L.L. Foster - The Acceptance

Lingering on the periphery of an insane rage, Luther whispered, “You are dumber than you look, Jimbo, do you know that?”

“What? It’s the truth, I swear.”

Shaking his head, as much at himself and his absurd code of chivalry as Jimbo’s obtuse sense of propriety, Luther said, “Call her one more name, make one more slur, and I’ll—”

“God damn it, man, I can’t think with you threatening me!”

Luther fought for control. “Carver hurt the girl?”

“Broke her jaw, I think. It wasn’t real bad. I’ve seen worse beatings.”

“I take it you didn’t offer to help her?”

“Hell no, man. You don’t get between that shit. And I figured my girls could learn some from it, ya know? But sometime later that night, Carver was attacked.”

“By whom?”

Jimbo shook his head. “Carver ain’t sayin’, and the whore he was with didn’t see nothin’ before he kicked her out of his bed. Word on the street is that Carver was lying there, taking a snooze after a good plow, and boom !”

“Boom?”

Jimbo shrugged. “His girls found him tied to the bed, sliced up all over. Not deep cuts, but a pool of his own blood had soaked into the mattress. His face, his body, hell, even his dick was worked over.” As Jimbo spoke, an oily, nervous sweat showed on his brow. “That was some fucked-up shit, man.”

Luther had a hard time containing himself. He knew it was Gaby, had heard her practically admit as much. “He’s lucky that whoever it was didn’t kill him.”

Digging out a smoke, Jimbo said, “Lucky hell. It was a damn threat to everyone. I ain’t seen him, but I hear that Carver is still shook up. He’s lying low until he gets healed, and then he’ll want revenge.”

Against Gaby.

Grit scratched at Luther’s tired eyes and acid burned his stomach. Hoping for a convincing bluff, Luther asked, “What’s this have to do with Gabrielle Cody?”

Jimbo moved a few cautious steps away from Luther. “I don’t know what it is, but that girl has everyone spooked. She goes around like a fucking ghost, unafraid, silent in that damned eerie way of hers, and everyone assumes she had something to do with Carver’s attack. Some think she put a hex, or some shit, on him, and others think she hired someone to cut him up. All I know is, if you care about her, you ought to get her away from here before Carver does a number on her.”

If Luther tried to take Gaby away, what would she do? For certain she’d fight him. Independence was the strong-hold of her nature. “I told you what would happen to you, Jimbo, if anyone hurts her.”

“Hell, man, I’m leaving psycho chick alone.” With trembling hands, he lit the cigarette and sucked hard, making the tip glow hot. He relaxed on the tangible effects of smoke filling his lungs, nicotine polluting his system. “Look, cop, the woman . . . Gaby—”

“No,” Luther warned. “Don’t say her name. I like hearing it from your mouth even less than the insults.”

“What the fuck, man!” Jimbo exploded. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Finish.”

“She— that woman —keeps the johns from hurting my girls so they can keep working. Far as I’m concerned, if she hadn’t pissed off the wrong people, she could’ve hung around. But she’s made enemies and that means I have to look after things.”

A group of thugs came around the corner. They were still too far away to see much when Jimbo threw down the cigarette. “That’s my posse. I gotta split.”

Luther pulled out a business card and held it out to him. “Don’t forget what I said, Jimbo. If you hear anything at all about Carver, I want to know.”

“Yeah, right.” He snatched the card and slid it into his pocket. “If you want to check her room, it’s all the way at the top, in the attic.”

That prickly animosity resurfaced. “How is it you know that?”

“Fuck no, man, don’t make wrong assumptions. The bitches knock on her door sometimes, but I keep my distance.” Jimbo started away. “That attic wasn’t livable before she moved in. It sure as hell ain’t a place to visit now that she’s in there.”

Dismissing Jimbo from his thoughts, Luther turned and went into the building. Dim lighting left long shadows in the foyer. Two metal-legged chairs with cracked plastic seats sat at the bottom of a tall staircase. Under the front window sat a loveseat, and on that was a woman curled into the corner, sleeping soundly, her clothes as much off as on.

A wooden desk, rotted with age, carved with graffiti and sticky with unknown substances served as a check-in point. Behind it, keys on plastic rings hung from a pegboard on the wall. All but three keys were missing from their hooks.

No one sat at the front desk, and Luther didn’t bother ringing the bell. Taking the dark stairs two at a time, he went up. He heard coarse laughter, a few squeals, some crying. Bedsprings squeaked. The sound of a slap rang out.

His stomach cramped.

He didn’t want Gaby here.

But where else did she belong? He didn’t know her well enough to say.

At the top of three stories, only a narrow staircase remained. It led to the attic.

Gaby had chosen to be here. There had to be a reason.

This time, before she escaped him again, Luther would get some answers—one way or another.

As she traversed through dreary shadows, avoiding streetlamps and caustic denizens, Gaby festered on her damning misconceptions. So much wasted time, so many spent emotions that she didn’t have to spare.

After seeing Morty die—or thinking he had died—she’d given up writing her popular graphic novels. Because Mort had served as her contact to the publishing world, writing and illustrating the novels seemed pointless. Sending the completed novels to an unknown source could initiate unwanted exposure.

It was too risky.

But without an outlet for her pain and despair, a yawning, caliginous wasteland had split open inside her. At times it had felt alive, devouring her one painful bite at a time.

Knowing that Morty lived opened up endless possibilities. Stories ripe with both fabrication and fact winged through her beleaguered consciousness. An extant drive to put pen to paper conflicted with the urgent need to see Mort, to have his survival as a visual fact, not just a repeated truth.

A loud voice shattered her ruminations.

Up ahead, uncaring of who might see, an obese woman snatched up a stocky kid and shook him hard, berating him for following her.

The boy looked about ten.

He wanted his mamma; she wanted a john, possibly to pay for food, more likely because she was no more than a base whore lacking emotion for the well-being of her child.

Gaby’s heart wrenched, and she fought the urge to intercede. Only the truth that she couldn’t change the woman kept her away.

Sinking back against a wall, Gaby watched as the boy turned and, with a broken expression, ran away.

Just as she, at that age, had so many times run—even when there’d been nowhere to run to. Not until she’d been almost grown. Not until . . . Father.

For one awful, desperate moment, their initial meeting crept into her memories. If only she’d known him when she was that young and needy. If only he’d been there to help her deal with the duties heaped on an adolescent paladin.

But it wasn’t until she’d turned seventeen and was on the streets alone that Father found her. Whenever she thought of those desperate times, she again tasted the fear that filmed her throat and left its burning scum on her teeth and tongue. She felt the rippling agony of demand for action, and the incomprehension of what to do about it.

Father had stumbled upon her in her weakened state, and to his credit, he’d tried to help.