St. Nacho's (19 page)

“Come here, Jordie,” I said, taking him into my arms. He was so completely distraught he came willingly, allowing me to touch him. I pulled him to me and rocked him like a child, like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. I held him until he was spent and boneless. He removed his sweaty shirt, tossing it onto the floor; I could see fresh stripe marks on his back, probably from a belt, over the old ones he’d gotten before.

“Jordie?” I asked, rubbing light circles on the skin that wasn’t damaged.

“Hm?” He arched under my touch, craving it, like a cat.

“Where are you getting these marks?”

He stiffened and turned his face away. “A club,” he said.

“What club? Here in River Falls?”

“In the cities,” Jordan said, referring to the Twin Cities, before turning to face me.

“Look, it doesn’t matter where I get the marks, does it? They help me.”

“Help you how, Jordie?” I asked him. “I’m not going to judge you, just tell me, all right?

How does hurting yourself…letting others hurt you…help?”

“Sometimes I need the pain, Coop. It takes me out of myself to a place where things are okay for a while. It’s like I can pay back, for what I’ve taken.”

“Jordie,” I said. “All the pain in the world isn’t going to --” He slapped his hand over my mouth. “Don’t say it. Don’t you say it!” He gave me a look and then his whole face crumpled, like it was burning…melting before me. “You don’t have to like it. It helps me.” He began to cry and I put my arms around him again.

“Shh, Jordie,” I said.

“Nothing’s the way I thought it would be, Cooper,” he cried. “Nothing.”

“I know,” I said, wiping spit and snot off his face with my shirt. “Come on, you’re making yourself sick.”

His hands reached out, and the way he touched me changed from clutching and needy to rank desperation. He pushed me over onto my face, and I fought him hard. We scrabbled and strained. He grabbed my wrists so hard I knew they’d bruise. He put all his effort into making me submit, and I fought just as hard to get him off me. I won, but he had a new black eye and a split lip for his trouble. I had plenty to show for mine, including what was likely to turn into a whopping bruise on my right cheekbone where he’d backhanded me. He went to the bedroom and slammed the door. Later, in the bathroom, I looked at my face in the mirror. All my adult life I’d come to expect little more than I’d almost just gotten. Yet 106

Z. A. Maxfield

now…now I found I needed more. Wanted more. Deserved more. It didn’t make sense to demand it from Jordan, who couldn’t give it, and it didn’t make sense to stay with him and live without it.

I went to sleep feeling as if something inside me had snapped in the night, broken free, and was causing my equilibrium to shift and sway, like something heavy in the hold of a ship that hasn’t been lashed down or secured, and is doing unimaginable damage without the crew being aware of it. That was how I felt that night, and the next morning, Jordan was gone.

St. Nacho’s

107

Chapter Sixteen

I was skimming stock when Shawn arrived at work. He took one look at me and dragged me into the employee bathroom before closing and locking the door. For someone who was always such an emotionally still person, he radiated angry energy.

“What happened?” he asked. He took my shoulders and pulled me under the light, then gently framed my face with his hands and looked at the bruise on my cheek. It was unmistakable. “Did Jordan do this?”

I nodded, holding my scuffed-up hands in fists to show that I’d given as good as I’d gotten. He wasn’t amused. He took my hands and pulled the sleeves above my wrists to look at the bruises there. “Shit.” He took out his phone and waited. It was a habit that right then, for some reason, I resented. Like he was waiting for me to explain myself. I know that wasn’t his intention, but it irritated me all the same.

I took my phone out of my pocket and went through the motions. It’s not as bad as you think, I texted.

“Yes. It is. Rational people don’t do this.” He still held himself quietly, even if he was angry, and his implacable condemnation pissed me off.

You weren’t there, I typed and sent.

“I didn’t have to be there to know that this” -- he turned my face to the mirror -- “is wrong.”

I felt the fight and the excuses leave me. I must have sort of deflated then, because he looked at me with compassion. “I know.” I nodded. I put my phone back into my pocket. I had nothing further to say.

He ran a finger over my ears, nudging at my piercings, and down the tattoo on my neck. “You’re like one of those prickly” -- he poked my barbell -- “little hedgehogs.” He put his arms around me.

108

Z. A. Maxfield

“Excuse me?” I asked into his shoulder, but he didn’t hear me or care what I’d said. I wasn’t feeling the love. In the past twelve hours I’d been called a mom and a hedgehog. I pushed him away.

He was shaking his head. “I know you’re tough, Cooper. But there’s more to you than that.” He put his index finger on the tip of my nose and then flicked my forehead hard, just like he had when we’d met. “Don’t let him hit you again, or I’ll be tempted to hit you myself.” He said this lightly but I felt the steel inside the words.

“I won’t.” I shook my head even as I rubbed it.

He put his arms around me again and this time I just let him hold me. “Come home with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re not ready?”

“No. I’m not.” Still shaking my head. I had to learn sign language.

“You haven’t given up, even after this?” His brow furrowed and he let me see his disappointment. “Even after he hit you?” He started to walk to the door, but I caught him back.

“Please don’t give up on me either,” I said, knowing he couldn’t understand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged.

He gave me a rough hug, said, “Prickly,” and left me to stare at myself in the mirror.

* * * * *

Stan came to Mama’s while I was playing for the early dinner crowd. He stood in the waiting area and sent me a message via the hostess that he’d like to speak to me. I went to him, bracing myself. I expected him to go on the offensive on Jordie’s behalf after the fight we’d had. I approached him and he led me outside where we could speak privately.

He chose not to comment on the bruise on my face. “Have you seen Jordan?” he asked.

“No,” I told him. “Not since last night.

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the aging brick wall on the side of the building next to the case that contained a copy of the menu. “He was supposed to meet me earlier today and he didn’t show up. I’ve been calling his cell. It goes straight to voice mail. I take it you had a fight.”

“Yes.”

“Did he take off last night?” His brows met in a V over his nose. I knew he was concerned about Jordie, but at the time I felt he was part of the problem.

“I don’t know. I think he slept at home and took off in the morning. He must have left after I went to sleep; that was about three in the morning. He had some trouble,” I said, and St. Nacho’s

109

told him briefly about the confrontation at Grounds. “He should never have come back here.”

“Why did you come back?” Stan asked.

“I came back for Jordie,” I said. “Otherwise?” I shrugged. I still had my violin and bow in my hand; their weight felt familiar. I was surprised by how much I wanted to lift them to my shoulder and drown him out whenever he started talking.

“Do you care nothing for him?”

I snapped at him, “You’re kidding, right? Look.” I had him hold my bow while I fished in my pocket for my keys. “Here are the keys to our apartment. Go and check that he’s not there sleeping or something.” I didn’t want to say passed out, but it’s what we were both worried about. “Check the answering machine too, if you want. Then go to Hallowed Grounds. Tell my sister Jordie is missing and ask her if she can find out anything from Officer Leviton. We can start by eliminating trouble with the law or an accident. I’m pretty sure she has Bill’s cell phone number, or he might be there. I’ll be there as soon as I can finish up here.”

Stan looked at me with troubled eyes, shook his head, and left. Good thing I wasn’t trying to win any friends there. He was convinced that I didn’t love Jordie. At least I wasn’t using Jordie to build my own personal monument to the Lord. I reentered Mama’s and told Jefferson that I’d have to cut the music short. He was nice about it and let me go.

I walked to Hallowed Grounds deep in thought. I knew what we all feared, what none of us were saying, but tried to have more faith in Jordan than that. I looked at the sky because it smelled like rain. Sure enough, fast moving clouds were building and that yellow kind of darkness hung in the air. If I had to say I’d missed one thing when I lived in California, it was this weather. Big thunderhead clouds that loom like mountains on the horizon, the way light changes and affects the very color of the sky, how a major electrical storm feels before it comes, and how it crackles through a person’s hair like ghosts.

When I got to Grounds, my sister and her patrons were bringing the tables in from the sidewalk and closing the big double doors. Wind was starting to whip Julie’s hair around, and more than one girl had to hold down the hem of a summer dress.

Shawn was there, and when he saw me his face did that happy thing, his smile the one I liked to think of as mine. He came to me and kissed me, establishing that privilege here in Grounds, it seemed, whether I liked it or not. I did. Julie came around the counter and gave me a hug. I looked up to see Stan, who had a grim expression on his face. We sat down at one of the larger tables, and the barista brought us all coffee.

“I called Bill,” Julie said. “He told me he’d have to do some checking around, but that he hadn’t heard anything about Jordan on the River Falls police radio.”

“Well, that’s good news anyway,” said Stan.

“I think he went to the cities,” I said. “He was agitated and he would have gone there.” 110

Z. A. Maxfield

“Why?” Stan asked.

My phone vibrated. When I looked, the text showed a ? from Shawn. I finger spelled

“Jordan” and “gone” in ASL. To his credit, he looked concerned. I’m not sure in his place what I would have felt.

“Why would Jordan go to the cities?” asked Julie.

I hesitated. I looked at Stan, wondering how much he knew. He looked as in the dark as Julie did. “It’s possible that he went to a BDSM club. I don’t know the name of it or anything. Bill is probably in touch with people who are more knowledgeable. I know that when Jordan is upset he often goes looking for --”

“Preposterous,” Stan said.

“And you would know…because?” I asked.

“He’s not frequenting places like that. I would know. He confides in me.”

“Are you beating him with a belt?” I asked him. “With whips?”

“Of course not!” Stan leaned back in his chair as if I’d struck him. “Of course not, what nonsense.”

“Well, someone is. And he told me that he goes to a club in the cities.” Stan had nothing to say to that.

Shawn was sitting back, looking interested. Out of every hundred or so words we said, I’d bet he caught ten, and still he sat there politely. It occurred to me that he was a very patient man. I took out the phone he gave me and looked through my contacts. I highlighted Mary Lynn’s number and left her a voice mail, asking if she’d come to Grounds when she got off work. I eyed the outside again through the doors. So far it wasn’t raining. I thought maybe she could stop by and fill Shawn in before she went home. In the meantime, I tried to text some of what we were discussing to his phone.

BDSM? he sent me back, after I explained that I thought Bill should call any contacts he had in the cities, too. Why?

Jordan finds it helps, sometimes, I typed. That hardly touched the surface of why Jordan might feel some relief when he allowed others to harm him. His misuse of pain play was hard to explain. With stress.

Shawn gave me an indecipherable look and shrugged. We all sat there in silence, drinking coffee. Shawn was the only one who seemed comfortable with that. I scooted my chair over and took his hand. He smiled at me.

Julie’s phone rang and we jumped, but it wasn’t anything to do with Jordan. As the evening wore on, we all began to avoid eye contact with Stan, who was calling Jordan and leaving messages at fifteen-minute intervals. Twice, he took off to check my apartment. I let him. I didn’t think Jordan would come home if he wasn’t taking our calls, but if it made Stan feel better to check, I didn’t mind.

St. Nacho’s

111

Mary Lynn came into Grounds just ahead of the first fat droplets of rain on the sidewalk.

“Hi,” she said, giving me a kiss and then leaning over to do the same to Shawn. She greeted Julie and Stan warmly. “I got your message, what’s up?”

“Jordie’s gone missing,” I said. “We’re all here waiting to hear from Bill, who’s using his contacts to see if Jordie’s been hurt, or…or gotten into trouble. I called you because of Shawn. He just has to sit there, for the most part, watching us talk. It made me feel…”

“I see,” she said, and then signed what I’d just said, I guessed, for Shawn. Shawn looked at me and smiled.

“I can’t help you very much,” he signed, and said. “Even if you tell me what’s going on.”

“I know,” I said, finding that having Mary Lynn as a translator made talking to Shawn almost too easy. “I just… Thank you for being here.” I signed “thank you,” at least. Shawn put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

Bill came in with a bright yellow slicker covering his uniform. “Okay,” he said, hanging the coat up on a hook by the door and shaking water off his wet hair. He got a squeal from a couple of high school girls he caught with the droplets.

“Sorry.” He grinned sheepishly. “So far no one has any information, and it has to be unofficial for two reasons: One, enough time hasn’t gone by to file a missing persons report, and two, we don’t want to get him in trouble if he isn’t making trouble. It’s his perfect right to take off for a day if he needs to.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t,” said Stan. “Not without telling me.” Julie turned to him. “It’s apparent to me that you don’t know him as well as you think.”