james —
no hell but the one we make
••• WHERE: St. Peter’s ••• CLOSED to @stfreds
said we’re both tied to our own trees, cut me loose, cut me loose. little beast, are you wild as me? left some teeth in your enemies…
It’s getting harder now.
Not that it was ever easy, this razor’s edge existence he’s been livin’ for over a year. All this betrayal is the antithesis of him. Every traitorous act is a viper bite pumping venom to his very core. By now his soul is necrotic, rot-black and fang blistered. He reckons if ever it managed to limp its putrefied ass up to the pearly gates, God would smite him down like scraping a slug off his shoe, lip curled in repulsion.
Hell, at this rate, even the devil won’t have him when he’s through.
Yesterday it hit a point of no return for him. Up ‘till now everything they’ve asked him to do, rotten as it’s been, has only involved the active members of Valencia’s street crew. Folks who signed on for this life of wicked deeds, knowing full well that violent delights have violent ends. It doesn’t make it easy on him, but he can justify it.
This, what they’ve asked for now– there’s no justifying it, no matter how he tries.
‘Cause here’s what he knows: if his brothers were aware of what he’s been asked to do, they’d tell him not to fuckin’ do it. There’s not a man among ‘em who wouldn’t die to spare an innocent woman’s life, that’s certain. So if he goes through with this, he can’t say it’s for them anymore. If he really does this, it’ll be because he don’t wanna walk this world without his brothers at his back. That’s on him. It’ll be pure selfish, pure cowardice, pure hemotoxic rattlesnake venom rot to whatever’s left of his soul.
But what’s it worth to have a soul if it means his brothers gotta die for him to keep it?
He knew her soon as he saw the photo flashed on a phone screen at him. He played dumb, pretended he’d never seen her before, but he has. The blue light beams of her eyes, two shining rings with a soft halo glow, have met his across a bar as she poured him his glasses of whiskey. Is there anything sweeter than being handed a drink poured by a beautiful woman? It feels like love, he bets, but he don’t know what a woman’s love feels like for reference. There’s something extra sweet about the way she serves his whiskey to him. He could swear when he brings it to his lips, the Jack she poured him smells like frankincense and myrrh, tastes like orange peels and fields of strawberry blonde wheat.
There’s a reason why they want her. And it sure as fuck ain’t a good one.
He’s got no clue what he’s gonna do about this. He can buy some time pretending he ain’t found her yet, but it won’t last forever. Eventually he’ll have to tell them something. He considered just strolling on in here tonight, leaning over the bar and saying to her, “you gotta run, lil ember, and don’t ever look back.” But what if she don’t go? What if this whole thing isn’t what he thinks it is? He’s gotta get closer. He’s gotta get a clearer picture on it all.
The bar is a warm brown enclave, stained wood floor, orange neon glow through the black windows. A TV over the bar flashes a Ford commercial, a cherry red pickup carving through a mountain road. And there she is behind the lacquered black bar top, the double blue rings of her eyes gleaming in the dim. She’s backlit by the Ford commercial, casting a glow around her like a cherry red mandorla, bloody crimson on her bright amber hair. It’s not a good sign. He needs a fuckin’ drink.
He’s got a seat he prefers, the stool two in from the end of the bar closest to the door. He likes the window view. He likes to be close to the exit. He likes that when she comes down here, there’s usually no one around but him.
If he seems on edge, he reckons she won’t think much of it. No doubt there’s a lot of folks who come in here looking for something to dull them down. He takes his seat and reaches over the bar to help himself to a toothpick, shoving it in the corner of his mouth to gnaw out the constant craving for a cigarette. He waits for her to come to him, chomping down on the splintering wood between his molars.
Run, ember, run, he begs.
But she’s already makin’ her way over.
The smile he forces into the corner of his mouth likely ain’t what she’s used to seeing from him. So far he’s only come to this bar in his best moods, ‘cause he feels less guilty about having a bad attitude at Lewis’ and this blue-eyed clementine is hard not to smile at. But the half-hearted attempt don’t reach his eyes this time, and it’s gone almost as soon as it appears.
“Evenin’, darlin’,” he says to her. He doesn’t bother ordering– he never drinks anything but Jack, and lots of it. Seems like it’d be taking her for a fool to mention it at all. “Tell me, what’d’you reckon is your favorite thing that happened today? Gimme a good one.” He doesn’t specify. Could be something funny, something unusual, something happy or exciting. A favorite thing that happened today could be anything, really. He’s curious what that would mean for her.
some days are easier. today has been a million-pound weigh cracking the bones on her chest. no clear reason behind it, no justification for the ever constant pounding of her heart: this morning, waking up, she could swear she smelled burning in the air — she asked the patrons, too. any news of a fire? no fred, they all smiled. it’s all in your head, girl.
perhaps it is all in her head, after all. perhaps a million different variables have piled up, exotic ingredients mixed up to give off a sense of doom. there’s that article on the news, her uncle’s face plastered in the corner like some demonic figure leaking out of a screen. there’s the secrets she’s been keeping, personal hauntings that must not be voiced out loud. there’s the fact she hasn’t heard jay in a week, now, and whatever sense of safety she’d found in their relationship, the way it had turned to a shelter — it all feels a lot like quicksand now. shifting quickly beneath her feet, wondering: how steady, really, are you?
most of all, perhaps, it’s the hours she’s been putting in. whole days spent behind the counter, because st. peter’s, at least, still feels like home. the embodiment of the life she’s picked in red ridge: between blurred lines, a smudge between the clear-cut shapes that should represent good and evil. she’d rather stay there, a single dot on the line — where evil can’t reach and she can’t delude herself with good, either. but the hours are long, and her back has been feeling much older than thirty-three, lately — it takes her just a bit of time to focus her attention on the silhouette at the end of the counter (the only one: that, too, is odd for st. peter’s).
her smile is the lazy grimace of a close-to-lifeless body. she’d like to burn brighter, offer him, as well as any other customer, that freddie dawson brand of hospitality that made her so fucking good behind a counter. best she can do is smile, hook a towel over her right shoulder and lean over the counter, a hand lazily trying to hold her head up right. his question is more an enigma, and if she stops to really think about it, she will see the answer is dreaded and pitiful: her mind is clever in avoiding corners it doesn’t need to wander into, so she turns to irony instead: a light, ash-flavored laugh coming out of her in gentle ripples, she turns away and looks to the rest of the bar for a clue. well, she woke up today: that’s gotta count in the toll of favorite things, doesn’t it?
“found a dollar bill in my dirty laundry, does that count?” she turns to him now, an eyebrow quirked (excessive expressionism to make up for how half-alive she looks). “‘m’afraid you’re just gonna find sad, boring stories on this side of the counter, buddy”. a sharp sigh, an apologetic smile — she wishes she could offer more, really. she used to be good at this. all smiles and kind words, at the right time, offering the kind of perspective that turns someone’s day around. she’s turning herself around instead, going crazy in a trap of her own doing. pulling back, fred leaves a hand on the edge of the counter, as if she needed it to hold herself up — as if she could crumble without it. she’s only looking at him now: there’s something about him, like perhaps he shares that same nervousness. maybe there is, in fact, a fire. maybe their noses are just better. for a second she almost wants to ask him: that look on your face, is it because you feel it too? it’s real, isn’t it? something’s happening. something’s burning.
freddie sucks in a breath, pulls herself together as best as she can — then smile. “you want a drink while you play philosopher? the usual, yeah?”






