“What about your parents. Can you call your parents and ask them?”
I shake my head. “I c-can’t do that.”
“Why?”
His eyes blaze. He’s that desperate. Beyond desperate.
“They don’t… they don’t lend money. I’ve told you before, my dad has a strict no loans policy.”
It’s true. Dad always told me that money could ruin relationships. He wasn’t kidding. But it wasn’t money that ruined things with Ray and me. It was Ray. I’d given him all the money I had without blinking before he ruined us by treating me like an emotional punching bag.
“So, he’s not willing to fuckin’ help you when you need help? What kind of an asshole won’t help his fuckin’ daughter when she needs help?”
Spit bubbles are gathered in the corner of his mouth as he rants about my father, who’s done nothing wrong.
All this because Ray needs help, not me. I’d need help, too, though. I’m broke and about to miss a car payment with rent day looming.
“This is bullshit, Vi. The fuck is wrong with them?”
I say nothing.
“Answer me!” he screams in my face.
“Stop it!” I shout. I can’t handle it anymore. “Don’t you talk shit about my dad,” I whimper, dashing tears off my face.
“Oh, don’t start that fuckin’ bullshit on me. Tryin’ to make me feel bad because your parents are assholes.”
He whips my phone and it dents the drywall before it hits the floor. And then other stuff in my room starts flying. My alarm clock. A bottle of perfume. A book. My purse was on my dresser and then he throws it and it sails toward me, hitting me in the shoulder before the contents go spilling out.
I’m ducking, using my arms to block my head and thinking that the coffee-stained business card of Killian’s is in a hidden compartment of my wallet and I have the urge to grab the phone and lock myself in the bathroom with it so that I can call him.
Why though?
Could he calm Ray down?
Or would he help Ray with his problem and take the heat off, leaving me with the same problems as before but with a less spazzed-out Ray?
Why would he? The little conversation we’d had this morning left me knowing he didn’t think much of Ray at all. But yet Ray talked about him often, name dropping about the successful buddy of his that owned a couple sports bars. Was he just being polite or was he someone I could really go to for help?
Killian doesn’t know me. He has a history with Ray. Why would anybody who didn’t know me help me?
And with how Killian talked about Ray, why did he even come over last night?
How had my life come to this moment where the first person I think might help here with my problem, my prison, is a virtual stranger?
“Thanks a fucking bunch, Violet,” Ray snaps and storms out of the room.
“Just go. Please just go,” I say.
I don’t know if he can hear me out there, so I say it louder.
“Please just fucking go, Ray! Leave me alone!”
I hear a series of bangs, crashes, and cuss words and then he’s in the doorway holding a folded twenty.
No. A couple twenties.
“Really, Violet?”
I blow out a breath and grip my hair in my hands on either side of my head. He’s found my stash in my tea canister.
He shakes his head in disgust. “You hiding more cash from me?”
I shake my head. “Maybe I was saving it for a birthday present for you.”
Bile rises in my throat.
“You lyin’ bitch,” he hisses.
I swallow.
Bitch. Lyin’ bitch.
“Now on top of all the other shit you do to me, you call me names too? That’s just lovely,” I choke. “Please go, Ray. I can’t take this anymore. Please just go. I don’t love you anymore. I want you to leave.”
“What the fuck, Violet? Is there more? More here in your other hiding places?”
He yanks my underwear drawer wide and starts flinging things around the room.
“How could I hide more than that? You have my bank card. You ran up my credit cards and I have nothing…” The word nothing trembles. With pain. With accusation.
He shakes his head and tosses the drawer in his hand at the wall. Another dent. He proceeds to open every one of my eight remaining dresser drawers and rifles through everything.
“Oh yeah, I’m a piece ‘a shit. Just a piece of fuckin’ shit, ain’t I?”
I slump against the headboard and cradle myself, sniffling.
He goes through what’s left in my purse and my heart races thinking he’ll find that coffee-stained business card, but it doesn’t happen.
When he storms out, I hear multiple doors slamming.
I sit there, heart pounding, body trembling and do so for a good fifteen minutes, unsure of what’s coming next.
The bedroom is trashed. There’s another dent in the wall and more tear streaks down my cheeks.
Finally, I shakily get off the bed and head to the bathroom. It’s trashed, too. I use the facilities and wash my face, straining to hear if there’s any activity outside the door.
I hear nothing.
After a few minutes, I dare to go out. I find the apartment empty. Empty, but messed up. The candelabra from the shelf is on the floor. My aloe plant and my little juniper bonsai are knocked over. The picture on the wall tilted to the side. A hole the size of a fist in the drywall beside the fridge. Kitchen canisters knocked over and my tea canister on the floor, contents spilled out. Of course the cash is gone.
I’m afraid to breathe a sigh of relief that he’s gone. I don’t know how long of a reprieve I’ve got before he’s back. I shakily tidy up, my chest feeling like it’s caving in. My phone miraculously survived, but the side of the phone case is covered in scratches and drywall.
Ray’s phone is ringing again from the bedroom.
The same Hennessy B name is on the screen.
My stomach churns.
I shower, trying to get the water to calm my nerves, then get ready for bed again, on pins and needles, expecting him to come back any time.
He doesn’t.
I know I’m not lucky enough that he’ll leave like I told him to.
I should go. I should go to my parents’ house.
I should.
But I don’t. It’s like I’m paralyzed, like there’s an invisible fence around this apartment.
***
I wake up in the morning for work after another shitty sleep that saw me awake nearly every hour, and he still isn’t here. I look out the window and my parking space is empty.
I quickly get ready for work and leave twenty minutes early, bloodshot eyes and feeling like I’ve got on weighted boots, hoping and praying I won’t see him coming in before I woodenly walk out and head to the bus stop.
6
Killian
The ass wipe didn’t call me about the game, so early afternoon, I call Hennessy.
“Kill! Yo, buddy.”
“Hey, Henny. Iadanza pay up?”
“Nope. Dodgin’ my calls, too. I’m about to start collections. Wanna share why you’re interested? Call me curious, but calls from you two days in a row? Can’t help it.”
“Maybe I’ll buy the debt.”