Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One (41 page)

I kept sipping
water. My headache finally starting to recede. Distantly I could
feel the faintest hint of a rumbling in my belly. It was almost a
relief to know that my recently ravenous ways hadn’t disappeared
completely.

Gentle fingers
pressed firmly on both sides of my head and tilted my chin up,
forcing me to meet her eyes. Tamara had somehow found a moment to
get changed, adding a pair of yoga pants to her attire and robbing
me the chance to ogle her well sculpted legs. Not that I had much
of that on my mind but still. Her glasses were in their usual place
and she’d found time to get her hair in some semblance of
order.

Before this
moment I’d never thought about how young she looked. Maybe because
it would’ve reminded me about how old I was.

“What?” she
asked quietly, tilting her head.

“Thank you,” I
mumbled.

Tamara’s lips
smiled slightly though it didn’t reach her eyes. Though her thumbs
rubbed at my cheekbones gently in response. Soothingly and
painfully; I’m pretty sure I had some deep tissue bruising that
hadn’t risen to the surface yet. Obviously it was the pain that
made the tears well up in my eyes.

Couldn’t have
been anything else.

“What happened,
Joe?”

So I told
her.

I told her
everything.

Picking Cathy
up at the station. The gang house in the North End. Keimac
Cleghorn’s crew. Disposing of firearms. Confronting Aaron.
Confronting Parise.

“Next thing I
know,” my voice had begun to get hoarse again so I paused to finish
my mug of water. Tamara had removed her hands from my face and had
taken a seat directly in front of me at the only other chair in her
tiny kitchen. Her expression was calm but rapt with attention.
“Next thing I know I’m laying face down on a bench in Central Park
during a rainstorm. I’m soaked, I’m in agony and I didn’t know
where else to go.”

Tamara said
nothing for a long moment. Her expression remained calm,
reserved.

But apparently
I wasn’t done talking.

“I couldn’t go
to the hospital.” My chin fell to my chest again and I shuddered,
remembering Parise’s cold and precise voice. “I was warned. Police
scanners get reports all the time of assault victims staggering in.
Even when they don’t press charges, the cops get a flag … A notice
... Something. I don’t know.”

Tamara said
nothing.

“Anyway. They
told me. They told me I couldn’t go. ‘Cause if I did ….”

Accidents
happen all the time, mon ami. A shame it would be if some
pyromaniac was loose in your neighborhood, eh? How many people
could be hurt by such a person, setting houses aflame?

I was crying
again. Second time in a week. Second time in a decade. Second time
in front of Tamara.

She was
wordless. But she stood up, wrapped her arms around my head and
pulled it into her shoulder.

I bawled like a
baby. My arms clutching at her back desperately. My whole torso
shaking with sobs. With fear.

With shame.

Tamara took it
like a champ. What a ridiculous sight it must’ve been. My three
hundred pound frame holding onto this tiny woman, weeping
uncontrollably and using her whole body for support.

Eventually it
stopped and I was able to regain some measure of my composure,
though none of my dignity. At Tamara’s suggestion I stumbled down
the hallway past her postage stamp sized living room and into the
impossibly tiny bathroom. The old claw foot porcelain tub might be
making a comeback in home decorations but no one was going to pay
money for this turn of the century, stained and cracked model. But
it had a shower head attachment that nearly reached my sternum.

Close
enough.

Hot water stung
all over my body as it sluiced at my skin. Rusty dried blood ran
off of me in rivulets and pooled at my feet before swirling down
the drain. My clenched fists and forearms braced my whole weight
against the cold tiles as I ducked my head as far as it would go,
letting the hot stream crash into my agonized neck and roll down my
back.

I was so damned
tired.

How did you see this playing out, Joe?
Parise’s
voice echoed mockingly in my head.

How
did
I see it playing
out?

I had no
idea.

Shame. I
couldn’t see past my own shame.

Shame at
being a part – however unwittingly, however small - in the goings
on at
Cowboy Shotz
.

Shame at not
seeing the clues for what they were, putting them together in
advance. Maybe being able to have helped some folks.

Shame at having
dragged Cathy, Tamara and my Mom into this mess.

Shame at
myself, for being a weakling and a coward. For letting this happen
to me and putting myself into this position.

Shame for
knowing what I was going to do next.

Chapter
39

When in doubt,
start with a joke.

“On the bright
side,” I began with as much forced cheer as I could muster. It
wasn’t a lot. “Those guys are gonna have the sorest knuckles when
they wake up in the morning.”

No one
laughed.

Never
said it was a
good
joke.

Tamara was
leaning against the tiny counter in her kitchen, the only space
available between her ancient stove and the stainless steel sink.
An oversized mug with a cartoon kitty-cat steamed in her hands from
where she looked at me over the brim. Her expression was sad.
Concerned.

I limped down
the hallway in my filthy jeans. Nothing like taking a cleansing
shower only to cram my sorry ass back into the same gross clothes
I’d just managed to peel off me. Still it wasn’t like Tamara had
anything I could borrow. And if she did I would seriously need to
re-evaluate my opinion of her and her social life.

Once in the
kitchen proper I grabbed my coat from where it had been hanging off
the back of a chair and managed not to wince from the effort. I
glanced around the tiny room.

Tamara motioned
with her head to the table where a second oversized mug – this one
pink and covered with flowery script spouting some vague platitude
about cheerful Monday mornings – steamed away.

“Cream and
sweetener are on the table.”

“Thanks,”
I said as my stomach rumbled gratefully. Odd that. A few hours
earlier I nearly yakked all over the barroom floor but now I was
ready for a pot of coffee and a trip to the nearest greasy spoon
for all the hash browns I could eat. My eyes continued to scan the
room, a flush adding to the welts and bruising on my face. “Have
you seen my shirt?”

“I threw it
out.” Seeing my surprised glance, Tamara shrugged slightly. “It was
torn to shreds. Barely anything left.”

My flush
deepened.

Self-conscious
of my body, I shrugged into my ratty leather coat and managed to
settle it over my shoulders with a minimum of groaning. “I liked
that shirt,” I muttered wearily.

We stood in
silence for a few minutes. The LED display on Tamara’s microwave
blinked and changed over to four o’clock.

What do you say
to someone who just picked you up when you’ve reached the lowest
point you can hit?

“Tamara … I …”
My hands opened and closed unconsciously, searching for words that
my brain couldn’t find.

Shit.

“Thanks,” I
muttered lamely. My hands finally found the fastenings on my
leather coat and began fiddling with the zipper and catch, trying
to get my belly covered up. “Just… “

Tamara’s warm
fingers closed over my fumbling hands and held them still. Her wide
eyes seemed so far away, but that’s no shocker considering the foot
and a bit of height difference between us.

She stared up
at me, just holding my hands. Keeping me still. Keeping me from
running away.

My heart
started to pound again.

Christ, this
couldn’t be happening. I looked like hell. My lip was split. Both
of my eyes were black, the left one almost completely swollen shut.
Two of my teeth were chipped. I had wicked bruising all along my
ribs and belly. Flesh was scraped raw in places. This was not the
time to change relationship status!

“Tamara … I …”
My voice was hoarse again, but for a different reason now.

“Where’s Mark?”
she asked quietly.

Wherever he was
he had the magical ability to cock block a man from great
distances.

Hoping I’d been
able to keep the conflicting emotions off my face I forced myself
to think about her question for a moment.

“I don’t
know.”

“He was working
though. You said he was working when you got there.”

“He was there.
Right when I came in.”

“Did he …Did he
get involved?”

I scoured what
was left of the scrambled mess inside my skull again, trying to
make sense of things.

“No.”

“Not at
all?”

“No.”

Her fingers
tightened on mine. Angry?

“That son of a
bitch.”

I blinked in
surprise. “Hang on …”

“I thought he
was your friend.”

“He
is
my
friend.”

“Then why he
wouldn’t help?”
“There could be a bunch of reasons, Tamara.”

“Name one.”

He was afraid
to get involved.

“He didn’t know
it was happening,” sounded better out loud and in my head. I
refused to believe that Mark could’ve just stood by while I was
getting the punching bag treatment. “Parise mentioned they were
shutting down for the night. He could’ve been upstairs. Hustled out
the back. Coulda been anything.”

Tamara didn’t
look convinced.

Can’t blame
her. I wasn’t convinced myself.

Her thumbs
traced along the ridge of my knuckles then. It felt nice.
Distracting me from my thoughts.

“Joe?” Her
voice was very quiet.

“Yeah?”

“What
happened?”

“What do you
mean?”

She shrugged.
“I mean … what happened? With you.”

It was my turn
to shrug. It hurt.
“I dunno. Got in over my head. Happens sometimes. I try to make a
difference, get involved in something and ….”

“No. I mean
what happened to the guy I saw deadlift six hundred pounds over
eighty times ten hours ago?”

Oh. That what
happened.

“Nothing
happened.”

“Nothing
happened?”

I shook my head
negatively.

“Doesn’t that
seem odd? Did you push yourself too far at the gym? From what you
said at the gang house …”

“The gang house
was a mistake,” I cut in bitterly, the taste of copper in the back
of my mouth again. The taste of blood. “I shouldn’t have gone
there. Cathy should never have been there.”
Tamara pressed on. “But you were able to handle those guys. Your
grip. Your …”
“I nearly got Cathy killed. Nearly got myself killed and left my
mom alone and sure to die without me around to help.” God, I was
angry. So fucking angry at myself. “What was I thinking? Those
camera guys and their talk about Seagal movies must’ve been playing
with my head. Thinking I was living some kinda movie just waltzing
into a gang hideout, ready to kick ass and chew bubblegum.”

“What? Joe,
you’re …. You were chewing bubblegum?”

“I ain’t
a fucking hero,” my raw voice powered through her ignorance of the
glory that is
They Live.
My
hands were trembling again, causing Tamara to tighten her grip on
my fingers. “I ain’t a good man. I’m a lousy college dropout. Some
shithead bouncer who can’t catch a fucking break who shoulda
remembered who the fuck he is.”

“Joe, it’s
okay…”

“Nothing’s
okay!” My voice made her flinch back, barking out louder than I’d
intended. But my blood was up and the pity party was in full swing.
“Nothing! Everything sucks. And now …”

I trailed off.
Shame piling up on me so heavy, forcing me to avert my eyes,
hanging my head.

Tamara’s
fingers squeezed mine again.

“What, Joe?
‘And now’ what?”

My stomach
rumbled even though part of me felt like it should want to throw
up.

“And now …” My
voice was low, barely a whisper. My fingers clenched into fists of
impotent rage. “Now I know something bad is going on. Girls are
being used and hurt by people I know. In a place that I worked hard
to protect.”

I could feel
Tamara’s eyes staring up at my face with great intensity. I didn’t
dare meet her gaze.