CHAPTER FIVE
LACEY
Payton thinks he has this, and me, in the bag. I can see it in the neon gleam of his eyes, the way his chest is puffed out, his shoulders proudly peeled back. Drinking games—this is his territory. God knows how many of these aimless drinking bullshit games he’s been through in his life, how many pong balls thrown and kegs emptied.
But not tonight.
Tonight Mr. Alpha is going down.
Well, not down, down.
Would that really be a bad thing? my head cuts in. I bet he gives a-maz-ing head.
Whether he does or not, I’ve somehow got to survive this first.
“Last chance to back out, little girl,” says Payton, rubbing his hands together like it’s Christmas morning and I’m the biggest box under the tree.
“I’d take his advice, hon,” the bartender laughs, “but hey, if you want to line my pockets while you puke your brains out, so be it.”
I smile and tap the bar.
Rolling her eyes, she disappears to the back of the bar and returns with two shot glasses. She places them down “Vodka, round one.”
It has barely hit the bar before Payton’s picked his up and downed it, up-ending it back in its place and whooping. “Yeah! Your turn.”
I pick up the shot glass as daintily as I can and drink it down, my face screwing up. I turn the glass over and place it down gently, clearing my throat. “Next.”
There’s an excited murmur from the throng gathered around us.
The bartender arrives with another two shots, eye-rolling all the while.
This time Payton doesn’t use his hands at all, cupping his mouth around the glass and lifting his head, the alcohol disappearing down his gullet. He flips the glass over. “Two down.”
Again, I draw it out, taking my time picking up my shot and putting it away, eyes squinting.
“Why don’t you tap out at two?” Payton teases. “No one’s going to think any less of you.”
“Two?” I laugh. “You’re insulting me.”
He shakes his head. “Careful. You’re one drink away from telling everyone what you really think.”
“And what’s that?”
His smile is wide. “That I’m the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.”
“Ooooo,” comes the crowd’s response.
I pick up the next shot first and throw it back. “Better get drinking then, because it’s going to take a lot more shots before I start spitting out that kind of nonsense.”
“Burn!” laughs Hernandez, hands on Payton’s shoulders.
Payton plays with the rim of the next shot glass, the poor bartender struggling to keep up, swinging from the back of the bar to the front with fresh rounds. He picks up his shot. “Hey, you bring the alcohol, I’ll bring the bad decisions.”
By the eighth-round things are starting to get serious. Whether he’s admitting it or not, Payton’s feeling the effects. His head wavers in front of me, his words starting to slur together. “You’re… You are… You ha… sofuckinghot.”
My posture remains perfect, my faculties in full order. I cup my ear. “Come again?”
He reaches for the shot glass and misses. “You… ill… come again, andagain, andagain. Ima gonna wine… and… dine… and grind you.” He points. “You,” like I didn’t know who he was talking about.
I look around at the others. “Me? Are you guys seeing this right now? Eight shots and our dear friend Mr. Cox here is ready for nap time.”
He collects the glass and brings it to his chin, before re-adjusting for his lips. “I am not done.”
And down goes shot number nine.
I fire one back and place my shot glass behind the eight others on my side.
Hernandez is shaking his head at me. “Jesus, Nelson, you’re crushing this shit.” He nods down to my belly. “You got a stomach or a damn steel trap in there?”
I shrug. “I had an uncle who owned a bar.”
Lie.
“Can I marry you?” asks one of the others. “Any girl who can hold her liquor like that needs to be sainted or some shit.”
I look across to Payton. “What do you say, big boy? Ready to throw in the towel?”
He shakes his head, but he’s struggling, and boy is it making me happy seeing him squirm like this. In fact, it’s kind of turning me on.
“One more! One more! One more!” comes the chant.
Payton circles his hand in the air. “Keep them coming.”
Ten rounds, eleven, and the end is nigh. Payton’s starting to see it, his bloodshot eyes begging for relief, but I’m not letting up.
My own words start to conjoin, but I’m sober enough to at least remain seated.
Payton stands and needs to be handled back to his stool, poor Hernandez having to shift Payton’s hand to show him where the next shot is.
Jackson continues to flick his Zippo lighter on and off, shaking his head. “Give it up, bro. Ruski girl’s got you beat.”
“No,” Payton gasps, like he can’t believe it, like I’ve somehow swindled him out of this great, grand honor. “No. We… keep… going.”
Almost a full sentence. I’m impressed.
One more shot does the trick. He squints at me, looking somewhere over my head. “Holyshityouatwin,” he babbles. “Ineverfuckedtwinsbefore.” And he slumps to the floor.
It takes three guys to get him to his feet, his eyes rolling in his head, his cheeks rosy. ‘KO’d’ doesn’t begin to describe it.
Hernandez lifts my hand up. “Gentleman, we have a winner!”
There’s a loud cheer from my classmates, a couple of well-planted back slaps.
The bartender winks at me. “Good for you, girl.” She pockets the cash and starts collecting the shot glasses.
I stand and lean a good few feet to my right, Hernandez putting out a hand to stop me before I straighten up. “Whoa, you all good, Nelson?”
“Never been better,” I hiccup, “but I could really use a bed right about now.”
Payton’s started to sing. “Holdme closer, Tony Danza,” he sings, butchering the Elton John classic. “You are the wind beneath my wings.”
Hernandez exhales. “Someone should film this shit, get it on YouTube.”
As a very vocal Payton is dragged away, Hernandez swings around in front of me. “So?”
“So?” I repeat.
“What are you going to get him to do? He said ‘anything,’ right?”
The possibilities…
I smile, patting Hernandez on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got something real special in mind.”
*
The Payton Cox who enters the gym the following morning is a pale—rather literally—shade of the man he once was. He looks me up and down, clearly mystified as to why I’m standing there a picture of health.
The Captain spots it immediately. “Holy mother in heaven, what the hell happened to you, Cox? You go to bed with Mike Tyson?”
“No, Captain,” Payton wheezes, breathing deep.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
The Captain claps his hands together. “Let’s get on with it.”
Payton struggles through PE. More than once I see him look towards the bathroom, but to his credit he pushes through his hangover. He goes without food come lunchtime, practically gagging when I push a blueberry muffin under his nose.
I, however, am treated like an Amazonian princess, a wonder to behold. It seems I’ve developed a nickname overnight. They call me ‘The Miracle.’ I kind of like it.
Payton’s got his head in his hands at the table. “How did you do it?” he asks. “I’ve got to know.”
I start to tear pieces from the muffin, popping them into my mouth. I tap the side of my head. “It’s a mental thing, though I guess you wouldn’t know much about that given you’ve got a brain the size of a ball bearing.”
“Too harsh,” he replies.
I slap him on the back. “Come on, partner. We’ve got class to get to.”
By mid-afternoon, Payton’s started to sober up. His skin color is no longer a dead ringer for sheet paper, and he seems to have found some semblance of coordination.
We’re in a new, smaller hall, a low structure in front of us.
The Captain stands beside it, proud as if it were a shiny new Chevy. “Lady and gents, you’ve met the Tower and the burn room, now meet the Maze.”
He taps on the side of it. It does indeed look like a kind of oversized rat maze. It’s made of plywood extending twenty feet or so towards the back of the hall.
The Captain’s next words cause my entire body to tighten. “Enclosed spaces, people—They’re part and parcel of the job, especially for those of you height-and/or girth-inclined.”
I try to remain calm. You knew this would be part of training. You can get through it.
The Captain moves around to the front of the structure and holds up a self-contained breathing apparatus that’s been blackened out. “Sometimes the smoke will be so thick you’ll be going into these small spaces blind, which is precisely what this is for. One of you will enter the Maze and your partner will stand on the side and direct you through it. It’s about teamwork, people, not who gets through the quickest.”
Fielding and Hernandez go first. It takes around fifteen minutes for both of them to make it through, including the enclosed tunnel running through the center of the Maze.
I try to memorize it as best I can, but it’s hard to see the full picture from this angle.
The more teams go, the more anxious I get.
“Cox, Nelson, let’s go,” the Captain calls.
Payton goes to take the blackened-out SCBA, but I get there before him. “Eager,” nods the Captain. “I like your style, Nelson.”
The nerves really start to ratchet up when I put on the apparatus and get to my hands and knees.
“Straight ahead,” calls Payton from the side.
I start to move, my sides bumping into the plywood walls and giving me some idea of the space. It’s pitch black with the mask on. I can hear my breathing through it, feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
You can do this.
“A little to your left… Yep… There’s a kind of step you’ll have to hop over… No… Left more… Yes. Straight into the tunnel.”
I know I’m in the tunnel because I can dimly hear the way my shifting echoes. The walls seem to close in on me, my head starting to freak out. Payton’s voice becomes muddled, hard to hear.
I’m breathing fast, pulling air in as quickly as I can, sweating, my hands scanning but only finding the walls narrowing and constricting, threatening to crush me completely.
I can’t hold off the panic any more.
You have to.
I can’t.
It’s all going to unravel.
“Let me out!” I scream, the mask muffling my voice.
“Nelson,” the Captain calls. “What’s going on?”
“I need to get out!” I shout. “Let me out, please.”
I’m bashing the walls, all sense of direction lost. I try to stand and hit my head on the roof of the tunnel, and all the time it feels smaller and smaller.
I take off the apparatus and find the light, crawling for it as fast as I can and emerging too early, standing there in my bunker gear drenched in sweat.
The Captain stands with his hands on his hips. “The fuck, Nelson? You’re not wearing your apparatus, happily inhaling god knows what kind of toxic soup. You’re dead.”
White, prickly fear spindles down my back. I’m lightheaded.
Payton looks a touch more concerned, starting to walk over. “Hey, you okay?”
“I…” I start, my mouth cotton-ball dry. “I couldn’t…” I look over and see the rest of the class watching this spectacle, my big failure.
And I can’t take it.
I place the apparatus down carefully. I turn and sprint for the doors, Payton calling my name.