Aggressive Addiction Ch. 03

The door swings open, making the chimes sing, and in walks Matt, standing up straight and walking like he rules the world. "Forgot my keys," he says Dana's way.

"Yes, honey, you did," Dana says. She reaches behind the counter, jingling them exaggeratedly. "You know, if you need that engine fixed, Warren still has that old shop by the school, Matthew." Matt nods.

"Thank you. I'll have to stop by," he says, doing everything he can not to look at me. But Dana smiles sadly at him, and reaches for his sunglasses, gently pulling them off his face. "Miss Dana—"

There's a fading bruise around his eye. The dark circle makes the intensity of his blue eye seem fake. I stay very still, staring straight forward and rustling my fingers through some keychains. He looks at me to see if I noticed, but I don't move.

Dana looks ready to sob. "Matthew... please. I—please stop by the house, talk to Warren. He can give you some work to do at the shop so you wouldn't have to keep—"

"Thank you," Matt says abruptly, taking his keys and leaving before Dana can say anything else. She just shakes her head.

"He was SUCH a bright boy. Such a good one, my god. I... gosh, between you and Matthew King, I worry enough for an ulcer."

--------

There's no note on the door that Tuesday. No truck.

I break in using a paperclip, but I'm pretty sure anything could be used to get into the gym by now. The doorknob is so old and beat up.

My bike ride over here consisted of me talking to myself, telling myself I was going to forget about him, that I wasn't going to worry about whether he was back into the illegal shit, even after what he said at the diner.

I punch the bag as hard as I can. Every time I think of his name, I see if I can knock it off the chain. Every time I think of his lips, or his eyes, or his touch, I blindly swing.

"You'll hurt yourself, you know," I hear from behind me. I take out an earbud and turn around. Chip gives me a smile. I've never been more relieved to see anyone, ever. "You don't drink enough water, Wes."

"Water doesn't do it like boxing does," I say, wiping sweat from my forehead.

Chip nods. "I thought you might be here." I shrug. "Matt couldn't make it, so he asked me to let ya in."

"How long have you known that asshole?" I ask, taking my gloves off and sitting on the ground.

"Matt King? Geezus, he had to be fifteen when he tried breakin' into Ol' Martin's store."

I nod. I remember Martin's store. Sold 'adult' magazines. The few kids I hung out with whenever I was feeling at least a little social would crowd the place, ogling over breasts and red lipstick and leather boots. I watched them, wondering if I'd ever feel the same about women.

"Figures," I sigh.

Chip continues, "Oh, I swung my hand at the back of his head so fast—he called me 'ol' fat fucker' and gave me a real piece of his mind. I sat and listened, then told him I'd be callin' the cops. Shut him right up. He was still afraid of 'em back then. Didn't see him for years before he tells me 'Alright, Chip. No surprise, but I just got out of the hospital, and I need a place to stay for one day. Can I sleep at the old gym?' I said yes, of course, cause that boy was batshit crazy."

That makes me look up from unravelling tape from my wrists. "Batshit crazy?"

"Oh yeah. Somethin' wrong in the head, there. I don't know all the millennial shit they call it—bipolar?—I knew it since the moment I saw the kid blow up in my face he wasn't all right. But goddamn, if he wasn't miserable, and goddamn if I couldn't see a lil' of Chip in that crazy brain of his."

God, I missed Chip.

"Did you get along with him well?"

"Well enough," I reply. Chip just laughs until he wheezes, and I bite my lip to keep from spilling it all. "You know, my job is going great."

"I knew it would," Chip says.

---------------

My whole body stays paralyzed, stuck to the sheets while I let tears seep from my eyes, along my temples, and into my ears. It was just a dream.

I'm in my apartment.

I'm not hunched over, nose bleeding and anticipating another kick from Arthur's black leather boot. I'm not desperately crawling away as he tosses the beer bottle to the ground, laughing as I sob and try to clean myself up.

I'm home.

I'm not trying to drown out his cursing because he's not here. I'm not slapping or scratching at the arm wound tightly around my neck as I struggle for even a gasp of air. He doesn't have his hand over my mouth, silencing me as he forces himself into me. He's not here. I'm in my own bed.

Outside, there are two fancy cars parked side-by-side, and I know it must be some rich people coming to check out the property. Mr. Brady has been fighting off these people for the past year. Almost every apartment is occupied in this building; on the first, second, and third floor, I know there are families of four or more crammed into these tiny spaces. Brady wouldn't let someone just buy out the building and force all of us to move. I wouldn't mind that much; then I'd have an excuse to get off my ass and find a decent place to live.

My tongue plays with the tear in my lip (where I bit myself while I dreamt), tasting the tinny blood for a while as I watch to see if anyone is going to claim the two cars. After a few minutes, I give up waiting and get ready for work.

When I walk toward my bike, two men and a woman walk out of the complex wearing suits. If there weren't so many people here, I'd probably encourage them buying out the place.

I finish the last of my code when I feel them looking at me. "Excuse me?" one of the men says. I turn around. "Do you live there?" he points.

"Yeah."

"How long have you lived there?"

I sigh. "Look, man, I gotta go to work."

"Just a couple minutes of your time," the guy insists. I finish unlocking my bike and turn to face them fully. The one talking to me has a dark beard, although closely shaved to his face. He's probably not attractive under the beard. "We're independent, and we want to know what residents think of the place. What is your name?"

"You want to buy it out," I say plainly. "I'm Wes. I've lived there going on a year."

The lady steps in front, and she takes off her sunglasses. "Yes, Wes. We are looking to buy but... people automatically think what we do is... wrong, yes?" She has an accent. French, maybe? I can never tell. "You think we are wrong? We are not like big-company. We are independent. We do not operate to please the government."

"I think what Jeanette is trying to say is, we aren't looking to scam anyone," Bearded Man says. I just shrug. "We want to improve this place, kick out a bunch of old, outdated policies, and make sure the people living there now can keep on living after we improve the building. A promise that they can stay there after improvements if they so choose."

I scoff, "You want to buy the building, revamp it, get a bunch of new, unnecessary stuff, and when you promise people can stay there, you mean paying quadruple what they're paying now. Those people paying 500 or 600 will need to pay 2000 plus. They'll be displaced."

The man kicks at his own shoe. "That's not what our plan is, Wes."

"Not the plan right now, of course. Plans change," I snap.

"Do you feel safe living there Wes?" Jeanette jumps in. I shrug again, annoyed. "You are young and smart—what is to stop people from terrorizing the building or kicking in your doors? That place is old and-and the security is nonexistent. I am sure if you lock yourself out, you can pick the lock and get back in, no trouble. We want to improve this area so nobody CAN break in and steal and kill, you understand?"

"Whole families live here," I say.

"Whole families who can easily get robbed because of the carelessness the current owners express," Bearded Man says. I just shake my head. "Can you at least admit that the building is not safe?"

The second man is eyeing me in a funny way, and I realize his hand is in his pocket, fidgeting. I think they're recording me.

"The 200 Slate apartments are affordable to families and there are not currently any major improvements to make," I say loudly. Then I hop on my bike, and ride away.

--------------

"They were recording you?" Jackie asks.

"I think so," I sigh. "I know the apartments are shit, but if those people buy it out, they could have people paying $2500 for them. A couple hundred people would have to leave."

"I'm more worried that they tried to record you without consent," Nicolas says. He offers me some crackers, but I turn them down. "Did you get any names?"

"Jeanette, some French lady. She had an accent. They seemed really fuckin' shady, you guys. They came on really strong. I feel like I need to start looking for other places to live." I rub at my eyes and sigh in annoyance when my line blinks. "Tech support, this is Wes, how may I help you?" I know I say it too fast; Jackie always tells me I talk to fast over the phone.

"Huh? Yeah I uh—hold on a sec," the customer grunts. "I've done everything to get this damn computer started and I swear to God if I can't get this thing to work—"

I recognize the voice. I'm sure of it.

"Y-yes sir. I'm here to help. Could you look on the back of the model and tell me the product number?" I say quietly. Jackie looks at me funny, but I try to keep calm.

I don't hear the numbers the first time he reads them off, and when I have to ask him to repeat them, I shake as I type them into the system. "And can you please verify your account, sir?"

"Arthur Kinley. Password: 64AKinley_19."

I can barely type the password in without thinking I'm going to puke. "And about when did you start experiencing problems with the device, sir?" There's a pause on the other line, and I try not to breathe too loud in the empty space. "Sir?" Still no reply, but I can hear the creak of something like a chair, or a floorboard. "Are you still there?"

"Who am I speaking to?" he asks, his voice quieter.

"M-me?" I ask. "My name is Travis." Jackie and Nicolas stare me down, but I look away.

"Hmm. I'm on with tech support?" Arthur asks.

"Yes sir, can you please describe exactly the issues you're having with your desktop and when the issues began?" I ask, panicking inside. His tone—it sounded like he may have noticed my voice, too. Why would he act like that if he didn't recognize me?

I end up suffering through the call, and then completely redirecting Arthur, because his warranty is up.

After I'm off the line, Jackie and Nicolas have questions I don't want to answer.

----------

It's been two weeks, officially, since Matt decided to ditch me. I've had compulsive thoughts since Arthur's call yesterday, and although my brain wants me to believe he's stalking me, I go out anyway, swinging into the open air while practicing my footwork. Maybe I'll ask Chip for a key to the gym so I don't have to break in. I also wouldn't want Chip to come out in his condition, and it sure seems like Matt doesn't want anything to do with me.

I ride my bike slow tonight, appreciating the semi-cool air without rain for once. I wonder when it's the quietest here. One in the morning isn't it. Is there ever a time when less than ten cars are on the road? Is there a place anywhere like that?

I don't even shower before flopping onto my bed.

-----------

My phone reads 2:27 a.m. when I wake to the sound of a bang.

My lamp has fallen before, hitting the wall and waking me up. I joked to myself at the time that it was a ghost, and that I wasn't completely alone. I flip on the light and head to the living room to see the damage, but nothing is out of the ordinary. The lamp is in place, standing by itself. I look around to see if anything else could've fallen when I hear another bang.

Gunshot.

My mind instantly goes into panic mode. The first and only time I heard a gunshot was when I was sleeping outside by a motel I knew to be full of drugs and gangs. I replayed that sound in my head a million times, absolutely terrifying myself. I'd been stood up with a knife, and one time, a guy had a gun in his belt, but even seeing the pistol there did not compare to actually hearing the bullet shoot through the barrel.

I hear a scream and feel the lump in my throat. Whatever's going on is happening close to the building and I immediately run to the door, locking it all while panting loudly. My phone is only at 17%, and I didn't bother finding my charger last night. I call the police anyway, frantically letting them know where I am and what I hear when another gunshot goes off, seemingly louder than the other two. I look out the window; there are people running from my building. Oh god, this is happening in the building. Whoever is shooting has to be IN the building or at least in the parking lot. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

"Okay, Wes, we're going to need you to stay calm and stay in the building, lock the doors—"

I hang up on the cops and pace around, thinking of what to do. God, what's going on? Who would be shooting around the building at 2:30am? I put on a sweater and pants and I'm looking for my shoes when I hear knocking on the door, which makes me jump and tears instantly well up. No, no, no, no—

"WES!" I hear from the other side, and then the faint sound of sirens. "Wes! It-it's Maggie! Wes!" I check outside the peephole and immediately open the door, dragging her inside. "Oh my god what's going on who is shooting? Is it a robbery?" Maggie is sobbing, dressed head-to-toe in a bonnet and nighgown with her hairless cat in her arms.

"I-I don't know!" I respond.

"It sounds like it's in the fucking building, oh my god," Maggie cries. "I called the cops—"

Another gunshot, and Maggie and I scream. "Are they IN the building? I think they're inside! Oh fuck, oh FUCK, I-I can't die, Wes," Maggie says through her sobs and hiccups. I grab her arm and drag her to the bedroom. "What? What are you—"

"Go. You go down the ladder," I order. Maggie looks at me like I'm crazy. "I saw people running from the building which means someone has to be inside. I mean it, I don't know what else we can do but it's so easy to just kick doors down in the building. Maybe Jeanette and Beard Guy were right. It's not safe living here. Two days after I'm rude to them about buying the building, this happens. I clamp my hand over my mouth and sob aloud.

"Go, Maggie! Leave that fucking cat and go before you get shot in the face." She just stares at me, frozen. "I'll put it in my backpack—" I hear the unmistakable rumble of the elevator, which only means people are using it to get out, or whoever is shooting is deciding to make their way upstairs. Either way, we need to leave. I rip the cat from Maggie's hands and shove her toward the window, and she sobs as she looks outside. I don't wait for her to leave, but I roam around, looking to pack up a few items I'd need overnight if I have to stay in a hotel.

When I come back to my room, I put the cat in the backpack and zip it up, leaving a hole so it can breathe. Maggie is almost at the bottom, but she's hyperventilating so loud, I can hear her from up here.

I wait for her to touch the ground, and she looks up at me right when I hear another gunshot. She screams, and that's my cue to start climbing down with my backpack on. "Go!" I yell, and Maggie nods, running to her car. There are five cop cars around the building, and there's a huge crowd building up. How long has it even been?

I'm at the fourth floor when I see Maggie's car drive away, and I'm not the only one leaving my apartment by ladder. I feel a rusty piece of metal dig into my hand, but I'm so adrenaline pressed, I don't even flinch. Out of nowhere, there's multiple shots fired, and I start going faster, ignoring the palm that's smearing blood along the rungs of the ladder.

When I hit the ground, I roll my ankle, but I push that to the back of my mind while I run toward my bike. At the sight of police running into the building, I decide to ditch my bike and start running. I run for blocks and blocks, not caring that I look suspect as hell. I only remember Maggie's fucking cat is in my backpack when I have to stop abruptly to avoid getting hit by a truck.

Not any truck.

"Wes!" I hear. Matt is literally stopped in the middle of the road, panic on his face. What is he doing? "Get in! Get in!"

I don't hesitate, ignoring the many honking cars around and hopping in the front seat, setting the backpack on my lap. "What are you doing?!" I ask frantically.

"I heard on the radio about what was going on around your apartment and shit—I was scared and I was coming to get you." Before I can reply, Matt is on it. "I'm fuckin' sorry for the last two weeks, being a huge flake and shit—"

"You're cussing SO much, Daddy," I hear from the backseat. I whip my head around. A little girl plays with the ears of a stuffed animal while she frowns, shaking her head. Oh. My. God.

"Wes—"

I stare straight ahead. He has a child. He has a DAUGHTER.

"I can explain, Wes," he says calmly, obviously not wanting to upset her. "Let me explain everything from the beginning okay? I-I was on my way to pick you up, and—"

"Stop the car," I say quietly. Matt just keeps driving. "Matthew King if you don't stop this fucking car..." Matt swerves into a parking lot where there seems to be nobody, and as soon as he stops, I get out, stomping away. I hear the car door slam behind me, and Matt calls after me, but I don't care. He is a father. He has a kid.

When I realize I have no idea where we are, I stop walking and turn to face him. He's standing there, looking as guilty as I've ever seen a man, and he buries his hands in his hair. "I don't know what you want me to do, Wes. I-I fuckin' got so scared I took her with me to get you. I... didn't forget about you. It's just been really hard—"

"Are you married?" I ask. Matt shakes his head 'no'. "Do you have a girlfriend?" I ask. Matt clenches his jaw and nods 'yes'. "Fuck you. Oh FUCK you, Matt." I feel the tears in the back of my eyes and curse again at how emotional I'm getting. He's not mine.

"Please come with me and I'll tell you anything you ever want to know just... please come with me, Wes. You can't go back to your apartment and I..." Matt approaches me quickly and grabs my hands, "I care too much about you to not explain what this is and why it went to shit the past couple weeks. I'm sorry."

"Stop touching me. Your daughter might see us," I snap.

The ride to Matt's house is quiet, save for his daughter's low singing in the backseat and the occasional mewling of 'Felicia' from inside my backpack. I let the ugly thing peek its head out, and it seems to enjoy sightseeing all the lights. Before long, we pull up to a small house. Gray and blue, it seems. No driveway. There's a trike outside, and a few yard toys. Matt asks me to stay in the car as he takes the little girl inside by the hand. So many things have happened tonight, I could lay down, eyes open, for hours, being numb.

Speaking of numb, I've clenched my fist so tight since I got off the ladder, I haven't noticed the pain until now. In the dim light, I can see that it isn't too deep, just long across my palm. Damn it.

In a few minutes, Matt returns to the truck on my side. "Is that a cat?" he asks through the open window. I ignore him. "Come inside."

God, I know it's stupid, but I follow him inside, all the way to the sink, where we wordlessly tag-team the cut on my hand and watch to make sure the roaming hairless cat doesn't do anything stupid. We remain quiet as he gets two beers from his fridge, handing me one. "Are you alright?" he asks quietly.

"Someone just shot up my building so... no..." I reply. Matt nods and takes a sip of his beer. "How old is she?" I ask.

"Four," Matt says.

"She looks like you."

"She's not mine," Matt says. I turn away from him with an eyeroll.