Chloe sang along at the top of her lungs as her car radio blasted Rebel Yell on the speakers. The sunset was now a scarlet ribbon flying on the sea, and in the nearly-night gloom her headlights gobbled up the road ahead.
It had been a day. Pops had pulled her away from fixing a cute young mother's Toyota and tasked her to deliver a box of spare parts a client had left behind at the shop. That meant a long drive to Rockaway Beach, then an hour's wait for the client to get off her shift in a local Walmart. For all that, all Chloe got was a terse 'thank you' and no tip.
Tightwad dumbass. I fucking missed a Skype meeting with Max and those Storm Raven Indians for this. She looked forward to a lazy evening ahead, getting the recap from Rachel over onion rings and slushies. That was enough for her to push her truck faster down the highway.
Alone with her music and the open road, she was free to replay her favorite daydream. Tonight the images were so clear: a tiny Santa Monica apartment that's a stone's throw away from the beach. The smell of brewed coffee every morning, sunlight leaking through the curtains. Dew on the grass that had grown through the cracks in the walkway. Three pairs of sandals on the welcome mat. Sweltering days with fans on full blast, warm evenings with cool beer cans in hand. The dwindling noise of traffic from the window as the night wore on, a kiss and the warmth of a hand the last thing she'd remember before falling asleep.
She slowed down to follow the road as it curved right. A little further, the lights of a roadside bar reflected against her windshield. The owner had named his bar Rehab. ("Honey, where are you?" "I'm in Rehab." Har-har.) She'd visited it a few times in the past because it was only a couple of miles from Arcadia Bay and the doorman was sloppy with carding. She didn't care to go nowadays, not since some rough types started showing up.
She would have accelerated past it, but something caught her eye. On the far edge of the concrete parking lot, away from the lights of the bar, was an off-white RV with a blue stripe painted around it, its windows streaked with dust. Frank.
Chloe pumped the brakes and the truck came to a stop behind the RV. All the lights were out—Frank must have gone to the bar. Figures he'd be in town: Rachel was going to talk him into giving up his client list. She must've set a meeting ahead of their deadline with David, which was only four days away.
I should go, she thought, don't wanna keep Rachel waiting. But she shut the radio off and let her truck idle on the road as she stared at Frank's license plate.
Rachel would meet with Frank tomorrow, maybe even later tonight. Funny she didn't mention it. And though Chloe had racked her brain for days, she couldn't imagine what kind of pull Rachel would have over Frank for him to give away something that incriminating. Fuck no. Rachel would have to distract Frank and steal the logbook.
Chloe tapped steadily at her steering wheel as she mulled it over, and the more she thought about it, the less she liked it. Of all of them, who was better at stealing than her? She'd robbed a construction site that had four security guards and a chain-linked fence. How hard could it be to break into Frank's shitty RV?
Besides, the thought of leaving Rachel alone with Frank made her ill. The dude was alright, but he was still a dude and his eyes sometimes stuck to places they shouldn't.
Fuck, I'm really doing this. I'd rather part my hair with a chainsaw than let Rachel get in trouble with Frank.
She parked her truck so that the RV was between her and the bar. From her glove compartment, she grabbed her tools: lockpicks, some wire, and a screwdriver. Checking that the RV was unoccupied, she sprinted across the parking lot, past some cars and a row of Harley-Davidsons, and ducked beneath the closest window of the barroom. Slowly, she lifted up on her toes to peer inside.
The bar was only half full at this hour. Most of the patrons were drowning their sorrows at the bar. Those rough types were here tonight, playing darts and drinking beer by the far wall. Must be the ones who own the hogs.
It took her only a few seconds to find him. Frank was slouched alone in his seat, his back to the corner. Two empty bottles on the table were keeping him company; by the way he was sucking down on another beer, he was seconds away from getting a fourth. Knowing him, he might have two or three more before calling it a night. That might buy her half an hour or so. If she worked fast, she could be long gone before he returned to the trailer.
As she moved back from the window, her eyes fell upon some graffiti on the wall. Written in black letters was:
SHE DOES NOT BURN
"Cool story, bro," Chloe said. She fought off the sense of déjà vu creeping up her spine and focused. She had a job to do.
Chloe sprinted all the way back to the RV. The entrance was illuminated by the bar's lights and was far too exposed, so she strolled around to the far side of the trailer and found the window to the bedroom. A quick peek told her that Frank's only roommate, Pompidou, wasn't in there. Time to get to work.
As she fished out the wire from her jacket pocket, scuffling and barking rang out from the other side of the bedroom door. "Chill out, Pomp," Chloe cheerfully said. "It's me. I'm running an errand for Rachel."
The dog growled and scratched harder. "Dude, work with me here," Chloe muttered. Splaying her hands on the window, she pushed it to the left to test it. The latch held firm. She shook the window a bit. The pane gave a bit, creating a tiny gap.
She fit the wire into the gap. Right as she touched the latch, her phone rang.
Jesus, what the fuck now? She pulled out her phone to find Max's face on the screen. Crap, she completely forgot that Max was supposed to call at this time. She hit Answer and propped it against her shoulder.
"Hey, Max," she grunted.
"Hey Chloe! Rachel said you were delivering something. Are you back? Whatcha up to?"
"Who, me? Nothing much, just heading home—ah shit." The steel wire slipped through her fumbling fingers and into the grass. She bent to pick it up. "Sorry, bit busy here. Driving and stuff."
There was a pause on the other end. "Chloe?" Max said, sounding uncertain. "Where are you?"
"Where? That's...wait up." Pompidou started up again with the barking as she fit the wire through. It was getting tough to concentrate. "So uh, yeah, I exaggerated the part about driving home. I mean, I was on my way. Just got a little sidetracked."
"Okay...So what're you doing?"
Finally, the latch gave and she was able to slide the window open. "I'm going to solve all our problems, Max," Chloe said. "All in one go. But I'm gonna need both hands, so I'mma have to call you back, okay? Later!"
"Chloe wait! I—"
Chloe cut the call and slid her phone back into her pocket. Both Max and Rachel would be pissed with her when they found out, but as Rachel often said, it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
Pushing the blinders aside, she hoisted herself through the window—still a tight fit despite her slim physique. She managed to pull herself halfway through before losing her balance and face-planting onto the carpet, the blinders rattling like alarms. Pompidou went wild.
"Oof." Gripping the floor, Chloe wormed her way into the bedroom. Gotta work on my ingress. S'alright—better me than Rachel.
She got to her feet and looked around, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. The bedroom clearly belonged to a man who had given up on life. The bed had no cover, exposing a garish red mattress with black tiger stripes. Rumpled clothes, skin mags, and an overturned bottle of pills left the bed with zero discernable sleeping space. Empty beer cans and discarded pizza boxes lined the floor, and the walls were papered over with magazine pages. The only attractive thing that simultaneously looked out of place was the dreamcatcher hanging in the corner. The place reeked of sweat and stale beer.
Her phone buzzed again. Man, Max sure doesn't quit, thought Chloe. She could be a parole officer if she weren't too cute to be a cop.
Another barrage of barks from the closed door. I'm not gonna be able to work with Pompidou hassling me like that. A quick glance found a solution; she grabbed an open bag of beef jerky from the cupboard and opened the door a crack.
"Cooperate, you little bitch," she said, dropping it on the floor. The mutt immediately started chowing down on the treats. "Knew you'd see it my way."
With that, she turned on her phone's flashlight and gave the room a quick search. Nothing taped under the bed. The cupboards were too obvious a hiding place. She tapped each paper taped on the wall to check if it was concealing a hole, but no such luck, Warden.
Damn it, it might not even be in the bedroom. Checking her watch, she saw that fifteen minutes had come and gone. Would Frank call it a night this early?
Then her eyes fell on the grated vent by the door. There?
A closer look told her the screws had been removed. Frank had been shifting this out of the way. Her pulse thudding in her neck, Chloe pulled out the flathead screwdriver and inserted it into the top of the grate. A quick twist sent the cover clattering to the floor. Inside were some sheets of paper, along with a pair of photos. What's this? Chloe grinned. Something incriminating we can add to the client list? Did I hit paydirt or what?
She grabbed the photos and examined them under the light.
At first, she couldn't make out what she was looking at. Like her brain was blotting out parts of the entire image, leaving her with the impression of some half-naked girl dancing wildly on Frank's bed. It was only when her eyes landed on the blue feather earring that all the pieces started to fit. The dragon tattoo. The exact shade of brilliant blonde. The familiar, lovely curve of her nape.
Then came the vertigo, the sensation of the world slipping away beneath her feet.
It's a Photoshop! a voice in her mind shrieked. Frank must've forced her to pose for this! raged another. Ask Rachel, she can explain everything! came a third.
But Chloe's hands had taken on a life of their own. Moving slowly as if through frigid water, they reached for the pieces of paper in the vent. As Chloe read the two handwritten letters, she found she was losing all feeling from her skin, and every voice in her mind had dissolved into white noise.
Love u always, -RA-
Chloe read each one once, twice, then somewhere in the third attempt, she shut her eyes and bit down into her own hand to keep from screaming. A muffled, wounded lowing was all the sound she made.
The first time she kissed Rachel, it was under the streetlights, with ash falling around them like rain. Once, defying all eyes on them, they dared to kiss on Blackwell's front steps. There were the dozen more torrid midnight kisses Rachel gave her before disappearing out her bedroom window. Then that night out on the beach, sweeter than any dream, when Chloe tasted her tears.
She bit down harder on her hand. Now she was tasting blood.
And Max? Had she known all along? Is that why she—
Her gut couldn't take it anymore. The letters and pictures fell from her hand as she bent and vomited over Frank's bed. Everything from her mouth to throat burned with bile. Clutching the mattress, she hurled one more time before slumping to the floor, eyes stinging, mouth covered in sick, fists and forehead against the carpet like she was praying for the apocalypse.
These last three years, she had wanted no one but Rachel. Had taken for granted what Rachel felt for her. She'd never thought Rachel would trade her kisses to someone else.
But why the surprise? It was Rachel, who wants what she wants and always found a way to get it.
And I'm just a fool, Chloe thought, beating her head against the floor. Blind, useless, fucking fool who's always getting left behind.
For fuckin' Frank.
Her lips pulled back into a snarl. Beyond the door, Pompidou started up his barking again.
Alone at his table, Frank finished off the dredges of his fifth Miller bottle for the night and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The world had taken on a dream-like quality, and he was sitting on the edge of sleep.
The jukebox was on the fritz. For music, they got some asshole on the makeshift stage, playing guitar and singing some weird number about "skipping the light fandango," whatever the fuck that meant. Frank wondered when one of the patrons—probably Gunther and his gang—was going to tell him it's not that kind of bar.
He didn't want to come back to Arcadia Bay this soon, not even to sell his wares—God knows he wouldn't lack for customers. But she called him. She asked him to come after two months of silence. He wouldn't turn her down for anything. Couldn't. So here he was.
He'd be lying if he said his heart didn't go wild with hope. Maybe now, they could patch things up for good and get back together. He'd scared her off before, but he knew he wouldn't make the same mistake, not this time.
"That's your problem, kiddo," laughed Damon, lighting a cigar as he lounged on the opposite seat. He looked the same as he did five years ago—the well-trimmed beard, the silver glinting off of his fingers, the unbuttoned shirt that showed off his tattoos. "You fall in love too fuckin' quickly. You idolize women like they're the reason you breathe. Remember Portland? Shit, you hadn't even gotten your first tattoo and already you were in trouble because of some chick." He grasped Frank's wrist, for the moment owning his arm. "Fuck 'em and leave 'em, Frank. Before they put the leash on you."
Frank snorted a single laugh. "Thanks, bro. Wish I'd listened to you. Would've saved me a lot of trouble."
"You're not in trouble, kid, relax." It wasn't Damon talking anymore; the person sitting across from him was a heavy-set middle-aged man with a grey business suit and slicked-back hair that tried and failed to cover his bald spot. "I got an errand I'd like you to do."
"I don't do collections no more, boss," Frank replied. It was true; he didn't look nearly tough enough for that line of work. "And I thought you're out of the business."
"Didn't say it was a collection, did I?" his former boss said impatiently. "Yeah, I'm out. This one's got nothin' to do with drugs. I owe someone a favor and she's calling it in."
"She?"
The man pulled out a map from his pocket and slid it across the table. "I want you to go to Moapa, Nevada. I wrote the name and address there. There's a woman I need you to pick up and drive to your hometown. Yeah, that's right. Arcadia Bay."
"They don't got buses in Moapa?"
"I ain't hiring you to be a smartass. She explicitly said no public transport—too open. Her trip's supposed to be secret. Don't ask. The less you know, the better."
"You want me to drive a thousand miles to Nevada, pick up some broad I'm supposed to know nothing about, then drive her up another thousand miles back to Oregon?"
The man was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with reverence. "It's not just some broad, Frank. The reason I can retire in peace is because of what she did for me. I'm paying off a debt. Drive her, take care of her, be the best valet ever, and keep your mouth shut about it. Do this one thing and I'll make sure you get comped."
"Alright, got it."
"Good man. Now, get going. And tell that cocksucker buddy of yours Damon that if he ever shows up in Fresno again, I'll hang his balls from a traffic light."
Oh no, boss. I guarantee he'll never set foot there, ever. He raised his bottle and sucked it dry, wondering if he had it in him to go for six. He peered through the lip of the bottle for any stray drops, but it was empty, only the bottom staring at him like the lens of a telescope.
He hated how the music was so fucking sentimental.
Through the glass bottom, he saw a steering wheel. He set the bottle down and looked around. The bar had vanished; he was sitting in his RV, driving down the long stretch of desert highway, steadily heading north.
She sat in the passenger seat, back straight, her eyes fixed on the scenery. She had the most distracting shade of platinum blonde hair he'd ever seen, so much so his eyes kept getting drawn to it every time he looked right. More distracting than even the sleeve tattoo of a rose that crawled up her left arm, or the sunburst over her left chest.
"Glad you're the quiet type," were her first words to him, after they hadn't said anything for an hour.
"I like to talk when there's something to say," he replied without taking his eyes off the road.
"That's a good attitude for a young person to have." It made him wonder exactly how old she was. Older than him, surely, but not by much?
"It's a long way to the Oregon coast," he said. "Ever been?"
When she shook her head, he went on, "I'm from there. I can show you around if you like, Ms. Gearhardt."
"That would be very fine," she said. After a moment, she added, "And you can call me Sera."
Sera. Se-ra. Her eyes were an overcast gray, nothing at all like her glowing hair. He hadn't seen her smile once; he didn't think she could anymore, not genuinely. Something had happened to squeeze the last bit of joy out of her life. Likely had to do with the needle marks hidden by her sleeve tattoo.
"I'm Frank," he replied, turning his eyes back on the road. At some point, Pompidou came up to sniff her and lick her hand. Then, at last, she smiled.
They didn't share much else for the rest of the trip, not even when they had to stop at motels for the night. On silent agreement, they didn't talk about each other's lives. It seemed easiest that way. Instead, they had soft nights spent sitting quietly on outdoor tables or patios, beneath lamps that lured out the shyest of moths, sipping cold beers as they looked out at the lonely stretch of highway, the radio crooning in their ears.
It took three days to get to Arcadia Bay. When they arrived, he spent another day showing her around. Here was the Marina. Best place to eat was at The Two Whales. North of town was Culmination State Park. Sera seemed to like that place best; it "reminded her of home."
It felt strange to be responsible for someone he barely knew. And he'd never met a woman like her before, so alone, so silent with her pain.
Their last afternoon together, she met him near the American Rust junkyard. "Thank you for this, Frank," she told him, seemingly distracted. "You've been very kind. It's not something I see much of, lately."
"Don't mention it," he muttered. He wondered if he could sweet-talk her into staying with him, but he'd never been good at that. And she had this look on her face that told him no force on Earth could move her. "So what'll you do now?"
She said, "Now...there's someone I need to meet."
Against his better judgment, he asked, "Boyfriend?"
"Ex-husband. And he'll give me either the answer I want, or he'll give me trouble. And that will be that. Take care, Frank." She bought a small packet of weed from him before walking out his door.
Serves me right for asking. Frank thought that was the end of it. It wasn't, of course.
The thing with Rachel happened, Damon went ballistic, and during their fight Damon stabbed him. Frank thought he was going to die, but when he came to, he found himself in his own bed in the darkened RV, the knife wound in his guts bandaged up.
He picked himself up, found Damon in the abandoned sawmill, and...well, the details were hazy beyond that point. When he came to, he found himself back in the RV with Sera sitting by his bed, rebandaging his wound. She spoke and moved like she was underwater; Damon had made good on his threat of pumping her with so much heroin that "she'll be higher than a satellite." But she was lucid enough to save him, keeping him from bleeding out. That sheer fucking will of hers.
"What happened?" he croaked. "Where's Damon?"
The way she shook her head and avoided his gaze told him all he needed to know.
He pressed his palms against his eyes. "Why the fuck did this happen?"
Sera hesitated, then she said, "Rachel. She's my daughter. When she was young, I...I made mistakes. Her father, James, took her away and now won't let me see her. Damon, all this," she gestured around them, "was his doing."
James Amber, Frank realized. So he was the one who paid Damon to get rid of Sera.
Abruptly, she stood up. "Frank, I have to leave. For good this time."
"What about your daughter?"
"Rachel's in a good place, and I won't take it away from her. That's how I intend to pay her back for the years I wasn't there."
"If you go," he said, swallowing his panic, "if you go, she'll never know who you are now. You got out of a bad place. You made something of yourself. She should learn about that." He wished it were all altruistic, but in truth, he was terrified of living with the guilt of killing Damon. He hoped she would stay with him, that they could steal something good out of this clusterfuck.
Sera smiled—a sad, genuine thing, brittle as cigarette ash. She took a letter from her pocket and placed it on the bedside table. "You're a good man, Frank. Please, rest now. I'm truly sorry we won't meet again."
The last thing he saw before he passed out again was her turning and heading out his door.
Frank blinked. He was alone again, back in the corner of the bar, surrounded by raucous laughter and maudlin music. He put the bottle in his hand back down.
Sera spoke true: he never did see her again. She saved him then she disappeared. All he had left now was Rachel, a little piece of the sun for him to worship. He was grateful to have her, that she could actually care about a loser like him.
Yet how many nights had he woken up beside her, reaching out to touch that golden head, remembering how the light caught on Sera's hair.
"Sera," he muttered, drinking deep from an empty bottle. "Se-ra."
Night had fallen by the time he staggered out of Rehab. He'd been in there nearly an hour; the world was starting to spin and the nearby streetlamps had seemingly doubled in number. He couldn't sleep just yet, though. Pompidou had to go and do his business out on the grass. Frank hoped his roommate would give him a break and not crap all over the carpet again.
"Why the fuck did I park all the way across the lot?" he muttered to himself as he trudged across the pavement. Somehow he managed to negotiate the way to his RV. Dimly, he registered Pompidou's muffled barking, deep in the trailer. Shit, did I forget to close the bedroom door? Damn dog better not have peed on the bed.
He was reaching for his keys when the door burst open, slamming into his forehead. The shock sent him on his ass. Blinking rapidly, he rubbed his face and focused his gaze on the silhouette stepping out of his RV. "Who the hell...?
"Fucking fight me, Frank!" the figure screamed.
It took him all of five seconds to register that it was Chloe standing before him. Chloe with her leather jacket and stupid hanging suspenders, fists clenched at her sides, breathing like an angry bull.
"The fuck is this?" he growled, pushing himself back to his feet. It wasn't easy; the ground was wobbling beneath his toes. "The hell were you doing in my trailer?"
Chloe's only reply was to glare. Pompidou barked louder, clearly trapped in the bedroom.
Frank shook his head to clear it. "You better give me a good goddamn answer, Chloe, if you know what's—"
"YOU AND RACHEL!" Chloe spat. "YOU'VE BEEN FUCKING BEHIND MY BACK, YOU FUCKING DICKWAD!"
Frank looked at her like she was speaking in another language. What the hell has that got to do with anything?
"Listen, you little shit," he said, wiping the spittle from his mouth. "I dunno what your beef is and I don't care. I'd worry more about what the fuck was going on in your head when you decided to break into my home. I'm giving you ten seconds to apologize and pay me for everything you broke in there, or I snap your neck like a pencil."
He expected to cow the girl, but Chloe didn't even flinch. Teeth bared, she stalked forward until she was an arm's length away. "I got your apology right here." Then her palm cracked across his face.
Stars exploded through his vision and he had to blink them away. The alcohol blunted the pain, so he was more shocked than hurt, but—did she really hit me? Did she actually just hit me?
Chloe had been a pain in the ass for as long as he'd known her, a trying-too-hard punk who took his weed and left him out to dry for months on end. He didn't know why he always let her. And this was how she was gonna repay him?
Frank saw red. "Stupid bitch!" he roared and swung at her, a big, mean backhand that whistled through the air.
Except he missed—there were two Chloes standing side by side, and he must've picked the wrong one. Chloe barely leaned away as his hand whooshed past.
He was about to try again when her fist collided with his right ear. The blow rang his head like a bell. Frank reeled, almost tripping, and lashed out blindly. Again, he hit nothing—when he looked, Chloe was already standing two steps away.
"You call that fighting?" she taunted, raising her fists. "God, you're pathetic. I better put you out of your misery."
He barely heard her through the ringing in his ears, but the heat still came rushing to his face. "Fucking skank," he spat. "I'll lay your scrawny ass out on the street!"
"Let's see what you got, Frank! C'mon!"
He threw a jab at her, aiming to break her nose, but he must've been too slow. Like a dog baiting a bear, Chloe nimbly stepped aside before jamming her fist into his gut. It wasn't even a very strong punch, but it hit him right in the liver and knocked the air out of his lungs.
Christ, fuck, who taught her to punch like that? Oh, wait...I did. Momentarily breathless, he turned and tried to get his bearings. The world was swaying and his stomach felt like it was trying to leave through his mouth.
The pain was sobering him up now, helping him focus. He forced himself to think as he turned around, trying to get her in sight. He caught her silhouette bobbing around to his left. Roaring, he lunged at her, but this time held back on full power. Chloe avoided it again and tried to go in for another blow to his stomach. But he was ready this time. He blocked her hook with his bent elbow, then pulled back his right fist and punched her in the body before she could get away. He couldn't put all his weight into it, but it did its job; Chloe gasped and stumbled, clutching her ribs.
"How's that, you stinking little weedbag?" he spat, advancing on her. One more blow ought to finish her off, but he didn't get the chance. Chloe's foot lashed out and caught him in the stomach again. He cried out as he crumpled to his knees, hands wrapped around his torso. It gave Chloe time to scramble to her feet.
"You fucking bulldog!" he gasped. "The hell's wrong with you?"
"You know goddamn well what!" Chloe screamed with the last of her breath. "She's MINE, Frank! She's mine, and you can go choke on your own dick!"
So that's it, he thought. Stupid fucking kid's dreaming, thinks she's got something goin' on with Rachel. He actually started to laugh as he swayed back to his feet. I can use this.
"Speaking of choking on dicks," he guffawed, "have I got news for you."
Chloe's eyes blazed. "What did you say?"
"Rachel wants a man, Chloe. Always has, always will. She came to me, you understand? She pulled me into bed with her, and she was starving for it like you wouldn't believe."
"Shut up!"
"Fuck, she got sweeter each time I had her." He spread his hands, stood with his feet apart. "I got what she wants, Chloe, I got everything she needs. So you can take that and choke—"
Shrieking, Chloe charged. Though Frank was expecting it, the speed of it startled him—one second she was several feet away, the next she was barreling her shoulder full force into his chest. A gasp burst out of his lungs as he stumbled back.
Jesus, she's tryin' to kill me! Grimacing, he threw out his arms, managing to grab onto her torso as her momentum pushed him several steps back. His butt collided with something heavy and metal that gave way beneath their weight. Turning, he caught sight of a Harley crashing into the hog beside, causing a domino effect with the adjacent motorcycles. Fuck, this is Gunther's!
He was sprawled atop a leaning hog, the stench of motor oil filling his nose, potent as blood—but there was no time to worry about that. Chloe was still on top of him, raging incoherently, pounding her fists on his arms and neck. When she pulled back for another blow, he socked her in the jaw. Dazed, she fell flat on her back on the pavement.
Frank pushed himself upright, towering over her. When she tried to get up, he seized the top of her blue hair and slapped her hard. She cried out, tears spilling from her eyes.
"Say you're sorry!" he shouted. His backhand cracked across her other cheek. Blood flew from her lip. "Say it, you smart-mouth little asshole!" He shook her like he was punishing a kitten.
Chloe's eyes had turned to slits. Her bruised lips parted as she muttered something inaudible.
"What?" Frank demanded, bending lower. "I can't hear you!"
Chloe licked the blood from her lip. "Sorry, motherfucker."
Her fist collided with his genitals. The shock made Frank jump; the agony began when he hit the ground, radiating from his nuts and throughout his limbs. The pain was nothing short of orgasmic. Clutching at his groin, he face-planted into the dirt.
"Are—you—fucking—insane?" he wheezed, rolling about like a slow tumbleweed. "Why'd you—punch me—there?!"
Chloe wiped her mouth before wobbling to her feet. "Get the fuck up, Frank. I ain't done."
"Fuck off, stupid cunt! Punched me in the dick!"
"I said get up and fight me!" She raised her foot to kick his ribs.
A beer bottle came whirling out of nowhere, bouncing off the side of her head. Chloe dropped to the ground like a sandbag as the bottle smashed into the pavement beside her.
The heavy footsteps thudded from Frank's right, then leather boots and grease-covered jeans stepped into his view. "You look like you got yourself into some shit there, boy," said a gruff voice.
Fuck, no. Frank squeezed his eyes shut. Gunther.
He forced himself to his knees as a bald, beefy man in a ripped leather jacket and iron rings on each finger squatted down beside him. "You alright?" he said in an almost fatherly way. Frank heard chains rattling as three more members of Gunther's gang strode past them. One started righting the fallen hogs. The other two walked over to Chloe, who was clutching her head and moaning.
"I got this," Frank said. "Thanks, but this is my business. Let me handle it."
"Kind of hard to do that when you're on your knees clutching your pearls." Gunther scratched his beard and gazed at where Chloe was lying. His small eyes gleamed like steel bearings. "Our rides got banged up, Frank. That makes it our business now."
To Frank's alarm, the two bikers grabbed Chloe and hauled her to her feet. The tall one with the sideburns clamped both her arms in a full nelson. The other one stood in front of her, loosening up his arms.
"No," croaked Frank. "Don't touch her."
"Buddy," Gunther replied, "she damaged our bikes. We saw it, and you know we won't let that slide. She touched what's ours, she has to take her medicine."
Frank tried getting to his feet, but Gunther's heavy hand fell on his shoulder, pushing him back down. "You're a part of this too, you know. You should sit down and chill out. And while you're at it, think about how you'll be paying for our bikes. In cash or in kind."
"For fuck's sake, Gunther—"
"Hey Boss," shouted the gang member standing before Chloe. "This one's a girl!"
Gunther rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah Bobby, I know. It's the new millennium. Equal rights, equal fights. Make her take her medicine."
"Hear that girlie?" Frank could hear the grin in Bobby's voice. "I'm the doctor, and it's time for your medicine." As Chloe raised her head, he smashed his fist into her cheek.
"NO!" Fighting off Gunther's hand, Frank staggered to his feet. Before he could take more than a few lumbering steps, a kick to his lower back sent him sprawling onto the ground. He looked up in time to see Bobby punch Chloe in the stomach. She folded over; saliva shot out of her gaping mouth as she screamed without a sound.
"Thought I told you to sit down," laughed Gunther, walking over and setting his foot on Frank's spine. "I owe you for being our supplier, Frank, but you better behave now."
"Fuck you!" He fought one more time to get up. Gotta get to Chloe. Gotta —
He froze as a deafening peal of thunder shattered the air—it was like a nuke had exploded above them. Surprised, Gunther nearly lost his balance. The din paralyzed Bobby, who was gearing up for another punch.
When he could hear again, Frank realized that the wind was howling, swirling around them like it was alive, grabbing at them with frozen invisible hands. The gang was looking around in confusion as it buffeted them. Before anyone could move, a lightning bolt struck the closest Harley.
The bike went off like a bomb. The force hurled Frank onto the ground and he covered his ears to keep his head from splitting apart. Twisted bike parts rained around him, and he was dimly aware of Chloe falling back down as the gang members made a break for it. Gunther was way ahead, making a beeline for the bar.
But the wind wasn't done. A miniature tornado erupted at Bobby's feet; it picked him up and whirled him around like a toy, before hurling him screaming into the barroom window. The rushing air swallowed the crash. Another tornado picked up the flaming motorcycle and tossed it at the fleeing Gunther; he and his remaining flunkies had just enough time to scramble through the front door before the burning wreck crashed into the porch, blocking the way out. People in the bar began to scream.
What the fuck is happening? Frank wondered if he was going insane, or if the world was ending like his father often said it would. He put his head down and covered up with his hands, praying he wouldn't be next.
The wind died down as quickly as it came. When it was finally still, he lifted his eyes to look.
Someone was kneeling next to Chloe, cradling her in their arms. Frank blinked and rubbed his eyes. There was no mistake—it was Rachel.
Bleary, utterly confused, he got to his feet and staggered closer. Rachel was every bit as beautiful as the last time they met, almost glowing in the lamplight. She was clad in denim shorts and the same patchwork military jacket she wore the first time he laid eyes on her.
But how'd she get here? And how'd she know Chloe was here, anyway?
Chloe wasn't looking too good—she was still out cold, her jaw hanging slack and her left eye black and swollen from Bobby's treatment. Frank was already regretting tussling with her. Now that the adrenaline was fading, every muscle in his body ached like a bitch.
Rachel didn't notice him at all. She was propping Chloe's head up with her arm, caressing the girl's face. "Chloe?" she whispered, her voice raw and quivering. "Chloe, you're gonna be okay. Wake up, please. I've got you, it's gonna be alright."
"We should get her to a hospital," Frank said. But Rachel ignored him, focusing on touching Chloe's face and whispering her name. Watching them made Frank's stomach shrivel up for reasons he couldn't explain.
At last, Chloe shook awake. She opened her right eye—her other eye had fused itself shut—and looked around dazedly. When she caught sight of Rachel, she groaned and shoved her away.
"Chloe!" Rachel said, panicking. "Chloe please, let me—!"
"Fuck off!" The taller girl growled through gritted teeth, then tried to crawl away on her hands and knees. "Don't touch me."
"Chloe—" Rachel reached for her shoulders, but she slapped her hands away.
"Said don't touch me!" Chloe turned a hateful eye on her and Rachel shrank back. "D'you think I don't know what you did? With him? Do you? "
"Chloe," Rachel said, and her plea made the pit in Frank's belly yawn wider, "Please, it didn't mean anything. It's done. I never—you're what matters. Please—just listen to me."
"Bitch, I can't even look at you! You make me sick! D'you know what I fuckin' did for you? You have any idea what I did?!"
Rachel shook her head. "You're hurt. You need help, Chloe. Let me help." She reached for her arm to bring her to her feet. Chloe let her, but the moment she was upright, she reached for something dangling on Rachel's neck and yanked it off. Rachel gasped, eyes wide with shock.
"I don't need anything from you!" Chloe snarled as she hurled the thing away—it pinged as it struck the pavement. "I don't want anything! Leave me alone!" She turned and stumbled towards her truck. Seconds later, she was careening down the highway, heading into town.
Rachel remained where she was beneath the street lamps, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. Tears stood in her eyes. In this light, her skin and hair seemed to drain of color, like she was turning into a ghost.
Frank had never seen that look on her face. In their time together, she'd never once shown him anything but strength. And now he saw—Chloe had been telling the truth all along.
Still, he approached her. "Rachel," he began, "it isn't exactly the best time, but I'm glad you're here. C'mon, we should go before the cops—"
He fell silent as she whirled to face him. The cold fury in her gaze told him everything he needed to know even before she could say a word.
"Frank," she intoned, "we are DONE. If you were under any illusions, if it wasn't clear from last time, let me make it fucking clear—I don't want anything to do with you. Leave. Don't come back."
Every word he heard was a step on broken glass. That sheer fucking will. "So, you didn't invite me here to...it wasn't..." Frank licked his lips, nodding. All this time, he was just another one of her tools. Knowing that was by far more excruciating than any punch Chloe had dished out.
And yet, he also felt relieved. With the end came certainty. If she was discarding him like yesterday's garbage, he had no reason to hold on to anything of hers. He could lay this sack of bricks down and be done with it.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out Sera's letter.
In her truck, Chloe pulled out her phone and hit Max's number. It was precarious enough driving with only one working eye, but all her patience had evaporated. She had to know. She was done with not knowing anything about anything.
Max answered after the first ring. "Chloe?" she said tentatively.
"Max." Chloe gritted her teeth. Every breath was torture, every word made her ribs sing, but she forced herself to say, "Did you know?"
"Chloe, what happened? I—"
"Did you fucking know about Rachel and Frank, Max?"
Silence from the other end. Et tu, Maxine? But Chloe had to hear it.
"For Chrissakes, Max, will you GIVE ME A FUCKING STRAIGHT ANSWER! DID—YOU—KNOW?"
Barely above a whisper: "Yes."
The breath fled from Chloe's lungs. "Figures," she muttered. "So she got to you too. I really was the only one—the one who didn't—"
"Chloe, please, I'm so—"
But Chloe cut the call, turning off her phone before tossing it onto the dash. She floored the accelerator. The truck hurtled deep into the dark.
Rachel frowned down at the piece of paper in Frank's hand. When she didn't move, he pushed it closer to her. "Take it. It's yours."
It's a trap, a voice in her head warned. Walk away without looking back, like you always said you would. Go.
Seeing her hesitate, Frank sighed. "It's from Sera."
That last word made her heart skip a beat. "If that's true, why do you have it?"
He shrugged. "Three years ago, she saved my life. Kept me from bleeding out. In return, she made me promise to keep her secrets. Well, I'm done with that. So go ahead, take it. Then you won't ever see me again."
He's lying, her mind shrieked. But she read his eyes; they were still, the look of a man who'd resigned himself.
Slowly, Rachel reached for the letter.