Selena

 

I wake up with a groggy head, but not groggy from vodka. The alcohol wore off before midnight, but Dante and I didn’t go to sleep until four in the morning. I check the time on my phone. It’s half past seven o’clock. Luckily, I don’t start work today until ten o’clock, but that still means I have to get back to my apartment, wash and chang, and then get to work in a couple of hours. I will myself to get up but then lie in bed for another ten minutes, watching Dante.

 

He sleeps on his side, arm tucked under his head, snoring softly. He looks nothing like the super-aggressive, dominating man from last night. He looks too peaceful. As I watch him, an odd feeling comes over me. It’s as if I’m outside my body watching myself watch Dante, just like I was outside my body when Clint would turn violent. I watch the girl and wonder what she’s doing. Did she really meet a strange man and ask him to impregnate her? Is this curvy blonde woman really that wild?

 

I sink back into my body, standing up and gathering my clothes. My body aches all over, various tattoos of our pleasure marking my skin. I get dressed and go into the living room, wondering if I should wake Dante up. But if I wake him up I might not be able to stop myself from doing other things with him. I go to the bedroom door and watch him for another two minutes, debating. In the end I decide to leave him a note instead. I’m getting hot just looking at the form of his muscles, the way they press together like they’re made of metal or wood, no fat on him at all.

 

I find a pen and paper in the kitchen drawer and write: Had a nice night. Hope we can do it again. Selena. I scribble my cell number and then leave the note on the couch and head for the door. I need to get to work, and then I need to go and visit Mom, but maybe after that …I place my hand on my belly as I walk down the stairs, wondering: both wondering if I’m pregnant and wondering at the emotions dancing inside of me. I would love to be pregnant, I realize. Despite the baby books, it shocks me. I never knew I felt so strongly about it until the prospect became real.

 

My world is changed forever when I step into the blaring Texan sun. The man lies on his back, although it takes me a moment to realize that it’s a man and not a dead animal. His face is almost completely eradicated, in its place a mess of blood and gore, his body looking disjointed lying there without a head. I stand, frozen, staring at the image. I can’t look away. It’s too disgusting, too horrifying, too fascinating.

 

When the spell breaks, I turn back to the apartment building. I need to get Dante. This is …I need help. I can’t handle this alone. I feel numb and dreamlike. I’m floating. A dead man, right behind me, a dead gory man, a mess, a corpse …I fight back vomit, swallowing hard. I’m about to push the door open when something lands on my shoulder.

 

“I wouldn’t do that,” a voice says, grizzled and gruff. “That really ain’t a good idea. Let me explain. If you open that door or make any noise or do anything that ain’t exactly what I want you to do, you’re going to end up like Dante’s man there on the floor. Do you want that, lady? Do you wanna turn into roadkill?”

 

“No,” I whisper.

 

“Then turn around slowly and follow me. Oh, wait a sec.” Something cold and metal presses into my back, shifting my shirt aside. “That’s a handgun. Do you believe me, or would you like me to prove it?”

 

“I believe you.” I can’t hear my own voice for my too-fast beating heart.

 

“Then I want you to turn around slowly,” he says. “We need to have a conversation.”

 

I don’t see that I have any other choice, so I turn slowly. I barely get a glimpse of the man—shortish, mean mouth—before he smacks me across the face with the metal flashlight. Darkness shrouds me. And then a speck of light. But when I see the light, I wish for the darkness again.

 

He was kissing my neck and moaning at me that I liked it, moaning at me that I could pretend all I wanted but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t truly want to be. That was one of Clint’s best psychological tricks. He would tell me that I had a choice and since I didn’t choose to leave I really loved him. He always ignored the part where he hit me and abused me, and never made the connection that, just maybe, that was why I didn’t choose to leave. He reached around to try and grab my ass.

 

It was too much. My eye felt like fire and the idea that now, soon after he’d committed such horrible violence against me, I had to let him touch me made me sick. And not only let him touch me but pout and moan and behave as if all I wanted was for him to touch me. I had to be the good girl, the actress. I was tired of being the actress. I don’t think I’ll ever know where I got the courage. All I know is that before his hand could grab my ass, I pushed him as hard as I could in the chest and screamed.

 

“Mom! Call the police! Mom, please! Call the police!”

 

He looked at me like I was mad. Maybe I was. “What’s gotten into you?” he said. “Have you completely lost your …” He trailed off, peering over my shoulder at the phone. “This better be a joke!” he snapped, marching past me to the phone. He picked it up. “No, no, Jasmin. No, that won’t be necessary. The police? Are you joking? Let me explain to you what’s happened. Well, maybe it’d help if you had all the information before you did something drastic! Your daughter came home drunk out of her mind, stumbling and falling and generally making a nuisance of herself. So I told her it might be a good idea to have some coffee and take a shower, and she went berserk, breaking dishes and mugs and my armchair.”

 

A minute passed as Clint listened to Mom on the phone, and then he handed it to me. “She wants to speak to you,” he said, his voice heavy with meaning. As if his burning eyes weren’t clear enough he covered the receiver with his hand and said to me, “I’m serious, Selena.”

 

I nodded timidly. It was always best to be timid around Clint. Let him think he was in charge. “Dear?” Mom said, voice taut. “Are you okay? Are you really drunk?”

 

Clint had his ear pressed against the other side of the phone, listening to every word. “Yes, Mom,” I said, cursing myself as a coward. “I had five beers and I feel a little tipsy. I think I was throwing things.” This wasn’t my voice. That fake woman wasn’t me. That scared little mouse wasn’t me. I felt distant and disconnected.

 

“Oh.” Mom hesitated. “I thought he was lying.”

 

“Why would he lie?”

 

“Because you screamed for me to call the police …”

 

“Oh, did I?” Stop it, I told myself. Stop this performance! “I don’t remember doing that.”

 

“You ought to be careful how much you drink, dear.”

 

“I only had five beers.” I put emphasis in my words. Maybe that’s all it would take. Mom knew five beers wouldn’t make me drunk. She’d seen me drink eight or nine without getting wasted. She said I had my father’s belly for drink, and he could put away two six packs and still function.

 

There was a pause, and then Mom’s voice was full of barely withheld anger. “I see,” she said. “Then I guess I better leave you to it, then. Good night, Selena. Stay safe.”

 

“Bye, Mom,” I whispered, praying it was enough.

 

I put the phone down and walked into the living room, sitting on the couch and staring at the TV. Some action movie was playing, a guy driving at full speed down a highway. Clint lingered in the other room. I heard him disconnecting the phone and opening and closing a drawer. When he’d hidden away the phone—and cut off my voice to the outside world since he wouldn’t let me have a cell—he joined me on the couch.

 

For a long time we sat there in silence as the action movie played. Once, I went to grab the remote to turn up the volume. “Don’t,” he said. “Let’s just stay like this.”

 

After about forty minutes the action movie ended and the credits were rolling. Clint turned to me slowly. “Are you going to explain yourself?” he said.

 

“Explain myself?”

 

He backhanded me across the jaw, hitting me so hard I felt my teeth shift as though all of them were going to fall out.

 

The slap turns to a bump in the road. I’m jolted into the air and then slammed back down to the floor of the van. I lie on my back for a time, staring up at the grimy ceiling, covered with brown stains and chewing gum and ash marks from stubbed-out cigarettes. Light emanates from an old portable lamp in the corner. I sit up and rub my eyes, still in a half-dream state. My face aches horribly and it takes me a moment to remember the flashlight. “A gun,” he said, and I fell for it. But what else was I supposed to do, risk it?

 

I climb to my knees and lean up against the wall. With nothing to hold onto, all I can do is press myself up against the wall to try and stop from jostling around. We’re driving across the desert, I guess, some hidden place in the dusty stretch between Austin and the west. What is less clear is who these men are or why they’d want to kidnap me. They killed a biker, and the biker … I follow the memory, chasing it like a hound with a scent.

 

In the moment, all I saw was his splattered, ruined face. But there was more to it than that. I force my mind back, even if it’s gruesome and I don’t want to go there. I think about the color of the sidewalk, the type of shoes the man was wearing, and on and on until I get to the memory I need. His jacket, his leather jacket, and on the lapel of the jacket a small sigil of a biker with a halo of thorns around his head, light shining through the jagged outline. And underneath it all the words Motor Saints. My mind is reeling as the van lurches again.

 

Is Dante involved with some kind of biker club? It would certainly explain the gunshot wound and why he was out of the hospital so soon. And if Dante is involved with a biker club, then perhaps these men are in a rival gang. The realization hits me just as viciously as Clint used to.

 

“I’m being used as bait,” I whisper.

 

“It’s not going to work!” I exclaim, walking on my knees to the front of the van. There’s a sheet of metal blocking the driver’s section but it’s thin, and when I listen closely I can hear men grumbling and the sound of the gearstick. “We hardly know each other! He’s not going to try and rescue me, or trade for me, or anything! We only met last night!”

 

“I’ve gotta tell you, missy, that ain’t none of my business. I’m just the driver.”

 

“But the plan isn’t going to work!” I snap. “We hardly know each other.”

 

“If the Gentleman wants you,” the driver says, “the Gentleman gets you.”

 

“I don’t know who that is!” I cry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

 

“Listen, we’re coming up on the place and if the Gentleman sees you screaming and crying like that, he ain’t gonna be happy, all right? So just keep your mouth shut now.”

 

I fall back, feeling helpless and alone. I think of Mom in her hospital bed waiting for me. I know her. When I don’t show up, she’ll start panicking and then try and come after me. Maybe the shock of it will kill her and I’ll be robbed of holding her hand as she passes on. And absurdly, I think of the pregnancy, the pregnancy which only became a real prospect last night. I’ll never get pregnant with this kind of stress. And then I laugh, because everything has turned upside down so quickly.

 

I was supposed to be in my apartment reading Far From the Madding Crowd.

 

The van pulls to a stop and men approach it. I hear them, laughing and talking loudly.

 

I curl up in a ball. Even with Clint, I never felt this helpless.