Merryn
I turn the page of one of Trista’s police handbooks. Then turn the next one.
I’m not really reading it. I can’t concentrate. I feel restless here, in her apartment, in her bedroom. I’m lying on my side on the bed, the book being held propped up by my hand. But as I flip from one page to the next, only seeing blocks of text, pictures and diagrams explaining tactical movements and different types of weapons, my mind wanders.
I’m thinking about Jake. And that dream I had last night. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Whether he’s thinking about me. Whether he’s sorry for what he did. For how he treated me. I haven’t heard from him. Part of me wondered how I would react if he tried calling or texting me. Whether I would accept his call, or tell him to that he hurt me and to fuck off. Or maybe I would just ignore the call altogether. But I haven’t been given any of those chances. I haven’t heard from him at all.
I let the book flop down onto the bed, rolling onto my back, feeling the heavy weight of my belly press down into my stomach and bladder. I need to pee. Well, I always need to pee. I stare up at the ceiling, looking at the dark purple light and how it colors the paint. After a few minutes I can’t hold it back any longer and I roll back over onto my stomach, push myself up off the bed, and leave the bedroom to go pee.
When I’m finished in the bathroom I hear the scraping of metal on glass and look over to see Trista’s mom’s bedroom door standing open. I approach it and see Trista sitting in the chair next to her mom, feeding her baby food straight from the jar. The floorboard creaks under my weight and Trista stiffens, her head half-turning. But she doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. She resumes feeding her mom.
Trista and I have hardly spoken. We don’t have much to say to each other, I guess. Besides, I feel like I’m intruding on her space. She took me in, which was a kind offer, but I feel like she’ll appreciate it when I’m gone.
Trista’s mom’s mouth opens in response to the spoon touching her lips, and she dutifully eats the food that Trista gives her. When it’s all gone Trista wipes her mom’s lips clean with a napkin and stands up, turns around, glances at me without smiling and leaves the beside. I step to the side and allow her to pass. She doesn’t look at me as she does.
I watch as she goes into the kitchen, putting the baby food jar in the sink.
“Do you want dinner?” she asks me. “I can heat up some soup.”
My stomach rumbles at the mention of food, but I do not feel like eating soup in this quiet apartment. Instead my mind wanders, and I think of how delicious it would be to bite down into hot meat and cheese and bread.
“What do you think about going out for a burger?”
Trista doesn’t say anything right away. She hesitates, then turns around, standing at the sink. She looks at me.
“You’re going to get a burger?”
“I’m asking if you want to get a burger with me,” I say. “There’s a place not far from here. It would be good to get out and go for a walk.”
No expression crosses her face. Her eyes look like they’re staring at something in the distance, no matter where she’s looking.
“I shouldn’t,” she finally says. “My mom …”
“You’ve left her alone before, haven’t you?” I cut her off. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
She hesitates before speaking again. I step forward and give her a smile when she looks at me.
“It’ll be good,” I say in a lower voice, now that I’m closer.
Her eyes are on mine. Finally she nods.
“Okay,” she says.
So we get our things together and leave the apartment, Trista checking in on her mom one last time before we go.
The evening is cool as we step out. Trista locks the doors behind her. People walks the streets, groups of friends, families, couples holding hands. The sky is dark, streaked with purple and black. Streetlamps are on, illuminating bright spots of light on the sidewalks and street below.
Trista and I walk side by side. It feels good to be outside. It feels good to move my legs, to get some fresh air. My belly hangs heavy on my body and forces me to sway side to side as I walk. Trista and I don’t talk as we head on our way to the burger place, but that’s fine. I’m just glad to be out of doors.
It takes about fifteen minutes to walk to The Burger Joint. Trista pulls the door open and we step in. An Elvis song is playing on the speakers tucked into the top corners of the space. The place is pretty busy as we stand in line, staring up at the menu.
I lean over to Trista, standing beside me.
“Hey,” I say, and she half-turns her head in my direction. “This is on me.”
“Oh,” she says, looking at me properly now. “You don’t have to do that.”
“No, you took me in. This is the least I can do.”
Trista doesn’t say anything to that. We reach the front of the line and I order a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and a vanilla milkshake. Trista gets a cheeseburger with fries and a Coke. I pay for our meals and we stand to the side as they’re made. Trista is given an empty drink cup that she takes to the soda fountain, filling it with Coke. When our meals come on trays we take them and find an empty table, sitting down.
I’m feeling ravenous as I pick up my burger and bite into it. The combination of meat and grease and salt fills my senses as I chew and swallow mouthful after mouthful. Trista takes solemn bites of her burger, every now and again putting it down to eat some fries or take a sip of her drink.
When my burger is halfway done I put it down, having not stopped eating since I picked it up. I grab my milkshake and take a long drink, setting the foam cup down and looking around.
“Have you been here before?” I ask her.
Trista nods, still chewing a mouthful. I wait for her to swallow before she speaks.
“I came here with Flynn a few times,” she tells me.
“Oh,” I say. Trista’s hardly talked about Flynn since I found out that they had a fight. Well, she’s hardly talked about anything at all. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know … if this is weird or anything …”
But she’s shaking her head. “No, it’s okay,” she says. She takes another bite of burger and looks around at the place, the other customers. “I like the vibe here,” she says with her mouth full. “This place isn’t ritzy or anything. It’s not trying to impress anyone. It just is what it is.”
I look around too, and I can see what she means. The other customers aren’t the type you’d find in any high-end restaurant. The decor needs to be updated, looking as though it came out of the seventies. The seats at the booths and tables have been worn down from years of people sitting down in the same spots, probably never having been replaced since they were first installed.
I nod. “Yeah, I like it here too,” I tell her. This seems like the kind of place where my clients would hang out. Maybe I should suggest it to them.
We continue eating, and when I’m finished my burger I open up a few of the ketchup packets they gave me and squeeze out the red goo onto the wrapper, forming a place to dip my fries. Trista finishes too and we continue sitting together, munching away in a comfortable silence. Being around Trista’s not that bad, I decide. I was probably just taking it out on her because of everything that’s happened.
I hear a loud roaring sound outside and look to see a red Porsche pull into a space in the parking lot. The car turns off and a man in a beige suit steps out and struts to the door of the restaurant. He opens it up and his loud voice immediately follows:
“… three points on the Lakers. Yeah, that’s what I said! Ha ha, no, you retard, like hell I would bet on them!”
He’s speaking into a Bluetooth headset, wearing sunglasses even though it’s dark out. The conversation in the restaurant seems to falter as both Trista and I watch him saunter up to the front counter.
“… Yes, you retard!” he almost shouts as he steps up to the counter. The teenage boy behind it looks uncertain about what to do. “No … no, three points. God, my palsy grandmother would make a better bookie than you! Let me get a double cheeseburger, kid.”
The boy behind the counter blinks a few times.
“Do … do you mean me?”
“Yes!” the man shouts. I see that others in the restaurant are watching him now too. “God, is everybody here a fucking retard?”
The cashier starts ringing it up as the man in the suit continues his phone conversation. When I look to Trista I see her glaring at him, an icy look in her eyes.
“Boy, this guy’s a dick, huh?” I ask her. She shakes her head, still watching as he thrusts a hundred-dollar bill in the cashier’s direction.
“I’ve seen that guy,” she says, and I raise an eyebrow.
“Really?”
“At the precinct. He was brought in for driving while on drugs. He almost plowed through a school playground in the middle of the afternoon. He was in the holding cell for half an hour before his lawyer came in and got him out. Charges dropped, no stain on his driving record. He bought his way out of it.”
I look back to the guy. His tray of food is brought out and he grabs it out of the worker’s hands before turning to find somewhere to sit.
“You know,” I say as I turn back to Trista, “that’s the kind of life I work against. The clients I have coming in, the ones who need help … they’re usually the ones who’ve been mostly affected by this economic gap. Taken advantage of by the upper class.”
Trista nods. I watch the guy again. He’s loudly complaining on his phone.
“… some run-down shit stain of a burger joint. Yeah! That’s what it’s actually called, The Burger Joint! … I know, I should sue them. Try to get some food poisoning case going on. That’ll shut this place down for sure. Here hold on, I gotta hit the head.”
He gets up from his table, leaving a hardly-touched burger on the tray, and makes his way to the bathrooms at the back.
“Come on,” Trista says, and I hear her chair scrape back as I turn to look at her again. She’s staring at the place where he was.
“What’re you doing?”
“Come on,” she repeats, so I push myself to standing. “We’re gonna do something to him.”
I think she’s going to spit in his food or something, but instead of heading over to his table she turns and makes for the front door instead. I follow as we step out into the lamp-lit parking lot.
“Where are we going?” I ask her, but she doesn’t say anything as she heads for his red Porsche. “Trista? What are you doing?”
“Keep a watch,” she says as she opens the front door and sits down in the seat. Her head ducks underneath the wheel and I watch her arms move as she first yanks, and then fiddles with something.
I feel exposed, standing here. The man could come back from the bathroom at any time. In the passenger seat I hear a couple of sparks, and then the engine to the car starts up. My eyes widen and Trista sits up, her eyes alight.
“Get in,” she tells me.
“Trista, are you crazy? What are you doing?”
“Get in!” she urges, swinging her legs in and pulling the front door closed. I glance through the restaurant window inside and see the man walking out of the bathroom. He stops when he looks out, at me, at his car headlights shining light, at Trista behind the wheel. His mouth opens and he yells something I can’t hear.
A kick of adrenaline hits me and my feet are moving me before I realize it. He’s striding through the restaurant for the front door. Other customers are craning their necks now, watching the spectacle unfold. The door to the restaurant opens as I reach the passenger door of the Porsche.
“Hey!” he shouts.
I look at him and we lock eyes.
“I, uh …” And then I yank the car door open and climb in. He rushes forward as I pull it shut.
“Hey! Stop! Thief!”
His words sound muffled and angry as Trista backs out of the space, having already dropped it into Reverse. The man is running after us as she cranks the wheel to the left, forcing us to go in a circle, and then drops it to second gear and peels forwards, forcing him to jump back, still yelling as he runs after us. We leave the parking lot and speed out into the street. I’m laughing, smiling widely, as Trista quickly navigates the streets. The man and the restaurant disappear from view when we take a hard turn around a corner.
“Holy shit!” I cry out, still smiling. “Trista … what made you … I mean … why did you do that?”
She shrugs, and I swear I can see a small smile on her lips.
“That asshole deserves it,” she says with a shrug.
I collapse back into the seat. My heart is racing. I’m breathing hard.
“Where are we going?” I ask her, and Trista shrugs again.
“Wherever we want.”
We zoom down roads, taking turns down small alleys, Trista swiftly navigating in between other cars on the street. She tells me that, as a former cop, she knows where all the speed traps are but, more importantly, where they’re not. When we get to a safe area she speeds the car up until I’m almost pushed back into the seat, the two of us flying down the desolate roads.
We drive for half an hour, moving up and down the city, making short work of the long stretches of road that Santa Espera offers. Slowly we meander our way east, until we reach the edge of the city, where the highways offer the promise of faraway places and the desert stretches out into infinity. Trista merges onto a highway but gets off at the first exit, for the desert.
It’s here that she slows down her speed.
We’re on a dirtier road now. There are no other cars around. Heading north, to our left are the bright lights of Santa Espera. To our right is the dark bottom and star-filled top of the desert. Both of us are silent as we stare out the passenger window, out into this abyss. But Trista’s silence feels heavier than mine. I glance back at her but she makes no motion of returning my gaze. Her eyes seem distant and pensive.
Finally she speaks. “I almost died in this desert.”
The words don’t sound conversational or meant to inform. It’s almost like she’s speaking to herself. I watch her speak, but Trista’s still looking out the window at the desert. I don’t say anything, giving her space to go on.
“The day before yesterday. My superior, Devon … the deputy captain … he took me out here to kill me. He was going to … rape me first. He tried to rape me, once before. But I broke his nose instead.”
She sneers at this last part, as though remembering.
“I was saved … by Flynn, and Lance, and Katie. Flynn shot Devon in the shoulder. I shot him between his legs. Three times. And then I killed him. Lance and Katie buried him in the grave he dug for me. There’s a dead dog buried over top of him. Devon brought it. He said it’s used to throw off police dogs, in case they come looking for a buried body.”
Jesus. Trista’s mouth closes and she keeps looking out the window. Her eyes still look far-away and distant. I wait for her to keep talking, but she doesn’t. Finally I speak up.
“How do you feel?”
She shivers a bit, her eyes turning to me, looking at me as though realizing for the first time that I’m there.
“How do I feel?” she repeats, and I nod. She blinks, looks down. Thinks for a second.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know how I feel. When Devon … tried to do that to me, something happened. It’s like I … left … myself. Like I’m not in my body anymore.” I nod, not responding. Trista’s silent for a moment. “And Flynn,” she says. “He … I don’t know what to do. When he’s around it’s like a new level is added to what I’m trying to do. He keeps reminding me that I … that I could die, or fuck this up. I didn’t go into the Bullets thinking I would fall in love.” Her eyes meet mine, a look of urgency in them. “I didn’t want to connect with anyone. I was in my own … but now … it’s too real.” She drops her gaze. “I could fuck this up and it would hurt him. And I don’t want to hurt him. But I can’t stop now. Not when I’m so close.”
She blinks and I see the dim trail of tears run down her cheeks.
“I feel so tired all the time,” Trista tells me. “Like I have so many people telling me how to live my life all the time, but the voices are all in my head. And I don’t know how to make them shut up.”
I can feel my throat start to tighten. I reach to the wheel and put a hand on top of one of Trista’s. Her eyes drop down to the gesture. She doesn’t pull away.
“It sounds like you’ve taken on a lot,” I say to her in the quiet car. “All of this with Will Silver … taking care of your mom, all on your own … having to deal with love … it’s a lot.”
She nods, blinks. More tears roll down.
“But hey,” I say, “at least you’re not almost 8 months pregnant!”
She lets out a short laugh, and I smile. Her gaze swings to my belly, then up to my face.
“How do you do it?” she asks. “You seem so put together. How do you take care of everything?”
I give her hand a light squeeze. “I remind myself that I can only do so much. And that it’s not all up to me to fix. And that I have others in my life who are willing to help me when I need it. And you do too.”
Trista doesn’t say anything. Instead she slowly nods, then moves her gaze back out the passenger window. I do the same. She’s silent for a few seconds before speaking.
“I’m glad I did it,” she says.
“Did what?”
“Killed Devon.” I turn back and look at her. The distance in her eyes seems less now than it did before. “For years I thought I would always be beneath him. That he would always have this control over me, either in the job or outside of it. And then I killed him.” She swallows. “I don’t regret it one bit.”
My hand is still on hers on the wheel, and she spreads her fingers, allowing mine to slip through just a bit. Then she closes them again, giving them a squeeze. It only lasts for a moment, and then she opens her fingers again and pulls her hand away, moving it down to the gearshift and dropping it into first.
“You ever done donuts?” she asks me.
“What?”
It’s all I manage to get out before Trista presses down on the gas and propels the car forward, turning the wheel and forcing the car to spin around in circles. Trista yells as I’m flattened against the door of the car, screaming and laughing and generally feeling terrified. The engine revs louder and she shifts into higher and higher gears, until I can almost smell the burning rubber of the tires. It feels like I’m stuck in the craziest carnival ride I’ve ever been in. Sand pings and ricochets off the car exterior. Plumes of dust and smoke surround us outside.
And when I look over at Trista, I see a light in her eyes that I’ve never seen before.
As suddenly as the donuts started, Trista stops them by straightening out the wheel and taking us back onto the dirty road and out to the highway. My head is still spinning as I try to stabilize myself in the passenger seat. Trista takes an exit off the highway back into Santa Espera. She’s drumming her hands on the steering wheel.
“I guess we should give the car back,” she says to me as we find ourselves back on the city streets. My heart rate has returned to normal by now.
“Yeah,” I tell her. We’re north of where we came in, amid some old electrical plants and power stations. “Do you think the guy’s still at the restaurant?”
“Probably not,” Trista says. “But that’s where I’m going to …”
She slows down, and I hear in the silence the faint sound of sirens. We pass by an electrical plant and see blue and red flashing lights, accompanied by flickering orange light filtered through plumes of smoke.
“Holy shit,” I say. “Something’s on fire.”
But Trista’s eyes are wide. She’s stopped the car.
“There’s a drug facility here,” she says in almost a hush. I look at her.
“Do you think …”
“Flynn.”
And then she presses down on the gas, too hard. I’m flung back into my seat.
“Trista,” I say as she zooms forward. “Be careful. If they catch you …”
She nods, slows the car down.
“Down there,” I point to a darkened space between buildings, not a street but wide enough for the car to fit through. Trista takes the turn and we’re drenched in shadow. She creeps along. Her window rolls down. I smell the acrid, chemical burn of the fire right away, and I can hear noises. The whines of the police and firefighter sirens, but also people yelling, angry sounds. Car doors slamming. The hiss and crackle of flames being fought.
We reach the edge of the building and Trista noses the car out just enough for us to see around the corner. The large red firetrucks appear, spraying something that looks like foam into the flaming building and over top of it. There are police cars too, too many of them. And in the midst of all of this, a circle of officers all focused on something in the center. Or, rather, someone.
I gasp when I see it. Trista is silent. Practically collapsed on the ground in the circle of officers is a man with short blond hair, wearing a black leather jacket that only belongs to the Bullets. Officers are taking turns approaching him to punch him in the face, or kick him in the stomach as he struggles to get up.
“Flynn,” I hear Trista whisper.
She opens her car door but I reach out, grab a hold of her. She looks back to see me shake my head.
“Don’t,” I say to her, in a low voice despite the loud noises of the scene.
Her eyes are shimmering but she doesn’t try to pull herself away from me. We hear someone yell and both turn to observe the horror unfolding before us.
Flynn looks beaten up, his face bloody and bruised. One of the officers laughs as he approaches Flynn, grabs his hair, and yanks his head back. The officer is laughing wildly, and yet despite the state Flynn is in, we watch him make a face as he reaches up and grabs a hold of the officer’s uniform. The guy’s face turns from happy to scared in an instant before Flynn yanks down, pulling the officer face-first to the ground.
An uproar occurs and the rest of the officers swarm, pulling their colleague away from Flynn, and then all descending on him at once. Trista makes an audible cry at this, but we’re helpless to watch as these officers of the law descend upon one man, every one of them landing blows. Finally somebody yells and the group disbands, the crowd opening up to show Flynn lying motionless, face down on the ground.
My heart is breaking. I can see by Trista’s body that she’s breathing hard, watching this. The energy of the crowd has dissipated. They disperse, leaving Flynn where he is. He’s hardly breathing. Finally an ambulance shows up, lights flashing, and when the orderlies come out they exchange a few words with the cops before strapping Flynn onto a gurney and taking him away.