Jagger: A Caldwell Brothers Novel (2 page)

In the darkness of the night, I watch her from the alley beside my old building like a predator watches its prey. The girl who wouldn’t press charges or leave her abusive father’s shit hole. The girl who doesn’t leave that roach-infested scum hole or the man I witnessed in the aftermath of his savage, drunken abuse. The man might not have stopped hitting her. He might have even killed her that day, had I not busted through the door.

It makes my blood boil. She deserves better. All human beings deserve better. Some just don’t know it, and Tatiana is one of those people.

From outside, I can hear the drunken, vulgar way he speaks to her. I also hear the way she apologizes over and over. What I don’t hear is the crack of his fist, the slap of a belt, or the cries of pain that sometimes wake me in the dead of night after I’ve worked at Caldwell’s bar or drank enough to pass the fuck out so I wouldn’t be as tempted to swoop up the girl and carry her away, take her somewhere safe.

Coming here at nighttime was a bad idea. I am usually pumped up from an underground fight or from a day of pounding the bags at Chaps. Many times I have to hit something to stop myself from busting into that hellhole.

It started immediately—my obsession with the little pale, dark-haired girl. She is my morning coffee at Sips, my morning run, my morning trip to the nutrition store.

I watch her hang laundry from the dilapidated balcony of her second-floor apartment. Every day like clockwork at seven in the morning, she hangs out stark-white men’s briefs, T-shirts, Dickies pants—the green ones the school janitor used to wear—and her tiny, thin, faded clothes.

I wait while she goes back inside, knowing she will bring out the first of four rugs and beat them on the cracked back stairs with a broom. They are bigger than her. Hell, everything is. Regardless, every day, she will lug them out and in.

I have tried to gauge when her father leaves, guesstimate his schedule. However, the fucking piece of shit she calls
otetz
—“father,” in Russian—doesn’t have a schedule.

He isn’t hard to figure out, though. I can tell by the way she cowers when he speaks to her what kind of night she had. When she cringes or jumps at his voice, my blood boils. It’s late morning on those days. I can only imagine how he hit her, beat her, hurt her.

I went to Johnny, demanding he do something. He told me to leave it alone. He said he did what he could, but she refused to cooperate. He also said she doesn’t speak or understand much English. Social services will follow up, but we have to be realistic with their caseload. She might be legal before they get to her.

During the afternoons, I watch from the diner across the road, and, well, that’s when I knew she was lying to Johnny. How did I know? She spoke perfectly good English to me that night. Also, she read books, old books, the same ones over and over. I tried to figure out why she wouldn’t just get new ones from the library, why she read them over and over, but I quickly came to the realization that she doesn’t attend school.

I want to know what the books are, yet I’m pressing my luck simply by being around this part of town every day, and binoculars or walking close enough to see would be a bad call on my end.

I went to Johnny about that, too. He told me she was homeschooled. She took tests and shit through the mail and always aced them.

I pissed him off when I questioned his cop skills. How the fuck is he unaware she can speak English if she is acing tests? He merely told me, if the old man sees me, if I get caught, I will be violating the restraining order, and he will have no choice except to haul me in…again.

Once, I watched her while she sat and read on the stoop, my plan in place. An older woman who lives in one of the downstairs apartments walked up the steps and handed her a bag. Tatiana held her hand up and shook her head, giving her a sweet smile. The woman took her hand and clasped it around the bag, then walked in the door.

I watched as Tatiana opened the bag cautiously. Then her face nearly spilt in two when she saw the contents.

Pastries. It was pastries.

She looked around as if she would be in trouble if someone saw her. When she felt secure, she took them out and devoured them, one after another. Once finished, she stood, crinkled the bag, and then promptly set it in the garbage can in the alley.

After that, I brought back more. When the old lady isn’t around, I sneak them to the balcony myself and wait, hoping her old man won’t find the secret stash. It took me a couple times of seeing it to realize she doesn’t want her father to know. It also made me realize she must be half-starved.

Five months, five fucking months I have been dropping off a bag every week—sometimes two. A box of donuts, some fresh fruit, books, a bottle of vitamins, a first aid kit, and even some cash once in a while.

Once, I wrapped a fucking light-green ribbon around a bag, and from that day on, she now wears it in her hair, wrapped around her wrist, or looped in her belt. Then I left a second ribbon, and she uses that one as a shoestring.

Then I bought her some tennis shoes. I never see her wear them, though. I guess she doesn’t like them. As a result, the next week I left her slippers, the kind you can wear indoors and out. I suppose I have bad taste in shoes because she never wears those, either. She continues to wear the busted-up tennis shoes with the light-green ribbon…every…single…day.

What she has liked are the books. The smile that forms on her face when she gets one does something to me. She may not know where the books come from, but I do. Those smiles are undoubtedly meant for the little escape she gets by reading, but they are caused by me; therefore, they are all mine.

When I was younger, Momma read to us. We didn’t travel much—hell, we didn’t travel at all—but we escaped the hardest times through the books and the stories shared by Momma, stories of gallant knights, dragon slayers, pirates, thieves who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, and princes who saved the princesses from the towers they were held in.

Tatiana is a princess; there is no doubt in my mind. She is smart. Apparently, she even has test scores to prove it. After all, there’s no way in hell that fucker who is her father is doing her correspondence courses for her. The piece of shit can’t even form a complete sentence. She is hardworking and takes pride in the little she has. She is beautiful in the most natural way a woman can be. No painted face, no surgical enhancements could rival the beauty God above gave her. She wears her scars like jewelry. As sick as it sounds, to me, those are even more beautiful. They are so damn beautiful I have to remind myself over and over that she is only seventeen, not even legal. My cock obviously gives less than a fuck about that.

Tatiana has something in her, the one thing pirates, thieves, and abusive fuckers can never take away: hope. I see it in her every day. It’s an unmistakable look. You have to have been hopeless at one time in your life in order to recognize it. I do, and it’s fucking with me. It is fucking with me badly.

The wisp, the crack in the air, the belt comes down to slap my face, and then the blood pours as my cheek burns.

This one is deep.

I close my eyes and fight to keep my whimpers at bay. The louder I get, the harder he hits—a lesson I learned the hard way. Sometimes, I can’t stay quiet, but it’s not for lack of trying.

I think there are some butterfly bandages in the first aid kit I was given by the person who, for months now, has been leaving me gifts. First, it was the pastries. Oh, the deliciousness! Never in my life has something tasted so good. Then came books, shoes, the first aid kit, allergy medication, and vitamins. Yes, someone has left me vitamins. Someone in this great big world cares enough about my well-being to leave me vitamins.

At first, I wondered if it was my mother—little-girl wishes that won’t come true. She let him take me, and she hasn’t reached out in seventeen years, so why would she now? She chose the comforts of what she knew in Russia over taking a chance for the better here in America with Father and me. As much as I want her here, deep in my heart of hearts, I know she isn’t. Somehow, I just know it isn’t her.

Crack.

I move just as the belt slaps against my neck, and fear strangles me. I look up at him from hooded eyes. His menacing stance doesn’t waver as his bloodshot eyes tell the tale of a drunken animal.

Life has been like this for as long as I can remember. Every nuisance, every problem, every day, everything is my burden to bear. Until he finishes unleashing his anger or passes out, I have to take the blows.

I almost escaped once.

I close my eyes tightly, almost going back to the moment Caldwell busted through the door and beat my father until he was out cold. For the first time, someone was there. Like the men in the books I have read, the princes, the knights, the soldiers, and every other romantic hero, he was there to save me. Someone cared. The books aren’t always true. The cops, they aren’t heroes. Not one of them ever saved me. Jagger did, though, and he paid the price with the law, too.

Just like every other good thing, the moment of peace was fleeting. Knowing Father was waking, I rushed Caldwell out, hoping my father would let it go and remember it as a drunken haze the day after.

He didn’t.

Jagger Caldwell was arrested, went to jail, to court, and moved out…all because of me. The next morning, a police officer pulled me aside. Later, the social services worker did, too. Those were my chances to admit what life was like in
his
home.

Only I didn’t.

I let the fear overtake me.

Father has warned me, time and again, they can take me away. I can be sent back to Russia, where I have no one. If I don’t obey him, if I don’t stay with him, they will send me to live on the streets in a country I can’t remember, much less ever called home.

Rather than tell the truth or lie, I simply said nothing. It was easier in the moment to let them make assumptions. Clearly, they took the bait and accepted that I simply couldn’t speak or understand much English. This was and is easier than facing my reality.

I still have his business card. After all these months, I still have my link to Jagger Caldwell, the only person who ever stepped in to help the likes of me. Yes, I still have the tiny paper connecting our worlds.

With three more cracks of his belt, two of which I avoid, I am left huddling in the corner of the darkened hallway when he stops just as suddenly as he started.

“Clean up this place and yourself, Ana. Next time, make sure dinner is ready, not four minutes late.” Then he stomps away, probably to have another drink, while I carefully unfold my body.

Dinner was almost done. I had four minutes left to pull the bread out of the oven, but he was hungry, and his jaw had finally healed enough that he didn’t have to eat soup anymore.

I should have known he would be wanting dinner early or at least on time. I messed up, mismanaged my time, so I paid the price. Now I must salvage the evening as quickly as I can before he decides it will be more fun to have round two than to eat our now-cold meal.

Half crazy? Totally crazy? I don’t know which, but he is definitely not stable.

Before allowing him a moment to reconsider hitting me more, I get up slowly and painfully and move to my bathroom.

Our apartment is not the largest, even though we own the building. No, Father wouldn’t want to lose money. We have the smaller of the two-bedrooms, though we happen to have two bathrooms. Once I became a woman, he didn’t want to see “my mess,” as he called feminine products, in his garbage. Therefore, he rectified the bathroom situation by turning my old closet into a small bath. Now I have an armoire to replace the lacking closet and a small bathroom to call my own.

Inside the enclosure, I clean up my face. Looking at the gash, I’m reminded of the scar that is under my eye, going down my cheek, the one I got at seven from the very same belt he hit me with today, ten years later. I sigh.
Please let me have a chance to use the butterfly bandage and not gain another scar.

I am not a beautiful girl, not even average, but scars all have stories behind them, and I don’t ever want to reveal my truths.

Wishing I could get them from my room, I hold back, knowing Father can’t see the bandages. All of that will have to wait until he is asleep. He can’t ever know about my stash. He can’t find out that someone is giving me gifts.

I wince as the alcohol hits the open wound. The burn is strong as the chemical works to clean out microscopic germs. The cotton ball quickly turns pink as it absorbs my blood.

Ugh.

Dabbing on some petroleum jelly, I hope to cut down on the damage to my face.

After I sneak to my room, I find the right bottle and take out two of the little pink antihistamine pills. I’m not sure why they gave me this, except I was having a runny nose with some sneezing and coughing a few weeks back. The next bag that was given to me held this bottle. Taking one, I felt much better, but I also fell asleep.

I paid the price for being off-task that day as the nap won me over, but I learned two valuable lessons: One, don’t take these because I will sleep. Two, slip them in the right foods, and Father falls asleep for the night.

Moving to the kitchen, I prepare his plate of
pelmeni.
Father loves his traditional Russian food and I love antihistamine. Smiling on the inside, I quietly crush the small pills and insert the powder inside the dumpling’s meat filling. I cover the warm pelmeni with a dollop of sour cream and send up a wish that this works quickly. I need relief. I need to breathe for a moment, just one precious moment. It doesn’t take long before Father is shoveling down his meal. It takes even less time before he is passed out on the couch.

Without wasting any precious time, I go to my room, where I bandage my face. Then I rig my door so it makes noise should he wake up and come find me. This will give me just enough time to discard the bandage before he sees.

Changing into my nightclothes, I slip my feet into my special slippers, and warmth rushes through me. It’s more than the soft lining that comforts me; it is the knowledge that someone, anyone cares.

Father can never know. I hide away my treasures except the green ribbon. I move it from my hair to my wrist for bedtime. Father thinks it came off a grocery package, and I just wanted something girly.

Once again, assumptions saved me. Since he noticed the ribbon, I knew to keep my shoes, slippers, books, and every other treasure a secret. Father pays too close attention.

Fear. It’s a powerful thing. I fear the unknown. I fear that should I leave what could come will be worse than what I live right now. Father has told me what would happen to a girl like me. I’ve read the saying there’s always someone who has it worse. Well, what if I face more on the outside? What if it can be harsher outside of my father’s hold? Until I can find the courage, I can live inside my daydreams.

As I slide between the sheets, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to walk freely in my home in such nice slippers. I close my eyes and wiggle my toes. Does the person leaving me gifts know they are giving me absolute treasure?