Captured by the Mafia Bad Boy

2

There is a loud thump, and then a crash as something breaks.

I hold my breath. Please God, not the coffee pot.

“I’m done. You hear me? I’m done,” my mother sobs.

“Really? And what the hell are you gonna do about it?” Lucas’s voice, even four six-packs in, never slurs. His mind and temper seem to sharpen instead of dull. He’s what my mother calls a “mean-drunk.” He’s what I call dangerous.

The front door slams, shaking the entire trailer. My mother’s footsteps crunch on the gravel at a good pace despite the trademark four-inch heels she wears. It isn’t until the sound of a car engine roaring to life and tires peeling out the dirt drive that I sit up in bed, eyes wide, throat tight.

She’s leaving?

“Stella, get back here! Don’t you leave. Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

She never leaves me alone when Lucas is drunk. That’s our unspoken rule. Her man, her problem.

Apparently, only unspoken to me.

There’s the sound of heavy footsteps chasing after, and a crash from what I assume is a beer can being thrown. My gaze shoots to the bedroom door, checking again that it’s locked.

Even before the screen door bangs shut for the third time, I’ve thrown the covers off and start throwing things into my backpack—car keys, wallet, phone, underwear, hairbrush.

I hear Lucas in the kitchen. The fridge opens. Another beer tab cracks. Then footsteps past the TV and down the hall.

In nothing more than underwear and a tank top, I still. Head up, I hold my breath like the bunnies do when caught in the yard as a car pulls up.

Silence. Both of us waiting for him to make a decision. I can almost hear the clogs in Lucas’s brain moving. Weighing the pros and cons. His wants against the effort.

I’m not his daughter, but I am my mother’s. And before life had hardened her soft lines and weighed the corners of her mouth down, she’d been a looker. Although I’m nowhere near as exotic as my mother—dark, straight hair, slanted turquoise-green eyes, strong cheekbones, and a 50’s playboy body—I hadn’t gotten all my looks from my plain, pasty-white father.

I’ve seen Lucas looking at me. Seen the way his black eyes follow me behind his half-closed lids. Seen him swallow as if his mouth is watering. Seen him shift his belt buckle to create room in his jeans.

Go back. Go back to your recliner. Back to your TV. Laugh at the Geico commercials.

I stare at the thin line of light shining from under my door and hold my breath. Something creaks in the hallway. A footstep for sure, but going forward or back?

Forward or back? Closer or farther? Which way are you going, dickhead?

Then the light under my door is broken by two shadows—leg-width apart.

My heart slams against my chest, and I jerk into action. Jeans are shoved into my bag, shoes under my arm, and I run toward my window. As quickly and quietly as possible, I slide the window open.

“Franki? You awake?”

Not quiet enough.

I throw my shoes out the window. My bag follows.

The door knob wiggles; the new lock I installed holds—for now. “Franki, open up!”

I heave myself up, balancing on the windowsill, using my legs and bare feet to try and push through.

Thump! The door crashes into the wall. Time’s up.

Lucas’s hands—thick, rough, cold—are on me as they pull me back into the room. Into the trailer.

I kick. My foot finds the soft place in his belly, and he doubles over in pain. But it isn’t enough. Not nearly. I’m knocked to the floor, and my breath leaves as well as all thoughts of screaming.

No one to hear me anyway.

He’s on top of me now. One hand pinning both of mine, I now wish I’d done less packing and more dressing. A pair of jeans gives a little more of an obstacle than a pair of white undies. I kick, twist, bite.

He slaps me across the face so hard my brain sloshes around in my skull.

When I can finally refocus, I’m naked from the waist down and he’s released me to unbuckle his belt. The Texas belt buckle, big and gold, is apparently tricky to undo with just one hand.

An iron taste of blood fills my mouth. My vision is static like the poor reception on the TV. The pounding of my heart radiates through my whole body, but I can’t feel my arms, legs, or fingers. They aren’t mine. They’re on someone else’s body. Someone else altogether.

I turn away and see the door. Or what remains of it. A new lock I’d installed myself. The dead bolt had held, the shiny brass still in the doorjamb, but the fake wood had broken up all around it. Funny, who’d put a deadbolt in a cardboard door?

A deadbolt in a trailer with cardboard doors, wood wallpaper, crooked picture frames, ugly carpet, and a knife somewhere between my mattress and bedspring.

Lucas is on top of me now, fumbling between his legs, searching for any resemblance of his manhood.

I look to the right and see my mattress just above me. And a hand, one that looks like mine, reaches up and closes around something smooth and strong.

The handle is warm, the blade a dull gray. Then I blink, and when I open my eyes, I’m surprised to find the knife buried to the handle in his fat belly. From the look on his face, Lucas is also.

I don’t stop there. Can’t. I keep stabbing and stabbing. Even as he falls on top of me. Even as his shirt turns red, and my hands grow slick with blood. Even when my arm aches, and I can’t lift it anymore. Not until his back is full of holes, and my breath so harsh it burns my throat do I stop.

My eyelids flutter close, and I imagine that I’m like the wild flowers that blow out past our yard, out of these backwoods, and out of this small town for good.