Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (11 page)

“Did you steal my dress?”

“What?”

“You’ve been following me and spying. You stole my
dress.”

“Well, yes.”

I step back.

“N…n…not about a dress. Yes about following you.”

A burgundy sedan turns the corner and we have to
move from the center of the street. I follow him to the driver’s side of his
truck. Mascara smeared his white button-up shirt. It must be all over my face.
I wipe at it with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

“Why are you here?”

He looks up and down the street before answering
me. “Come on.” Hayden lifts my backpack from my shoulders. I grip the straps,
unwilling to hand over the bag.

“Let me take it.”

How could I say no to him? “Be careful, my flute…”

“You mean my flute?” He thinks he’s funny.

“What?”

“I paid a hundred and fifty dollars for it to keep
Lenard from calling the cops on you.”

Oh, the pawnshop. Hayden leads me around the front
of his truck. I drag my fingers across the purple hood. The color is gorgeous.
“Yeah, about that. You were at pawnshop, too. Everywhere I go lately, you show
up.”

He doesn’t answer, he just commands, “Get in,” and
places my backpack on the seat. I climb up. Hayden presses down the lock, shuts
my door and lifts the handle to check it the lock.

He taps his right thumb and pinky against his
thigh as we drive out of the subdivision.

“Were you waiting the whole time?” I picture
myself in front of the camera while he sat in the truck, wondering what I was
doing.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” My voice cracks when I ask it.

Hayden stops at the stop sign edging the entrance
to the subdivision. “I think you’re in danger.”

“Now that you mention it, I do seem to have a
stalker.” This time, I’m the only one who laughs. I sigh and look forward. “Why
do you think that?”

“I’m not sure how much to tell you.”

I just wait.

He takes a breath. “The detective investigating
the incident at the Wild Lily told me it was arson.”

“The incident. That’s what they call the murder of
my friend?” Tears come again.

“The cop was your friend?” Hayden is driving too
fast and keeps looking at me.

What is he talking about? “Brita wasn’t a cop.” It
comes out too loud and I throw my hands up. “Are you trying to kill us?”

“What do you mean ‘Brita’?” Hayden asks, still not
focusing on the road.

“Pull over.” I point to a park on the left. He’s
driving like a maniac. Hayden whips the truck around and pulls into the parking
lot. Someone from the oncoming traffic leans on their horn.

“My friend, the dancer, her name was Brita. I
watched her die.” I have never felt so much release until screaming this. All
my fear, my shame, the stripping, the pictures: It tumbles from me. I continue
to yell my confessions at him. How long has it been since I had anyone to
confide in?

“No llores, Meha.” He strokes my head.

When he speaks in Spanish, I realize I’m in his
arms again. We stretch over my backpack toward each other, my head pressed into
his chest. I have told him everything. I thought he was the one to fear, the
stalker, the dress-stealer. Why does something inside me rush to him, to trust
him?

His scar is clear this close. It runs from his
nose to the middle of his top lip. It’s lovely. I reach up to feel it. He
catches my wrist in his hand and pushes me backward, slowly. Controlled. It’s like
he closes the door to all light. I’m cold.

My hands rest in my lap.

“A girl died?”

“Yes. I told the detective all that.”

“You talked with Detective Graves?”

 “I didn’t know his name. Huge man, like a
rhinoceros. He recorded our conversation in the hospital.”

“He isn’t very big. Black guy?” He looks
frustrated.

“No, the detective was white.”

“Sparrow.” Hayden’s hand starts tapping again.
“The detective, Malcolm Graves, he’s a friend of mine. He’s the detective
investigating the Wild Lily.”

My throat feels sore, dry.

“The only detective.”

I look past Hayden out the truck window because he
wears the same expressionless cop face he always wears.

“Take me home.”

Hayden starts to speak a couple times, but in the
end he just turns the key to the ignition and drives. We’re on the northwest
side of Reno, and it will be a full thirty minutes back to the reservation. I
lean back and close my eyes.

Hayden may be the only man in the world where I
could leave my flute on the seat between us and close my eyes. No, the only
human in the world.

The truck bounces. My head rocks to the side and taps
the window.

“You were tired.”

I check my chin for drool. My face feels swollen
and tight from the tears. Tired? My confession to Hayden left me exhausted. I
glance over at him then back out the window. He knows I don’t like dancing, he
knows everything. And I was concerned about being uncovered before the whole of
Reno in Rodrigo’s pictures but this is way more intimate than that.

We pull in front of Thom and Lorna’s trailer.
Hayden turns off the car and presses the emergency brake. He looks at me
intently like he is trying to find the right words.

 “You’re going to have to teach me how to drive.”

He looks jolted and it takes a minute for him to
switch from whatever it was he wanted to say.

“When?”

“As soon as possible,” I say and jump out of the
car.

My key doesn’t fit in the door handle. I have it
right side up…

The door opens and Lorna stands with her hand on
her hip.

“Oh good.” She opens the door, but not so much
that I easily pass. “Come in.” She fiddles with the cord to her pendant and
lifts the star to rest outside of her shirt.

Like a guest, I step in awkwardly. She holds the
door wider for Hayden. My clothes are in a pile on the living room floor. Bras
and other sundries lay flat on top of the pile, on display. She riffled through
everything I own. I hug my backpack to my front; it isn’t close enough on my
back.

“Lorna?”

“Moving day.” She looks up at Hayden, then glances
down quickly. It must be killing her to show her real self. Lorna looks at my
feet before spinning and marching toward the kitchen. “Do you want a trash bag
to carry your stuff?”

“You took this out of my dresser?”

“Sparrow.” She says my name as though I’m very
small. “It wasn’t your dresser. Neither was it your bed.” She still looks at my
feet. There will not be any negotiating.

“Where’s Thom?”

“He’s working.” She walks into the room and flings
a black trash bag. “Hurry up, I leave for work in just a few.”

Violence has never been my thing. But standing
there, staring at Lorna, I wonder what it would be like to push her back; watch
her fall against the wall, unable to catch herself.

Hayden kneels and opens the bag. His hands shyly
grasp my dancing underwear.

Short, shaky breaths burst out of me as we sit in
Hayden’s truck. I didn’t consciously participate in loading the bag, leaving
the trailer, or getting into the truck. It just happened. Hayden drives and I
press a hand to the pain in my chest. I’m going to die.

He stops and parks the truck in middle of the road.
His steady hand opens the glove box and removes a brown paper bag. A napkin and
a plastic fork fall into the glove box.

“Breathe into this.”

His warm fingers take mine and press them to the
edge of the bag making me seal it to my mouth. The bag expands and collapses. I
listen to the rhythmic crinkle as I breathe my own air.

If there is any celestial guidance in this world, it’s
how I came to carry my flute and all my money in my backpack.

After I stand over my grandfather and renounce his
curse—I’ll visit Lorna.

The panting slows, and I feel oxygen reach my
lungs. Fatigue tingles like a sinus infection from my headache down to the tips
of my fingernails. I put my elbow on the window and rest my heavy head. The
truck jerks forward. I don’t ask him where he’s taking me. Crying is no longer
an option: even if that means I cannot speak for awhile.

We pull into Western Village Inn and Casino. If I
pay to stay the night here it will be that much longer before I can get an
apartment. Who cares? I’m too weak to argue. Hayden does not speak to me, but
he holds the door open. I look up into his face, the pyrite brows crease over
his serious eyes. He understands.

Hayden reaches for my backpack and I pull it
close. He doesn’t ask for it again. He takes my hand; our fingers are not
interlaced but clasped childlike. Maybe it’s appropriate, since I follow without
question. Seagulls cry overhead. Dozens swirl above us. I stop and watch them,
careful to not breathe too deep of the grimy fish smell in the air.

“The Sparks Marina is right over there.” Hayden
points past a parking lot filled with eighteen-wheel trucks. I don’t want to
stay the night at a hotel filled with truckers.

Hayden walks, still grasping my hand. Inside we
walk through disorienting swirls and lines and I can’t tell the ceiling from
the floor. Pain knots behind my right eye from the electric trills, whistles
and chink-chink-chinking.

“Why are we here? I hate cigarette smell.”

Hayden points with our held hands to a café.
“Breakfast,” he says this like I should have known. Oh, Hayden.

Scanning the walls for a clock, it occurs to me
that the casino doesn’t really want people to know what time it is. Hayden’s
hand is a little sweaty. I turn it over and read his watch. 1:45 p.m.

A petite pregnant girl, close to my age, maneuvers
her way toward us. “Two?”

Hayden asks for a booth and we follow behind the
poor thing as she waddles through the tables. The booth is large enough for six
people. I sit on the edge, assuming Hayden will sit across from me. He pushes a
little on my shoulder, so I scoot deeper into the curve of the booth. He takes
my seat, closing me in.

Hayden accepts the menu from the girl, puts his
arm around me and pulls me close. His hand closes over my upper arm. My father
put his arm around me just like this, the first time he said he was sorry he
lost his temper. There is still a residual cigarette smell in the restaurant,
but I release a pent up breath and suck deep. Breathing out takes forever, and
I feel myself shrinking into the curve of Hayden’s side.

“Where will I sleep tonight?”

“Do you have a friend’s house I can take you to?”
I hear his voice more from his chest against my shoulder than his mouth. I
could go to Cori’s again.

“Yours?” I don’t look at him when I ask.

 “If a woman ever sleeps at my place, it’ll be
because she’s my wife.”

What would that even mean? “Then you would own her.
Make her dance for only you.” I sit straighter and his arm retreats to his
side. Of course it would come back to this.

“No, Sparrow.” His right hand slips under the
table. He keeps beat with his fingers the same way he always does, like he is
telling himself to hang loose. “My wife wouldn’t have to dance for me.” He’d
make a lousy poker player.

A gravelly voice asks if we are ready to order.
The waitress’ orange lipstick leaks out of the borders of her lip lines into
the tracks around her mouth. Even relaxed, she looks like she holds an
imaginary cigarette in her lips.  

“Western Skillet.” Hayden never glanced at his
menu. “Or do you need another minute?” He looks at me.

I flip open the menu and the word “wrap” catches
my eyes. Something in a tortilla will be easy to save and transport for my next
meal…wherever I end up eating it. “Breakfast...” My voice trips over my tongue
so I hold up the menu and point to “Breakfast Wrap.” The waitress smiles at me;
it makes her look like Raenah. She leaves without writing anything down.

“Sparrow.” I know something is coming, from the
compassionate way he says my name. I don’t look at him; I clean my fingernails
with my thumbnail. His warm hand touches my knee and presses down. He wants my
foot to stop tapping. I didn’t realize it was.

“Yes?” I try to relax.

“The Detective investigating the Wild Lily, he’s a
friend of mine.”

I wouldn’t have met Hayden if it weren’t for the
Wild Lily. I don’t know what I fear more, the image of Brita looking at me for
help, or the thought of not knowing Hayden. I hate my selfishness.

“The only death was, well his name isn’t the issue.
He was an undercover cop.” Hayden leans in to whisper. The deep murmur of
conversation, periodic childish squeals and the consistent clank of flatware
obscures his words. “There wasn’t a female body found.” His eyes scan the
restaurant while he talks. He does this often, always attentive to everything
in the room. I’m not sure if I feel safe because he is vigilant in his
awareness or afraid because there’s the possibility he will see something.

“I watched her die.” I look up into his amber
eyes. His pupils flick to the top of my face, my mouth, then back to my eyes. It
makes me think of the way Lorna described my grandfather, looking inside her.

There is a tiny change in Hayden’s jaw. The scar
on his lip lightens as he presses his mouth tighter. “I need you to talk to
Malcolm.” His body is stone.

“Okay.” When I agree, the arch in his back softens
and he leans against the booth. “You think I’m in danger?”

“Well, something’s not…upright.” He takes his
napkin and polishes his spoon. After a moment, he reaches for his fork. “What I
want to know is—” His eyes scan the room again. “Who interviewed you?”

“He was a detective, I don’t remember his name. He
recorded it.”

“What did he look like?”

“Literally like a rhinoceros. Really big and
white. More than six foot. I felt like I was in trouble, the way he
interrogated me.”

“All you can remember is that he was a large
Caucasian.”

I feel peeved at Hayden, until I realize he is
smiling at me. “Well, I don’t always notice details about people.” I know this
isn’t true. I do notice people, especially Hayden. I could draw his face from
memory if I had any skill.

“What did our server look like?”

So he wants to play a game. “She is about forty-years-old,
brownish hair, orange lipstick, she smiled.”

“You noticed irrelevant things. Lipstick wears off,
or you could change the color. No one smiles for their mug shot.”

“Oh really?”

“Unless they’re on something.” When Hayden grins,
his nose flares because the skin is stretched taut by his scar. I can’t look at
his scar without imagining kissing it.

“Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not.” I look for the waitress. Now would be a
good time for her to bring the food. “So what did you notice?”

“She was Latina, shoulder-length brown hair, five-foot-four
inches, one hundred-thirty pounds. Early thirties but looks older because of
her heavy smoking, four earrings in her right ear, two in her left, a small
blue star tattoo near the thumb on her right hand…”

“Show off.” When I giggle, he leans forward and I
say, “I’ll try to notice more…relevant details.”

“Not just about people, but location.” He
continues. “Where are we?”

I could tell him that the clinking, lights and
cigarette smell make it obvious: a casino. But I think I’ll impress him
instead. “Western Village Inn.”

Nonplussed, he answers, “What street? City?”

“Street? Come on, who would notice something like
that? Reno.”

“Nope, we’re in Sparks.”

“Whatever, we’re minutes from Reno. It’s not like
there is a sign on the street to let you know the zip code is going to change.”
The funny thing is, he doesn’t seem to be teasing. I think he really wants me
to know this stuff.

“The guy who came in and talked to you probably
disarmed you by intimidation.”

“You could say that.”

“When someone is aggressive like that—take more
notice of them, not less.”

“I will.”

“And pay attention to where people take you.”

When your main form of transportation is a taxicab,
I guess you do get lazy about your location. “Okay, Hayden. I will.”

A young man approaches us with a pitcher of water.
I smile and nod when he grabs my glass.

“Practice,” Hayden points with his chin at a kid. We
spend the whole meal profiling everyone in the restaurant. I have no idea if he
is accurate about height and weight until he tells me I’m five-foot-eight
inches and weigh one-hundred, twenty pounds. He is nearly exact. My sides are
tired from the giggling.

Hayden eats his whole plate of food and eyes the
other half of my burrito. He pays for our meal and carries my leftovers to his
truck. It isn’t until he holds open the door for me that I remember I have nowhere
to sleep tonight. The meal and the rest accomplished what I’m sure he intended.

I don’t have a cell phone or Cori’s number, but I
could get it if Hayden would drive me to the TorchLight. Or I could just call
there. I hop in and he hands me my leftovers. He puts one hand at the top of
the truck door and the other on the roof. While he scrutinizes the parking lot,
I scan the shape of his shoulders, chest and biceps. He is beautifully
proportioned, as though his physique came from playing sports rather than
steroids and lifting.

“I’m going to take you to Leah’s parents’ house.
They have a nice guest room, they’re always letting missionaries and people
like that stay. They would love to have you.”

He says this with authority. But if we show up and
they are busy, where will I go? To his house? I shrug like, “Sure, who cares?”

“They do want you to come. I called while you were
in the bathroom.”

“You know, I was planning on getting my own apartment.
I have enough right now to do it.”

He looks at his watch. “It’s already after three. You
don’t want to make a rush decision. We’ll drive past several apartments, and
you can call about them from the Jones’ house.”