Scratch the Surface

His face lit up with a smile, and he was Merrell Barrett, quarterback, captain of the Barrett Crossing Pirates, all over again. “I will be there in thirty minutes or less. Wait for me.”

I was going to say something snarky like, “Where would I go at a quarter to one in the morning?” but instead I settled on, “Of course,” and left it at that.

My apartment complex was on a divided road across from a vacant lot. To the right was a liquor store I tried never to go into because you had to walk through a gauntlet of meth addicts, drunks, and prostitutes to get through the front door. On the left was a motel where all the rooms faced the road. All night, every night, there were people going in and out, because it was where the drugs and hookers were.

Rolling up to the ancient gate in Zack’s truck, I stopped and punched in my code. I knew it was supposed to be some sort of deterrent, but it opened and closed so slowly, an entire conga line of people could walk in or out at any given time. I got yelled at by a few of the guys at the liquor store, because that’s what they did, and I ignored them and drove in, the gate chugging shut behind me.

My spot was empty tonight, which wasn’t always guaranteed, so I pulled in, threw the truck in park, and was getting out when I noticed two guys beating up someone over by the dumpsters.

Since there were mostly couples in my complex, a few families, and only one guy I gave a wide berth to, mostly because I knew he had more than one gun in his apartment, I was pretty sure they were either guests or had hopped the fence in the back. Jogging across the lot, I finally got close enough to see it was three guys, not two, and they were beating on one of my neighbors.

“The hell are you doing?” I roared, charging up behind the first guy and driving him face-first into the cement wall of the building.

“Jeremiah,” Savannah Hornsberry whimpered. She was lying on the pavement, bleeding from her nose and mouth.

“Mr. Hornsberry!” I yelled. “Mr. Hornsberry!”

One of the men pulled a knife, but I wasn’t a kid anymore. I had a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, so I got into my stance and took the knife when the guy came at me. He was holding it wrong, blade up instead of down, so disarming him was easy, as was sending him crashing into the side of the building.

I was focused on the other two coming at me and was surprised when someone hit me in the face with a punch that would have leveled me if he had hit me straight on instead of at an angle. The fist glanced off my jaw and mostly caught me on the collarbone, but the fact remained I’d missed that there were four men, not three.

Falling back into the grass, I covered my head as they kicked me in the sides.

“Run, Savannah!” I ordered her.

“Get her,” one of them snarled, and when he moved, I scrambled up and punched the guy closest to me in the balls as hard as I could. His scream was loud.

I heard Mr. Hornsberry bellow his daughter’s name from somewhere behind me, and felt a moment of relief. He always waited up for her, and I knew if I yelled loud enough, he’d hear.

Then I took a hit to the back of the head and there was only black.

10

Cameron

It was Saturday morning, and my father was being released from the hospital. My mother told us she wanted to pick him up alone, and instructed us all to meet at their house for brunch. Since I lived a little over a half hour from my folks, I figured I’d call Jeremiah on the way to say hello, but when I got out of the shower around eight, I couldn’t wait and decided to call him while I got ready. I knew he didn’t have to work until later, and he said he never slept in, even on the days he went in late.

“Hey,” he greeted me, his voice gravelly and low.

“Crap, I woke you up, didn’t I?” I chuckled, knowing I’d messed up, but was happy to hear him even if I’d need to let him go back to sleep.

“Yeah, but I was hoping you’d call, so that’s okay.” He sounded almost like he was drunk, but it was very early for cocktails. Maybe he was working a hangover.

“You don’t sound so good,” I went with instead of assuming he was mixing vodka and orange juice for breakfast, or had gone on a bender the night before.

“It’s the painkillers.”

I jolted, bumping my dresser. The towel I was still wearing around my waist came loose and drifted slowly to the floor. That fast, I was scared. “Painkillers for what? Where are you?”