Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 04 - Strings of Glass (4 page)

I
stepped back and he smiled. I felt that my cheeks were flushed red. Without
another word Mulberry turned and walked up the path toward the main house. My
heart thumped in my chest. I turned toward our hut and Dan was standing there,
a murderous look on his face.

I
walked
up the path towards him, guilt heavy on my shoulders.

“You
want to go get some dinner?” I asked Dan.

He was
chewing on his lip. “What was that?” he asked, gesturing toward where
Mulberry and I just stood.

“What?”
I said, walking by him headed up to our cabana. Blue
followed me, pushing his head into my hand.

“What?
Really?” He followed me. “Are
you kidding?”

“We’re
old friends,” I said, not turning to look at him.

“That’s
not how I say goodbye to my friends.”

I
climbed the few steps onto our veranda and pushed through the door. Blue ran to
his bed and picked up a bone Monica had brought him from the market. He pranced
over to me displaying his prize.

“Come
on,
Dan, there is nothing between me and Mulberry, we’ve just been through a lot
together,” I said, hoping that was the truth but suddenly unsure.

“That
didn’t look like nothing,” Dan said, his voice a low rumble. “That
looked like he kissed you.”

“Hardly,”
I said,
pulling my dress over my head.

“Then
how come your cheeks are red? You think I can’t tell
what’s going on with you?”

I sighed
as I pulled jeans out of my dresser. “Come on, let’s just go get some
dinner, OK?”

“No,
it’s not OK!”

I turned
to look at him, a tank top in my hand, my jeans
unbuttoned. “You’re acting a little out of control,” I said.

Dan
stepped up to me. “I don’t ask much of you Sydney, do I?”

“What?”

“Have
I asked much of you, anything at all really?”

“No,”
I said.

He was
standing right in front of me, using his size to try to intimidate me. Dan must
be really mad, I thought, because he was making mistakes.

 
“All I want is for you to just fuck one guy at a
time.”

I looked
up into his grape-green eyes, they were narrow
slits staring down at me. I almost punched him, the anger in my chest balled my
fists, but even through his jealousy and rage I could see hurt in his eyes.
That kiss hurt him. I didn’t need to hit him to hurt him. I’d already done it.

“You
don’t ask for anything because I never offered anything,” I said quietly,
my voice the texture of cool stone. “You want to be with me,
get used to getting hurt. That’s what you get with me. Pain.”

I
shrugged into my tank top and grabbing my leather
jacket from the closet, started toward the door. Blue
followed me, falling into line with my hip, sensing my mood.

“Sydney,
wait,” Dan said, following me out into the
night.

I kept
walking steadily toward our bike. I needed the speed, the freedom, I needed to
get the fuck away from this mess.

He
grabbed for my hand and I whirled around on him. Blue let out a growl of
warning. “I’m not some girl, some prize, some whatever. You don’t own me.
I’m not a bitch,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I’m
sorry.”

“Yeah,
me too,” I said, turning away. He let me walk to the bike alone. Blue
barked at me when I climbed aboard. “Stay here,
boy,” I said. “I’ll be home later.” Grabbing the handles I
kicked at the crank once, twice, and the third
time she roared to life. I revved the engine feeling the power of the machine
between my legs, then letting go of the clutch sped out onto the road.

#

T
he
night enveloped me, splintered by florescent tube lights angled on poles that
lit up the green foliage like a movie shoot. The whoosh of wind in my ears
blocked out all other sounds except for the rumble of the Bullet’s
engine and the crunch of her tires on the rough road. I steered through the
village. My headlights caught the reflective green eyes of a stray dog picking
through garbage on the side of the road. A cow meandered out of the darkness
causing me to swerve around it, my heart in my throat. I slowed down, easing
back on the gas. A tightness in my chest rushed me forward though. I didn’t know
where I was going but I knew I wanted to get there fast.

Through
the rural village out into the open space of the fields, I rode past neatly
lined crops lit by a big moon that hung like a gaping smile in the dark sky. A
fire blazed on the side of the road and I flew through its smoke breathing in
the acrid scent of burning plastic. Three men watched me pass, their only
movement the swivel of their heads as I flew by.

I hit
the highway picking up speed, maneuvering around trucks, tall and off-
balance looking. “Please” “Horn” “OK” written
across their wide rears encouraging other drivers to announce their presence
with a toot. Which they did in a constant chorus, like the croaking of frogs on
a summer night. Two men on a scooter, both chatting on their cell phones,
smiled at me as we sped by each other, only inches separating our bikes. A taxi
with only one headlight blinded me, swerving into my lane around a truck
holding cases filled with live chickens that squawked their fright into the
night. I honked my horn, skidding around the cab, its driver, hunched, old, and
unworried.

The town
of Mopsa slowed me down, congestion clogging its tiny roads, unprepared for the
mighty nation they now supported. Giant buses idled in a row blocking traffic.
The drivers yelled, waving their arms, and
shaking their heads at each other and the customers who lined up to board. Thin
men, languid in their movements, walked in groups, their arms slung around each
other. Women, wearing the colors of tropical birds, their heads down, slipped
through the congestion. I pushed through, easing my way between the tight
spaces that the city left me. Fitting myself in.

One last
traffic circle and I made it back onto the open road, hurtling toward the sea.
The scent of the Arabian Sea filled my nostrils before I realized where I’d
driven myself. A deserted beach Dan and I liked to go to. Just one bar, a few
old and rusty sun beds. I stopped the Bullet, cut the engine, and listened to
the thundering of the waves against the shore.

Pulling
the Bullet onto her kickstand I walked toward the beach, slipping off my shoes
and letting my toes feel the cool sand between them. A grove of palm
trees
skirted the beach. I sat next to one, leaning my back against its solid trunk.
The wind whistled through the palms above my head. Not far a coconut fell to
the ground with a solid, dangerous thunk.

I stared
out at the sea, brown and rough, with white foam spilling off the top of each
wave as it crashed into a frothy mess, rushing up the sand then back again,
comforting in its violence and consistency. I thought about the gentle caress
of Mulberry’s lips and reached up to touch my own, wondering what I felt. I’d
never experienced that between us before. Comfort, camaraderie, friendship,
yes, all those things but never electricity. With Dan, I felt sizzling between
us from the moment we met. I’d thought he understood me, what I was capable of
giving. But it was my fault really, I forgot to keep him at arm’s length;
I let him feel safe with me, like I was a person you could love and live with.

Mulberry
knew that wasn’t true. He knew me and how dangerous I was. Maybe I’d
underestimated how dangerous he might be to me.

Voices
distracted me from my thoughts.

M
en’s
voices floated through the trees;
laughter that sounded mean, I thought. Then I heard the muffled cries of a
woman. The hairs on the back of my neck spiked. A scream ripped through the air
and I jumped up. Slipping back into my shoes I moved toward the sounds - men
laughing, a woman crying.

At the
end of the grove of trees the beach opened up. Inland was a garbage-
strewn parking lot used during the day by beach-goers.
The sounds were coming from there. I peeked around a tree and saw a van and
several scooters. The headlights of the van backlit a group of maybe six or
seven guys. A figure broke free and stumbled toward the sea.

The men
laughed and one ran after her. Hidden in the trees I held my breath. Their
laughter sounded like the cackles of a pack of hyenas feasting on carrion.

The
woman struggled through the sand, her body jerking violently as she ran
desperately away. Long black hair flowed out behind her, a thigh-length
kurta hung in tatters off her shoulders, one breast exposed, swinging in the
moonlight. When the man, young, slight and gangly, caught her she fell forward
onto her hands and knees. He kicked her and as she flew onto her back I saw her
bare ass.

I licked
my lips. Looking again at the group that laughed and cheered,
I pulled my lead pipe out of the folds of my jacket. I had surprise on my side
but I had a feeling those jackasses would be on me quick. The woman was a
fighter,
though. She was pushing herself through the sand away from the man as he
unbuttoned his pants. I waited until he grabbed her and was down on his knees,
trying to control the woman who was sobbing and fighting him off with all her
strength before sprinting out onto the beach.

The men
up the hill stopped laughing as I crossed into their view. Raising the pipe
behind me I brought it up sure and quick onto the kid’s chin, following through
so that his blood sprayed in an arc out into the night. Not even waiting for
his body to hit the sand I turned to the woman laying prone on the ground.

I
offered her my hand. “We need to go now,” I said. She blinked up at
me, sand stuck in her eyelashes. Sobs still racked her body, her face wet with
tears and swollen from a beating. “Now!” I yelled,
seeing the movement of men up the hill. She jumped into action then, grabbing
my hand and leaping to her feet. I pulled her behind me sprinting back into the
trees as the men closed the distance between us.

She
struggled to keep up with me but I yanked her forward until we reached a small
cement shed in the thick of the trees. I pulled her to the far side and rested
against the wall, my breathing even.

“Stay
here,” I said. She grabbed the sleeve of my coat.

“Please,”
she said, struggling for breath. “Don’t leave me.” Her eyes were
black and huge. Her accent British.

“Stay,”
I said,
slipping back into the trees. There was garbage all over the place. The men
stomped through it, crackling on plastic water bottles, and tinging on cans.
They were walking around like they were not vulnerable; like
they were the lions. Ha!

Crouching
I ran back toward the beach. One of the men, fat and disgusting, his belly
hanging exposed under his too-short shirt yelled
something and another man answered laughing. He was about twenty
feet into the trees and alone, didn’t even have a flashlight. What was his
plan, beat me to death with his dick?

I
circled around my would-be attacker and then leapt
lightly onto his back bringing my pipe across his neck and squeezing. The man
smelled like rotten meat and sweat. He brought his chubby hands up and tried to
pry the pipe from his throat but quickly dropped to his knees, then onto his
face. When his breathing stopped so did the pressure on my pipe. I slid back
behind a big tree trunk waiting for the other man they’d sent after us.

He
called out once, twice, and by the third time,
he’d found his friend laying lifeless. Before the yell of warning could leave
his lips I brought the lead pipe hard behind his knees. He grunted as much in
surprise as pain and I stepped forward bringing the pipe across the back of his
head. He fell onto the dead man and I ran back to the woman.

She was
huddled against the wall, her torn kurta slit up to expose her bare hips.

“Here,
take my pants.” I unbuttoned and pulled them down, glad that I wore boy
shorts rather than bikinis underneath. I pulled them over my worn low-top
Converse
sneakers and pushed them at the woman.

She took
them with a trembling hand. “Thank you.”

“Come
on, we need to keep moving. I only got two.”

She
stepped into the jeans, gingerly pulling them up over her hips. I held my hand
out and she took it. I led her quickly back toward my bike. The road continued
down to a tourist town. I hoped that we could ride away without them noticing.

But
before we even reached the Bullet I heard the whine of the van’s engine and the
buzzing of several scooters cutting through the night. I climbed onto the
motorcycle and she got on behind me. She wrapped her arms around my waist and
clasped her fingers.

I
cranked it once, twice, three times, but
the Bullet stayed silent. Shit! The van rolled down the road, its high beams
reflecting off the beat up chrome of the Bullet and
making the night around us seem that much darker. “Come on,
baby!” I yelled, jumping onto the crank
hard. A putter. “Now!” I jumped again, shaking
the bike, willing the damned engine to start.

A
scooter shot out past the van and I made eye contact with the man riding it
right as the Bullet backfired with a loud bang and a puff of black smoke. I
took a deep breath and stomped on the crank one more time. The engine came
alive, vibrating the bike. She was ready to ride.

I peeled
out spraying rocks. The ting of them hitting the scooter told me how close they
were. I lowered over my handles; the woman clung to me,
pressing her face against my back. The road sloped down sharply and I took it
at full speed. My headlight caught a rut in the road just in time for me to
choose a bank. The Bullet was faster than the
scooter and checking my mirrors I saw that I’d gained some distance but there
were three scooters and a van following us.

The road
turned to pavement and quickly the town surrounded us. Tourists,
sunburned and dreadlocked, meandered along the side of the
road. They looked frozen in space as I raced by them. The main road was too
congested and I knew they’d be on us in seconds. Taking a chance I turned into
one of the narrow alleys lined with shops. Merchants selling sarongs, elephant-
patterned bedspreads, and long-strapped bags dotted with
mirrors jumped out of my way as I barreled down the alley.

I felt
the woman look behind us. “We lost the van,” she said.

I turned
again and the woman yelled, “No, it’s a dead
end. Go back!” I didn’t hesitate, braking hard and reversing at full
speed. When I backed out a scooter was right there. I turned hard and
accelerated away but he pulled up alongside us, reaching
out for the woman on the back of my bike.

I
steadied myself and then concentrating hard, kicked
out with my left leg hitting the front of his bike. He disappeared, the back
tire was by our heads, and then we raced ahead as the scooter tipped over, sliding
behind us on a bed of sparks. We sped out of the town and into the fields. 

Two
scooters pursued us, one with two guys on it.  I took off down a dirt ridge
that ran along a culvert which brought water
out of the town. The stench of sewage was ripe as we roared through the open
space. When we reached the river the woman said, “That
way, towards the highway.” I turned the bike at the top of the hill, my
bare leg glowing in their headlights. On my thigh the thick ridge of a scar
from the last time I got shot stood out puckered and pink.

I wanted
to send the three guys into the sewage that sulked by but there was no way… unless
I got off the bike and faced these ignorant fucks right there. I revved the
engine watching their approach.

“What
are you doing? We need to go!” the woman
said,
squeezing me around the belly.

“Do
they have guns?” I asked.

“Yes!”
she squealed. “Come on.” She pushed me. “What are you
doing?”

I revved
the engine and this time let it catch, sending us shooting along the dirt road
past
the neatly lined crops. I sped up headed for the tree line, my engine roaring.
We hit a bump and got some air; I felt the breath rock
in my lungs, my heart jump in my throat.

We
entered the highway at full speed. I let my instincts take over and followed
the flow of traffic, feeling my way through its slippery fingers. Honking
sounded on all sides of us. I ground my teeth, sick of running. I braked hard,
sticking out my foot to steady us as I burned a circle in the road. Smoke
billowed behind us as I raced back toward our attackers. I reached into my
jacket and pulled out my pipe, keeping it low and out of sight.
The first scooter only had the one guy on it. He saw me coming and pulled a
gun, sending himself a little off-balance.
I flew by him sticking out my pipe as I went, taking the mother fucker off his
bike. The impact ricocheted down my arm, shooting pain through my shoulder
blade.

His
scooter crashed hard, sending his body flying, limp and helpless under the
wheels of a truck. My heart raced and I took a deep breath. Darting through the
traffic I looked for the other scooter.  “Where are they?” I yelled
over my shoulder.

“I
don’t know,” the woman cried. “I don’t see them.”

Fine, I
thought, and pulled over. There was gridlock from the “accident” behind
us. The woman stayed locked onto me. I scanned the thickening crowd. Scooters
were eking by the mess but vans, trucks, and
cars lined up behind the spill. Honks rose from the crowd like a Greek
chorus.

“Maybe
they ran,” the woman suggested.

“Yeah,”
I said. “Do you want to go to the police?” I asked.

“No,”
she answered.

I pulled
back into traffic, maneuvering past the accident. A girl on the back of her
father’s scooter pointed at me. I put a finger to my lips and her hand dropped
by her side, a look of terror on her face. The distant sound of sirens wailed
as we pulled by the accident: a smear
of slick blood lit by bright white headlights; men
standing around with their palms pressed against the small of their backs, heads
shaking with regret.

We rode
in silence, the Bullet purring under us. I turned off the highway toward my
place. She started to cry as we wound through the small roads. Taking one hand
off the handles I placed it over hers, clasped on my waist. “You’re safe
now,” I said.

She
nodded against my back. “Thank you.”