Indigo: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #2 (37 page)

I know Holden is dying to say something, dying to put the both of them in their place, yet he says nothing. And it’s as if, with his silence, he is trying to teach me something;
don’t stand up to the master for fear he should put you off your feet.

Ashtray glues lashes to my eyelids. She brushes on eye shadow and spots my lips with a pink gloss. I rub them together. Next, she pulls out a curling iron and goes to work on my chlorine-damaged hair. Curls pop into my field of vision as my hair is transformed. Ashtray is a hair genius, although it pains me to give her credit as one.

Finally, all my curls are set in place, my eyes made violet by the help of smoky eye shadow, and my ensemble as trashy as if I were employed at a whorehouse. Holden grins and I force a smile for him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“No, I’m not,” I say.

“You didn’t let me finish…you’re beautiful without all the makeup and curls. Cairen is too stupid to see that.” His hand splits my curls and they multiply, ringing my face like a lion’s mane. “The party is far, it’s in Tampa. We have to leave soon. Why don’t you eat something? There’s a fridge full of food against the back wall.”

“Okay, that sounds good… thanks Holden… for always looking out for me.”

“It’s nothing, Bailey.” He half smiles.

My corset binds tighter as I rise, but I can breathe better when standing. I take slow steps to the refrigerator. I need all the air I can get and running will only take my breath away quicker.

Crossing the large store building, inspecting tables of designer clothes, games consoles, small kitchen appliances and mp3 players, an idea is sparked like the lighting of a match. A flame setting light on a problem that has bothered me for some time.
Thomas and Starkey
.

These stolen items could help them. They could live here in this cool store building with fans blowing from every direction. Eat from this refrigerator and keep Starkey’s milk cold. I want to make up for mugging the old woman, even if I’m not the one who physically did it. One good deed to cancel out the bad.

I slap together two Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches, one for me and one for Holden. I was going to make a third for Alana, but there was only one slice of bread left. If she’s hungry she can have half of mine.

Holding two water bottles under one arm and squishing the sandwiches under the other, I walk back to my prepping station. Alana is sitting in my chair while Ashtray fixes her hair for the party.

“I made you a sandwich,” I say to Holden. “’Lana, are you hungry, we can split mine?”

“No, I’m full, but thanks, that was sweet of you,” she says.

“You made me a sandwich? God, you really are an angel on Earth! Spencer some type of psycho, or something? Dumping a woman who makes sandwiches for him.” He rips into the sandwich with his teeth and I do the same.

We watch Ashtray work her magic on Alana, making tiny comments about how well the eye shadow brings out the green in her eyes, or that her bangs should be clipped away from her face.

Holden and I are still trying to get the last bit of peanut butter off the roofs of our mouths when Cairen comes over and tells us it’s time to leave for the party.

“I want to take your bike, Indigo. I’ll drive,” Cairen says.

“It’s out of gas,” I say happily. No way am I letting his nasty-ass sit on my bike. And, I’m certainly not going to give him the satisfaction of my arms wrapped around his waist.

“Okay,” he says, “we’ll take my car.”

I lean against one of the tables, flip my hair behind my back and look to Holden for guidance, as I often do now. I nod my head at Cairen, beckoning for Holden to say something.

“Ummm,” he says, buying time as he thinks of what to say. “How about you take Ashten, Alana, and Don in your car? Bailey and I can take the van.”

“How about you stop undermining me!” Cairen barks. “She’s my escort, she needs to arrive with me.”

“She
will
escort you; I’ll give her to you as soon as we all get there. You can walk through the door together.”

Cairen rolls his eyes and closes in on Holden. “Fine, but if you don’t have her there in time…I don’t even need to tell you what I’ll do. You already know.”

“I know,” he says. “She’ll be there. We will be the ones waiting on
you
.”

Cairen leads us out of the store; several Allies, Holden and I included, converge into a conga-type line. We climb up the fence like a lounge of lizards. Feet pound against the street and slap away. Each person going a different direction, except for the core Allies, who cluster together and walk to Cairen’s car, parked in an abandoned lot.

Holden and I get into his van. I look out my window at the Allie and wish that this time we leave it, that we wouldn’t have to go back. I lie my head on the driver’s seat armrest. Holden tousles my hair and says that I can sleep if I want to.

I’m dead tired but refuse to sleep, for fear I should wake up confused and be thrust into a party full of Apocys. No, that feeling is too frightening to wake up to—it’s better I face it with eyes wide open. That’s how I banish all my nightmares, with eyes wide open
.

Holden thinks I’m sleeping, but actually my eyes are open. I’ve been hiding behind my blue bangs for most the ride. I sit bolt upright, like I have been jolted awake by the van running over new ground. We stop on the front lawn of a house that I assume is frequented by drug addicts on a daily basis. All the way up to the front door, the grass is littered with beer bottles and crushed red Solo cups. It’s as if the party inside exploded and spewed out the windows and door.

We spot Cairen parking his car in the neighbor’s driveway. I squeeze Holden’s hand as he makes his way to us. “Don’t worry, you’re not leaving my sight,” Holden says.

A lump starts to form in my throat, my mouth filling with saliva and eyes with hot tears, and then I am jerked from Holden, Cairen’s meaty palm like a blood pressure cuff tightening around my arm. I squeeze my own hand around itself; my blood pressure is
soaring
.

Cairen tells me to relax. I take in as big a breath as my corset will allow.

“It’s only for a few hours, Indigo. You can stay with Holden after I show you off. Just stop looking so miserable. Smile and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”

“Okay, sir.” I seek out a smile, an old one I might have used earlier in the day, when I was actually happy.

I kick Corona bottles and watch them spin like I’m playing
Spin the Bottle
with myself. Cairen pulls me along. Holden and Alana hold hands behind me. I look over my shoulder and register the fear on Alana’s face, indistinguishable to anyone who hasn’t known her for years. That tiny turtle-like smile that others would blow off as overexcitement.

The windows are boarded up and painted black. Stairs, which once led up to the door, fall straight into the ground—a staircase to hell. Cairen lifts me over the rickety steps. He opens up the door and I half expect the party to come spilling out on top of me.

I take in the party scene, my eyes settling on one type of filth only to be picked up by another. Graffiti crawls up the walls and decorates the ceiling like a renaissance church mural. I imagine the crack heads standing on scaffolding with spray cans in their hands and blunts pinched between their cracked lips, dressed in renaissance era clothing. I can’t help it; a faint smile works its way onto my face.

Hooking his arm around my waist, Cairen draws me over to a cluster of men. “This is my girl, Indigo,” he says to the cross, faded men slumped on a stained, plaid couch. If they hadn’t been holding burning blunts to their lips, I would’ve mistaken them as part of the frumpy couch cushions.

One of them blows a smoke ring, peering at me through it. I squirm under his bloodshot gaze. However, neither of the men can seem to focus on me for longer than a second at a time. They are overdone; baked like a batch of Mom’s homemade cookies.

“I’ll make them see you,” Cairen says. He cups the back of my head, twisting his fingers in my curls and clipping on. My face snaps to his and he forces his tongue in my mouth, pushing past my teeth and choking me. “Stop resisting!”

I latch onto his hair too, pulling harder than I should dare to, and finally the men are catcalling and hooting. I close my eyes in pain—to the men it will look like they are closed in ecstasy. Biting Cairen’s lip, I draw blood. Roughly, he shoves me off of him.

I lick his blood off my lips and distance myself from him, falling deeper into the party. From afar I hear, “Nice piece of ass you got there!” from one of the druggies.

Holden is leaning against an entertainment center, his droopy eyes looking out at the party in faint interest. I pick up my pace, walking faster and faster, until my face is buried in his bony shoulder, breathing in his cheap cologne. Between the rat droppings and urine buried deep in every piece of furniture here, my stomach is clenching. I just might yack and add to the lovely aroma.

“What a douchebag,” Holden says, scratching the back of my head soothingly.

Not me—Cairen. Douchebag.
Damn him, sticking his tongue where it doesn’t belong.
I make note to cut it off, the first chance I get.

“I probably just acquired some type of STD from him,” I say.

“He’s clean,” Alana says. I had forgotten she was here, the sound of her voice one more small comfort in the chaos of the party; it warms me, as it did earlier in the Allie. “Surprisingly, he’s STD free.”

“Thank God,” I say.

Alana gives me her hand and I lock arms with Holden, we set out like we’re going to the Emerald City, but all we really want is to find a place to rest that isn’t already inhabited by drug addicts. Holden points to a leather sofa facing the kitchen.

I stretch my legs across his lap and get comfortable. Alana lays her head in the groove made by the end of my rib cage and top of my hip.

I play with her hair. “Go to sleep
,”
she says, “when we wake up the party will be over and we can go back to the Allie
.
”

Sleep straight through life, through the hard times—that is how the Allies must do it, I guess.

“If we sleep will you stay awake and keep watch?” I ask Holden.

“Sure, go ahead. I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

Alana is already passed out, her red hair spilled over her face, rising with shallow sleeping breaths. I relax my hand on her head and press my face into the armrest, staring into the open kitchen.

Beside the couch, a tall lamp glows dimly; the light covering only a one foot radius, its lampshade stained a pale, baby-vomit yellow. People come in and out of the kitchen with drinks in their hands. Each time the same person goes in he comes out a little more unstable, swaying a little more to the left or right. And then, taking a sip of their drink, they are brought back to the present. They remember the party; remember where they are—who they are. A smile forms on wet drunk lips, a smile that says: time to get faded, time to get laid, time to get lost in the loud music and dimming lights.
Time to ignore the girl who is snoozing through life.

I am cramped and suffocating, but I could be crammed in a shoe box and still doze off, as I do now. The violent hammering of rap music, sloshing alcohol, and puffs of rolled marijuana leaves slot me into a strangely peaceful sleep.

In a half-conscious state, I feel Alana’s head lift from my side. I bring my knees to my chest and turn my body facing the couch, hiding from the party-goers who want a peek of a real-life sleeping beauty.
Crack-whore version
.

Holden ties and unties my boots. Sometimes he comes to rest on my legs, only to pop up a minute later, forcing himself to stay awake for me. I peel my face off the arm rest, my sweat and the grimy leather having come together like an adhesive. My hands are red and wrinkled from resting my head on them. I stretch, giving my legs back to Holden.

“Good morning, how did you sleep?” he asks.

“Awkwardly,” I say, in a voice thick with sleep. “Where did Alana go?”

“She went to find a bathroom, I think,” he says. “Can I get you something to drink?”

I rub my tongue along the insides of my mouth;
dry as beef jerky
. “Yeah, I’ll come with you,” I say.

I fix my hair and pull down my skirt, which has risen up my thighs while I slept. We duck under the dismantled crown molding of the doorway. Yellow standing work lights make the kitchen navigable; Marijuana plants in black plastic pots and potting soil with little white Styrofoam beads hide the scuffed linoleum flooring.

The kitchen table is being used for beer pong in the living room. Next to the refrigerator is a large, orange cooler; Holden ladles me a cup of pink liquid out of it.

For curiosity’s sake, I open the freezer. If I were a cat, particularly a hungry cat, my curiosity definitely would have killed me. I want to keel over after just
seeing
the rotted pieces of meat festering with maggots. But because I’m already in this deep, I open the fridge door. Its only contents are a moldy green pepper, lying on its side, and a jar of yellow mayonnaise without a lid. Drawers, once clear plastic, are caked in a brown sludge, like the refrigerator threw up in its own mouth.

Holden makes a gagging sound behind me and hands a drink over my shoulder. “Classic trap house fridge,” he says.

I take a sip of the fruity concoction; I can barely taste the alcohol in it, which I’m sure the fruit is meant to mask. “Trap house?” I ask with uneven eyebrows.

“There’s one way in and one way out.”

Like the Allie.
Gee, these gangsters aren’t very keen on multiple escape routes.

“The cops try to bust ‘em and they’re trapped like rats,” he says.

Something hard in my drink hits my lips, and I know it is
not
an ice cube. I look into my cup and see the offender swimming around with eight hairy little legs.

“I’m not that thirsty anymore,” I say, pouring my drink down the sink and leaving my cup on one of the counters—I can’t find a trashcan; the entire house is a garbage dump.