Cage (8 page)
Authors: Sarah Sparrows
Pensacola,
Present Day
Coming to Pensacola had been a complete mistake.
I knew that I’d been too hard on Saffron. She didn’t understand that I
had to keep her at arm’s length – ignorant of my feelings for her. Every
syllable that I’d uttered had filled my heart with regret, but I’d lashed out
as hard as I could bear.
All because I was still a coward.
The poor girl had only offered me dinner. It was the perfect opportunity
to forget all about earlier in the day, to push everything out of my head. She
must have envisioned us chowing down and bonding over some comedy flick.
Instead, maybe she thought I’d convince her into watching a horror film –
testing her mettle and making her prove that she was nearly as tough as I was.
I turned onto a side street, the wind whipping at my shirt and jeans.
Under the streetlights of Pensacola, I headed towards the interstate, uncaring
where I went.
It wasn’t good for me to focus on her while I drove.
Maybe I should turn back
, I thought to
myself
I can just beg her forgiveness and
tell her that I was being stupid. I wasn’t feeling well. She’d hate me, but
she’d believe me.
Perhaps there was a part of the night I could salvage, after all.
But I had just missed my turn, and now I was heading onto the
interstate. Under the orange glow of the lamps, I was already peeling towards
the main throughway, and I realized that my split-second decision had already
been made for me. With a small amount of regret, I stayed the course, not
knowing how far I’d drive.
It wasn’t a total loss. I was supposed to use Saffron’s credit card at
places away from the Beach House. Ownership of the house itself was shielded by
three different shell corporations, but there was no hiding a credit trail.
It’s why the house was so well stocked. If anyone was coming down to Pensacola
to find Saffron, I was supposed to make sure they didn’t find what they were
looking for. As wind whipped through my hair, I gave the throttle a little
twist. This would all be over soon and I could get back to my life… It was
probably better that way.
Chapter 9 – Saffron
Pensacola, Present Day
Sawyer came back late that night. At the time I was curled up in a thick
chair, nursing a small carton of ice cream and watching some 90s sitcom on
Netflix. The door quietly opened and closed; his motorcycle helmet softly fell
to the couch nearby, and he ascended the stairs without a word.
I wanted to say something to him.
Fear prevented me; I thought he’d lash out again.
It was already 2AM in the morning, and I hadn’t slept since the long
flight here. The rest of the evening was spent tossing and turning fitfully in
bed. Usually, I was a rampant and colorful dreamer – but my
confusion and fear stole these things from me.
Several days passed. I walked on eggshells around Sawyer, afraid of
setting him off again. To my chagrin, I realized that I was
dying
for his attention again. But I
knew better than to try to reach out to him.
Instead, I buried myself in my books. After a long afternoon of
desperately trying to lose myself in my backlog, I finally let go of my
frustration enough to sink into a story. This one was an alternate history
book, the critically beloved debut novel of a relative unknown. After eight
years of research, it begged the question:
What if Eisenhower had been
the first elected Presidential WOMAN?
It was a ridiculous concept to me, but the author was clearly a fanatic
of the time period – and of the titular president him(her?)self. I could
see a fair share of immediate logical fallacies in the work, and the writer’s
grasp of recent political history was somewhat
tenuous
, but it was a compelling enough read nevertheless.
That one was a little denser than my usual reading fair, so I strove for
something lighter and fluffier afterwards. If undisturbed, I could typically
finish a book in under a day, unless it was an absolute doorstopper like a lot
of the weird but wonderful fantasy writers out there. I didn’t engage that
genre often, because it wasn’t typically my thing; however, there were a few
that came highly recommended down the pipeline, either from a few bookish
friends or from critics I loved.
This one, “Seventy Suns,” was no different. It had been sitting on my
shelf for a few months now, and a few friends had been pressuring me to finally
tackle it – asking every couple of days if I’d started. It was always the
same thing:
Oh come on, you’re gonna love
it
or even something like
I’m not
talking to you again until you get to Chapter
17. If there was a particular
part of the book that was mentioned, it was usually that one.
I eyed the book carefully, holding it in my hands. Even as a hardback,
it was still thinner than some of the
really
hefty books I’d read. Sitting at a typical page count in the near 300s, it
was one of the more reasonable fantasy books that I’d read.
Across the front was a painting of a young, female pirate, the tip of
her sword held valiantly high as she stood atop the edge of her pirate ship.
The background was an inky black; mist surged all around her, giving it that
strong,
edgy
look that a lot of contemporary
pieces seemed to go for in the last few years.
I buried myself in the book, but it took me a while to get into it.
Often, I’d grow bored with it, setting it down to favor something else. It
wasn’t anything with the writing style, which was great; the imagery and the
details were pretty fantastic as well.
Guess it just wasn’t my kind of tale.
I eventually persevered, and when I finally hit the single page that was
Chapter 17, I suddenly understood – and then I couldn’t put the book
down. I’d already read three other books from front-to-back while trying to get
through
just this one
but, with six
chapters to go, I couldn’t fathom dropping it.
I won’t spoil it for you.
It was pretty awesome, though.
By that point, I realized that I hadn’t seen Sawyer in a few days. In
fact, it had been close to a
week
.
But I was determined to not be the one to break the silence with the jackass,
even if I was willing to peer out of the corner of my eye when he walked down
the hall, or scrounged around in the kitchen while I was watching television.
Of
course
he was always
shirtless. The asshole just loved to strut his body around like it was on
freaking display. Getting a good look at his muscles, even a brief or sideways
glance, revealed those achingly wide shoulders, rippling arms, and washboard
abdominals. If he had been anyone else, I’d have been salivating at the very
thought of running my fingertips down that
incredible
musculature…
Quit it
, I would
have to remind myself.
He’s not just an asshole. He’s
your BROTHER.
Well…
stepbrother
, at the
least. So what if I admired how he looked? He took damn good care of himself,
and it really showed. As fucked up as it was, when I got really bored while he
was off doing whatever the hell he did, I’d slink into my bedroom and
masturbate…mentally slapping some celebrity’s face onto his body.
I tried my best to separate Sawyer himself out of the situation,
although I couldn’t help it. I’d masturbated to him before, when we were
younger. Even before he got all
super hot
on me, I was attracted. I could only barely deny it to myself. It was
always on the fringe, like trying to remember something you’ve forgotten and
it’s
just on the tip of your tongue
.
But I wouldn’t finger myself to
him
now.
There’s no way I’d let him get into my head like that.
In the meantime, while I read books and loitered around the house, I
decided to make good use of the city. Luckily, I didn’t have to call Hensley
every time I wanted a trip into the city, nor did I have to summon a taxi with
ridiculous fares and questionable quality. Instead, I went the
Uber
route, pulling up my iPhone app and
sending out a digital beacon for a driver. Ten minutes later, a sleek, small
black car would pull up in the driveway, and I’d be escorted wherever I wanted
to go.
It was usually some college kid, sometimes someone in their upper
twenties. The rides were friendly enough, but I never wound up with the same
driver twice. That was fine with me – I’d indulge the driver with small
talk, but I wasn’t out to make friends.
Instead, I was out to see the sights.
If I just so happened to get some
serious
shopping done at the same time then, well, that was a cross I was willing to
bear.
The drivers gave me recommendations when I asked for them, and they
helped me stay out of the saturated tourist areas. I heard a lot of good
information on which attractions were the ones to visit and, after a shopping
trip or two, decided to take a look at the Pensacola Lighthouse.
We had never been to the lighthouse during our vacations. I’d asked to
go a few times, and Sawyer had even backed me up on it, but our parents had
turned down the occasion time and time again.
Admission was cheap, just a couple of dollars. What I hadn’t been
prepared for, however, was the
climb
.
I’d foolishly figured that there was an elevator or something to the top…I
mean, why
wouldn’t
there be? But that
wasn’t the case. Instead, I had to ascend
177
steep stairs
with a handrail to climb the spiral to the peak…
But that view was
breathtaking
.
While the museum portion of the lighthouse was interesting enough, giving a
solid glimpse into the history of the place (and a few ghost stories), it was
the sight from the top that really made it all worth the while. The Naval base
wasn’t far, and it looked positively
tiny
from my vantage point…and then there was the ocean.
The magnificent, incredible ocean.
While I stared at that ocean, I thought about my life. I felt so small
and insignificant in that place, staring at that gorgeous palate of nature. I
reflected on the few memories of my biological father that I still had; I
drifted through early recollections of life alone with my mother, and how
stressed she had been until my trip to Bristol; I thought about Chet, and the
changes that he had brought to our lives.
I even thought about Sawyer.
Why was he even here? What had Dad said to him that made him come back?
Why had he agreed to come down to the beach house? Dad could have hired any
number of body guards and private security. Why Sawyer?
It occurred to me there were lots of questions left unanswered.
As much of an asshole as he was, and as obvious as it was that he wanted
to stay out of my life, I couldn’t help but still be drawn to him. I couldn’t
put my finger on it – or
wouldn’t
.
I was still afraid of him, and how angry he had been acting, but maybe he would
soften up. There had to be a reason he came… I wasn’t sure.
It didn’t make things any easier. I couldn’t understand how someone
could hate me as much as he did, and as I stared over that beautiful ocean
view, it killed me a little inside.
Chapter 10 – Sawyer
New Orleans, Three ½ Years Ago
Gary, somewhat unsurprisingly, turned out to be a greedy son of a bitch.
We were reaching maximum capacity on what the police could turn a blind eye
towards, and every weekend he was determined to make a few more bucks than the
last. When the intake weakened, he’d drop our prizes to compensate, or threaten
to downsize the teams.
It became clear that he was a loose cannon. He was going to milk this
side business dry and take us all with it. It was like Slippery Pete said:
Stubborn bastard. He stays the course, man.
No matter where those tracks go.
We all knew what was coming the night that he threw gambling into the
mix. His criminal associates, while still small fries in the seedy underbelly
of New Orleans, were dangerous on their own. They may have been smaller cogs in
the overall machine, but as men they were still tied to some very powerful
men…men who were otherwise untouchable.
And weaker links in the chain can be broken.
It was only by dumb fucking luck that Slippery Pete happened to have a
grudge against my opponent. He didn’t explain what had happened or why
this asshole
was the one guy in the
world who could piss him off by sheer virtue of
continued existence
, but it should have been me in the ring.
The fight started chaotic. Slippery Pete was a skilled Brazilian
Jiu-jitsu practitioner, having studied the art for a decade and a half –
showing how little Gary’s little street fighting enterprise had progressed
until I showed up. But sheer talent backed up his son’s years of hard work and
dedication. As I watched him weave and dance in the ring – now an
impromptu cage with the addition of a tall, thick wire-link fence –
I realized that I would have been caught completely off-guard if this guy had
ever faced me. That went
double
if I
had pissed him off anything like this other contender.
Just like the other fighters, I hung around on the other side of the
improvised cage, against the back entrance to the bar. While we were covered
with an overhang across the area, I felt an odd sense of claustrophobia.
Maybe it was our esteemed guests. While the usual throng of spectators
was here, there were a small handful of competing criminals. I had actually
worked for a few of them during my weeks of punishment, seeing their brutality
up close and personal.
Oddly, one of them wasn’t here.
The
Naysayer
, they called him. His absence left something in my stomach. I’d
spent one night on his bodyguard detail, and he was the shrewdest out of them
all. The tale went that he got his name from his habit of turning down most of
the work that came his way…he didn’t like to take risks, and if there was a
shadow of a doubt whatsoever, he said
no.
Hence the name.
In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. While the criminals set
their grudges aside and gambled against one another over the fights in a
completely disorganized mess (with such unregulated bids as
Team Red wins, Piledriver is knocked out
during the night,
and
Barber defeats
Slippery Pete
), I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was up.
Excusing myself from the other fighters, I slipped inside the bar to
take a piss. The place was locked up from the other side and empty, and that’s
why I heard the glass break and the door swing open.
I was just about to flush the toilet when the noises registered. Quietly
popping the
Employees Only
door open
from the other side, I could see a large group of officers fanning out from
across the door, flashlights held against their pistols.
Fuck
.
A major flaw in getting back outside was that there was no exit from the
backrooms. This left me with the realization that
someone
was about to check this door, and besides trying to hide in
one of these painfully open rooms, I’d have to slide back upstairs.
But I was heavy from my training, and the stairs were loud in the middle
of the night. Letting the door quietly rest against the frame, I backed up
slowly, considering my options.
It all happened at once.
The sudden burst of deafening activity from behind the walls told me
that the raid party had sprung upon their prey. Loud footsteps bounded into the
building – probably the other fighters – and I heard the police fly
into action. In the midst of the commotion I ducked into a side room and
quickly retrieved my wallet, then flew up the stairs as quickly and quietly as
possible, hoping against all fear that the sounds were drowned out by the
cacophony of commotion.
The door didn’t fly open immediately, but I was going to be above
everyone soon. I was unfamiliar with Gary’s living areas, and I needed an
escape. Fast.
The muffled sounds of authority figures called commands to the throng of
people, and a few gunshots were fired to keep everyone in line. I thought of
the layout of the nearby buildings, and how I might best use them to my
advantage. The alleyway beside the bar led around to the shelter behind, and
was clearly filled with police. However, on the other side…
I darted into what looked like Gary’s bedroom, lifted a window, and
poked my head out. There was a large sign, obstructing anyone from seeing me; I
could
probably
reach it, but whether
or not it would hold my weight…
Ducking back inside, I knew I looked conspicuous. Completely unclothed
besides a pair of shorts, I was going to stand out and attract the eyes of any
officers in a half-mile radius.
I knew I didn’t have much time. Quickly pulling the drawstring to his
tiny closet, I grabbed a hoodie, some jeans, and a belt. Ripping my shorts off
and throwing them into the back of the closet, I threw everything on over my
boxers and zipped the belt up as close as I could. There was a pair of sandals
here – I took those too, and then pulled the string back down…but not
before my eyes fell upon a small box in the room, with the lid slightly askew.
There was a paper bill, barely sticking from the top.
I quickly emptied the box: I couldn’t tell in the semi-dark how much it
was, and I stuffed everything into my jean pockets. Considering that I had only
ten bucks to my name, whatever my asshole proprietor had shoved in here was
probably enough to get out of the city.
Not like you’re gonna need it
anyway,
I thought to myself.
I could hear the door slam downstairs. I immediately flocked as silently
as possible to the window, shoving the sandals into the front pocket of the
pullover hoodie.
I need my skin for this,
I thought to myself.
The last thing I
want is these oversized things to fucking slip and send me falling to that
pavement.
I pulled myself out of the window and clung onto the sign, praying that
it was anchored enough to withstand balancing me. Climbing out and standing
with my feet on the sill, I held onto it, shrouded from the moonlight and
hidden from anyone coming into the alley. I slowly pulled myself to it,
realizing that I could improvise a shaky, death-defying climb with it.
I’m a street fighter, not a
fucking action hero,
I thought to myself. But the movement I could hear
from the stairs convinced me, at least for just a few minutes…
oh yes I am.
I climbed just out of view and froze, afraid of tipping anyone to my
location. The sounds of police officers raiding the bedroom came to my ears,
and I knew that the jig was up – someone was going to peer through the
one, obviously open window, then look up…
Miraculously…that didn’t happen. I heard the window
close
as some incompetent cop muttered about a draft.
You’ve got to be fucking
kidding me.
Once the sounds faded away from the bedroom, I quietly crawled up the
sign, hoping I wasn’t about to slice my hand on something and plummet to the
unforgiving concrete below.
The sign stretched up to a third story – what it was, I had no
idea, nor was I interested in stopping to find out. It affixed to the top of
the building, and I paused to gather my courage.
Swinging a hand free, I grasped the ledge. My other hand grappled to it,
and I almost lost my handhold. With my feet against the wall –
thank god I didn’t try this shit in shoes
–
I pulled myself up and onto the top of the building.
There wasn’t time for celebration. I had to get as far away from here as
possible, but I had the luxury of being able to
run
now. Ensuring my wallet was still on my person, I bolted across
the floor, ducking around the air conditioning units and the various metallic
pipes. The next few buildings were smacked up against this one, all with a
level enough floor, and I needed to break for it.
I crossed over four or five buildings before another alley crossed my
path. My eyes spotted a fire escape down the side of the building – I
slapped the sandals on, dropping to the floor. As I raced down the stairs and
around to the other side, I disengaged the fire escape ladder.
It had been my intention to catch it and lower it, but the thing dropped
with such severity that it was impossible. With a loud, echoing
succession of noises, it fulfilled its
role and gave me a ladder to the ground.
I didn’t have time to waste – if anyone with a badge
heard
that and was coming, it was all
over anyway. I practically slid down to the ground and raced to the edge of the
alley.
There were some cops in sight, but they were preoccupied with the raid
– none of them were facing my way. Pulling the hood over my head, I
casually strolled away from the scene, keeping near the buildings. Nobody
called after me; nobody tackled me from the dark.
An hour later, I arrived at the Greyhound station that had brought me to
New Orleans.
Hello, old friend,
I warmly
greeted the station as I approached a ticket kiosk. There was only one question
to answer… Where was I going to go? I stared at the list of destinations. A bus
was headed out to Los Angeles in the morning. I could find myself a quiet
corner of the station and wait… There was Seattle even later in the day, and a
few Midwest destinations where I could bore myself to death counting fields of
corn.
No… I was running now. Running from all the things I’d done. There would
be questions asked about the bust, and far as I knew, I was the only one who
got away. People tend to put two and two together, even if the answer isn’t
four. Half the criminal underworld was at that fight. They’d be looking for a
patsy. Somebody would be laying this one at my feet.
The next bus was leaving tonight, heading towards Pensacola. There was a
city I never thought I’d see again. I’d spent plenty of time there with the
family at my fathers Beach House, but that was years ago. Nobody would recognize
me. I could blend in… But there was another reason to go.
I knew someone there. Someone I could trust. Someone who could get me
back in the cage… Fighting was in my blood now, and no amount of fear or danger
was going to keep me from it.
I retrieved some of the wad of bills and bought the ticket.
Within fifteen minutes, I was on the bus and seated by myself. There
weren’t many people here – and most of them had paired off or formed
small groups between two rows – and I chose a row by myself in the
middle. Peering over my shoulder, I realized that nobody was paying much
attention to me, and I decided that it was time to count my resources.
I pulled the bills from my pocket, flattening them in my hands and
counting them out before sliding them into my wallet.
Over three thousand dollars,
I choked to
myself. I felt bad, but it would have ended up some corrupt cop’s Christmas
bonus if I hadn’t taken it. Now, at least it offered me a way out of here. As I
slid the wallet into my pocket, Slippery Pete entered my mind again, and I
reflected on him with remorse.
You saved me,
I thought to
myself.
You and your stupid grudge are
the only reason I even stood a chance of getting out of there.