something in his posture and the way he carries himself has my gut clenching tight. Both men get into a four-door sedan and I throw the gear into drive, following after them. As soon as we stop at the first light, I jot down the license plate number. And then I stare into the driver’s rearview mirror. I can only make out the bottom half of his face, but as soon as he smiles—laughing at something I can only assume the dickhead in the passenger seat said—recognition hits.

  I close my eyes tightly as I squeeze the steering wheel.

  It takes several deep breaths before I can open my eyes again. I smile. I have two of them just a few short feet away. After all this time, I’m halfway there.

  The light turns green. As they take the turn, I fall back not wanting to draw attention to myself. It’s one of the hardest things I have ever had to do because every instinct, every reflex, every basic, natural impulse is telling me to ram the car. To hurt them now.

  I watch them pull up in fron
t of a small apartment complex. I hesitate for a moment before I slide in to a spot across the street. The passenger swings his door open and steps out. I have to make a decision. Do I follow him and observe which apartment he goes into? Or do I follow the car and get more information about the driver?

  I quickly scribble the apartment address down—making the choice to come back later—and slip in behind the car as it pulls away.

  Six

  Rocky

  It takes me a few groggy seconds to figure out the annoyingly shrill ringing is my cell phone. It’s another few seconds before I understand it’s not my alarm. Someone’s actually calling me. I crinkle my nose, squinting at the screen.

  My brother.

  I tuck the phone under my pillow, attempting to silence it. I’m too tired and too hung over to handle him. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than call me this early in the morning? I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Oh, so it’s not really morning, but it’s still early. For me at least. I typically do all my sleeping while the sun is up because I can’t do it when it’s dark.

  My phone sounds again and I sigh harshly. He isn’t going to give up until he talks to me. He gets in these moods sometimes, worrying about me. I swear he actually believes I’m going to off myself. I’m more likely to die of accidental alcohol poisoning. Not that I’d tell him that.

  I pluck my phone from under my head, pressing the button and dropping it next to my ear.

  “I’m alive, Joe. Now leave me alone.”

  “Come have lunch with me.”

  “What? No. I’m trying to sleep.”

  “It’s after noon.”

  “Your point?” I yawn loudly to drive my point home.

  “I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll come to you.”

  “What are you doing out here? You stalking me now?”

  He scoffs into the phone as if he’s insulted. “I started my new job today,” he says, stating it more like a question than a reply. “At Livie’s Gym? It’s literally two blocks from your apartment? We discussed this last week.”

  I remain quiet, not recalling any of this. He honestly may have told me, but I spend so much time blocking out all his “I’m concerned about you, Rock” speeches that it probably got deflected with all the other bullshit.

  Joey huffs out a frustrated breath. “Do you ever hear me when I talk?”

  “Wha. You sound like a little girl.” I pout my lip even though he can’t see it and talk to him in a baby voice. “Nobody ever listens to me. Sniff. Sniff.”

  He chuckles lightly. “You’re such an asshole. Get dressed because I’m here.” The call ends as heavy pounding begins at my front door.

  I throw a mild tantrum, kicking my legs against the mattress as I groan noisily. I wonder how long I can ignore him before he gives up goes away…?

  “If you don’t open up I’ll just use my key,” he calls through the door.

  Shit.

  I hear the distinct sound of the key jiggling the doorknob and reluctantly sit up, looking around for my robe.

  “It’s all right, I’ll make lunch,” he yells, causing me to cringe. Dishes clank in the kitchen, cabinet doors open and close, and then footsteps clap down the hall.

  “Change in plans,” Joey says from the doorway. “You have no food. We’re going out. Hurry up, my break’s only an hour.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  I shuffle stiffly to the bathroom to brush the disgusting taste from my mouth, rake my bed hair into a sloppy bun, and change out of my pajamas. I pop a few Advil, hoping they can work a miracle on this headache.

  Joe’s sitting on the arm of my couch. His dark hair longer than the last time I saw him. I pause, trying to recall how long it’s been. A couple months, I think. His eyes narrow as he taps the toe of his shoe to the floor, examining me. I pick up my purse, trying to ignore his scrutiny. “You look like shit.”

  “You interrupted my sleep and gave me five minutes to get ready. I think I did good with what I was working with.”

  I follow him out the door and down the stairs. There are a few small restaurants at the end of my street and we head that way.

  “Why is your kitchen so bare?” he asks.

  I glance over at him and his dark eyes are fixed on me. I shrug. “I planned on shopping today.” For beer and cereal, but I keep that part to myself.

  “Do you need money?”

  “No.” Kind of.

  “If you’d eat healthier you’d feel better.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Joe. I’m not in the mood for your shit.” I stop walking, crossing my arms over my chest. “Can you not judge me? Just once?”

  He drags his fingers through his thick hair—a clear indication he’s irritated with me. When he first joined the Marines, he shaved his head nearly bald. It was a good thing he was stationed so far away for training because I don’t know what he would have done when I pissed him off.

  “I’m not judging you. I’m wor—”

  “Worried about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Somehow I’ve managed to survive twenty-one years. I think I’ll be all right.”

  “Why do you always do this?” he asks, his eyes locking on mine. “Why do you act like it’s a crime for me to worry about you? Why am I a dick for wanting to help you? I don’t get it. We used to be close.” He shakes his head like he just can’t comprehend the change. “You used to like hanging out with me. You were like my shadow in high school.”

  I narrow my eyes. Why did he have to bring up high school? I take a step back, dropping my arms. “You know why things changed. You don’t like it, take it up with Garrett Marshall.”

  I turn around, ready to go home and back to bed. Joey curses and jogs after me. “I called you for a reason. Listen to what I have to say and then you can go.”

  “What?”

  “They offer classes at that gym where I now work. Self defense classes for women.” He holds his hands up, palms out. “Before you say no, just hear me out. I’ll be there assisting. I can talk to the owner and see if I can work directly with you. I think if you started working out and learned how to defend yourself, you might feel a little better.”

  I smile weakly, but not because I’m happy. It’s more of a “you’re a clueless idiot” smile. I adjust the strap of my purse over my shoulder, and without a word, I walk away.

  “Rock,” Joe pleads, “at least come by and check it out before you turn it down.”

  I circle back to face him. Angry tears sting my eyes and I blink them away. “A class is not going to magically make me feel better. Lifting dumbbells will not make me feel better. Eating a better diet will not make me feel better. I’m not sick. I was raped.”

  “That’s not how I meant it,” he rasps.

  “You will never understand what was taken from me that day.”

  He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know what it’s like to go through what you did, but I do have a clue as to what was taken from you—I see it missing. I feel its loss. I’m just trying to help you take it back.”

  “Some things are unfixable.”

  Seven

  Link

  I follow the driver to a small insurance agency. I keep the car idling as I watch him pull into a front parking space and park. Once he disappears inside, I shut off the engine and jog up to the double doors.

  There’s a secretary seated behind a desk. Young. Pretty. The place is empty aside from her. Quiet. And for a moment, I fear for her safety. She works here with that animal. Alone, by the looks of it. I know what he’s capable of. I witnessed what he can do firsthand.

  She greets me with a smile as I stop in front of her. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. This is why I’m here. To make sure he can’t do harm to anybody ever again.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, my eyes flicking around the room. “I need some information.”

  “Are you looking for life insurance for yourself? Or you and
your family?”

  I glance back at her, noticing the small nameplate sitting in front of her. “I don’t know yet, Amy. Is there someone I could talk to?”

  She looks down at her computer, clicking at the keys. “Hm. Mr. Anthony’s afternoon is full today. How does tomorrow afternoon work for you?”

  “Mr. Anthony.” I roll his name over my tongue, tasting it bitterly. “Is that the guy that just came in?”

  “Yes.” She smiles again, her attention still focused on the computer screen. “You know, it looks like Mr. Wright has an opening at three.”

  I release a sigh. There’s someone else here. That’s good. She’s not alone.

  “Tomorrow works better. Do you have a business card for Mr. Anthony?”

  “Sure.” She places a small white card on the front of the desk and slides it toward me. I pick it up and my hands shake as I read it. Gregory Anthony. I have a full name and I can’t seem to look away. Gregory Anthony. I repeat it my head like a mantra. Like a promise.

  “One o’clock tomorrow all right?”

  My fingers pinch the thick paper, crinkling it. I feel sweat bead across my forehead as my body temperature rises. He’s sitting in one of these offices, unsuspecting. He has no idea his worst nightmare is this close.

  “Sir?” Amy says, drawing my attention back to her.

  “Yeah,” I croak. “One’s fine.”

  I give her a fake name for the appointment I have no intention of keeping.

  ***

  “Where’ve you been all day?” Augie asks as soon as I step through the door. My feet falter, bringing me to an abrupt halt halfway to the front desk. The Irish prick has been my best friend since my freshman year of college, five years ago. I’ve never lied to him—not about anything important—but he can’t know what I spent my morning doing. If he knew, he’d try to stop me.

  I force my feet to move, striding over to the desk. I shrug as I flip through the mail. “I just had a few errands to run.” I drop the envelopes and run my fingers through my hair. I should cut it. Less hair, less chance I have of leaving DNA evidence behind.

  My eyes flutter shut as an idea occurs to me. What kind of sweet justice would it be to cover the assholes in bleach as I pick them off? I shake my head, disregarding the tempting thought. That would be too obvious. Byer’s would put it together too quickly. I don’t care about being caught. But I don’t want to be