A Chicago story*
Bzzzzzzzz.
Diesel moaned then buried his face into his pillow.
Bzzzzzzzz.
He inhaled sharply, lifting his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He then peeled them open, scanning the room to find the source of the noise.
Bzzzzzzzz.
He glared at his phone alight on the nightstand. The one night a week he can sleep in, and someone was calling him at… He glared even harder at the clock, at its red numbers reading just after four in the morning.
Bzzzzzzzz.
He army-crawled across the mattress towards the damned phone, preparing to yell at whoever dared wake him at this hour. But, upon seeing his best friend’s name on the caller ID, he sighed with relief. She was finally returning his calls. He snatched the phone and answered, “Better have a good explanation for missing the fights, Shiloh. Did Shiver’s catch fire?” He didn’t get a response. Just heavy, frantic breaths. His mouth went dry. He reached over, turned on the lamp, and sat up. “Shiloh? You there?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice a labored, relieved whisper. Diesel’s stomach dropped. His mouth hung open, uncertain. She sounded scared. Maybe hurt. “I—” her voice cracked, and she coughed, the severity of which made him cringe. She was definitely hurt. “—I nneed you to-to come get me.”
Her slurred words were all he needed to hear. Adrenaline racing, he ripped the blankets off him and shot out of bed. “Where are you?” he asked, frantically searching for clothes to throw on.
“I—” she gulped, “—I have no idea.”
“Drop a pin for me, okay? I’ll find you.” He tossed the phone on the bed while he hastily pulled a crumpled t-shirt over his head, then some jeans. He brought the phone back up to his ear and headed for the front door. “Do I need to bring backup?”
“No, no,” she answered, breathless and far too fast for his comfort. “No, don’t-don’t call anybody.”
And, finally, as he slipped his shoes on, came the question he’d been dreading asking. A question he already knew the answer to but needed to hear from her. “Are you hurt?” Something clattered on Shiloh’s end, and she cried out. He froze in his tracks. “Shiloh??”
Shiloh groaned as she pulled herself to her feet with her free arm. “Th-that answer your question?” she replied through gritted teeth.
Diesel’s phone buzzed once. He looked at the text alert for only a second before bringing the device back up to his ear. “Well enough, I guess,” he said, grabbing his leather jacket and bolting for the door. “I got your pin. I’m on my way.”
“Bring gasoline,” she blurted. “A lot of it.” She hung up.
Puzzled by her request, he opened her text and pulled up her location. It looked isolated. He zoomed in to get a better look and swore. She’d never purposefully end up there. No woman in their right mind would. That block was ground zero for drugs, prostitution… murder.
He needed to get to her. Fast.
“Hang in there, Princess,” he muttered, forcing the intrusive thoughts from his mind. He grabbed his keys and his knives, slamming the door shut behind him.
Shiloh set the phone down with a trembling hand. Arm across her throbbing stomach, she keeled over the table she’d propped herself up on with a groan. “Hurry, Diesel,” she whispered into the table, keeping the two men on the floor in her periphery. “Please hurry.”
xXxXx
Head spinning, Shiloh’s eyes shot open with a gasp. She was on the ground, back against the wall. She must’ve passed out, but for how long? As her eyes readjusted to the dark, she fumbled around for her phone. It wasn’t too far from her side but, as she picked it up, the now-cracked screen stayed black. Dead.
“Shit,” she muttered before shoving it into her pocket. The moonlight streaming in from the windows illuminated the gravity of her situation; caught between the bodies of the two men that brought her here. Her aching stomach lurched and she gagged, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. She took a deep breath through her nose and gulped down the coppery saliva pooling in her mouth. Where the hell was Diesel? How long had it been since she called?
She bit down on her bottom lip to keep a sob from escaping. She could hear him now. Sack up, Princess, he used to say during their sessions. Don’t show weakness. With a shout of effort, she pulled herself to her feet, her body screaming along with her. Her knees shook and the stars reappeared at the corners of her eyes. No weakness.
Her stomach heaved once more, but this time, she couldn’t hold it back. She stumbled over to the table and used it to prop herself up seconds before she threw up. Her ribs, likely fractured, cramped in response, sending sharp pains through her chest until the heaving subsided. She spit out the blood and bile with a pained moan, desperately trying to catch her breath. The pounding in her head reached an unbearable tempo that blurred her vision.
Deep breaths, she coached herself. Focus. She looked around the room at her surroundings. Pieces of a wooden chair littered the floor – one of them broke it on her back. An empty kerosene lamp in the corner. It was still burning bright when she came to the first time. A shadow in the doorway—
She backed into the wall with a gasp. Fear pulsed through her veins as the light reflected off the weapon in his hand. Those two had backup. Oh, God, no, no—
“It’s me,” he said, his voice soft. Diesel stepped forward into the moonlight, sheathing his knife in his belt. “It’s just me.”
She let out a breath she was holding. Her eyes burned with tears of relief, but she didn’t dare let them fall. No weakness, she reminded herself. “‘bout time,” she huffed, willing her heart rate to slow. She swayed on her feet as the ground beneath her resumed spinning and braced herself on the table.
He cocks his head, carefully observing, waiting for a sign to assist. "Are you drunk or concussed?" he asks.
Acid burns in her throat when she answers with a nod, "Neither of which were voluntary."
Diesel paused and took in the room, starting with the men on the floor. The one closest to him, with a splintered chair leg sticking out of his stomach. Then, the other with his face beaten in. And, finally, Shiloh: her bloodied shirt, torn down the middle; her muddied jeans with freshly-ripped holes in the knees; blood and sweat trickling down her face.
She didn’t meet his eyes, instead looking at her bruised and bloodied knuckles. She was sure one or more of them were broken. “What took you so long?” she croaked, hoping to avoid all the questions she didn’t want to answer.
Diesel hesitated before answering, “You’re farther from home than you think.” He took a cautious step towards her. “And I had to stop for gas.”
“Good,” she replied, pushing off the table and stumbling towards him. “Hope you brought enough.” He closed the space between them in three long steps, grabbing her by the shoulders to steady her. “I’m fine,” she lied, lifting her hands to try and brush him off.
“The hell you are,” he argued, seizing the opportunity to examine her more closely. A cut above her left eye, still oozing blood. Bruises, some roughly the size of fingermarks, littered her wrists and forearms.
Cheeks burning, she waved him off once more. “I didn’t call for a rescue,” she muttered, still refusing to meet his eyes. “I called for a ride.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed, “I can see that.”
Shiloh maneuvered past him and towards the door as fast as her legs were willing to take her. “We’ve got work to do,” she said, stumbling over her feet.
“I think you mean I’ve got work to do,” he argued, following close behind her as she limped down the hallway. She shook her head, stumbling sideways and colliding with the wall. “Shiloh, stop,” he interrupted as he caught up to her, gripping her gently by the bicep to steady her. “You’re hurt.”
Beside herself, she chuckled. “Mm, really?” she muttered, her vision clouding. She squeezed her eyes shut to slow the spread of the fog. “I had no idea.”
“Look at me.”
She kept her eyes closed, afraid of what she’d see in his eyes. But, against her battered judgment, she peeled her eyes open. A faded version of Diesel was in front of her now, holding her steady by the shoulders. She gulped, her mouth dry, pulse racing. Her vision might be cloudy, but those cerulean blues of his could pierce anything.
“W-we gotta go,” she whispered, her bloodied lips trembling.
“I know and we will. But I’m here now,” he said, squeezing her arms, “and you’ve done enough, okay? Let me take care of the rest.”
Shiloh gulped, and her eyes burned with fresh tears. It was hard to tell him ‘no’ in her exhausted, injured state. So much for ‘no weakness,’ she thought as she nodded at him, tears falling. She reached for him with a shaking hand, which he took and pulled her closer. It wasn’t until she stepped into his awaiting arms that she realized how cold she was. She shuddered, melting into his warmth as he whispered words of comfort that fell on deaf ears. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it around her shivering frame before guiding her outside to his Jeep.
He opened the passenger door for her and helped her inside before unloading the back. “Keep the doors locked,” he said, his head on a swivel. She opened her mouth to retort but couldn’t catch her breath. She squeezed her eyes shut and her head fall back against the seat instead. “Here, take this.” He put something in her hand, prompting her to look down. It was the pistol Blaze kept in his lock box. Diesel must’ve grabbed it when he got the gas. He clasped his hands over hers and leaned in close. His worried blue eyes met her weary brown. “It’s loaded, okay?” he whispered. “Don’t blow my head off when I get back, Miss Trigger Happy.”
She scoffed, a smirk appearing on her face. “Don’t tempt me,” she whispered back.
He grinned and released her hands. “Lock the doors,” he reminded her before he shut hers. He retrieved the gas cans from the ground and rushed back into the abandoned house.
Rage simmered beneath the surface of Diesel’s skin. His jaw set; his white-knuckled, determined grip on the gas cans; he stomped to the backroom where he found Shiloh. He hadn’t checked if the two men were alive when he first walked in. He’d been too focused on her. For their sake, he hoped they weren’t.
Otherwise, he’d have a score to settle.
Diesel glared at their still bodies on the floor, but he didn’t have time to exact post-mortem punishment. He needed to get Shiloh somewhere safe. He stepped over them and began the clean-up. He started with the disgusting mattress in the corner, soaking every inch of it before moving on to the rest of the room – bodies included.
Guilt weighed heavy on his mind. He’d known something was off that night. Shiloh told him Shiver’s was too busy, and with Stella gone AWOL, she might not make it in time for the fights. He’d told himself, there’s a first time for everything, but he should’ve known better. She never missed a fight night. She was always there by the end of the night to settle bets… but not tonight. Last call wasn’t until three a.m., so he convinced himself to wait until at least then to worry. He fell asleep waiting.
He should’ve tracked her down.
By the time the guilty thoughts had run their course, he’d tracked the fuel through the rest of the building. He swirled the remaining fluid in the can – not much left. He circled back to the back room, preparing to empty the rest, but stopped in his tracks when a series of coughs trailed out from the doorway.
One of those bastards was still alive.
He crept towards the door, listening to him cough and call for help, his own anger racing through him. His heart pounded faster against his breastbone the closer he got until, finally, he stood in the doorway. Diesel sneered at the man, at his bruised and swollen face, as he looked up at him.
“H-Help me, please,” he begged, reaching towards him with a bloodied, trembling hand.
Diesel smirked, stepping inside and revealing the gas can in his hand. The man paled. “With pleasure.”
Hey everyone! I dug this out of the CHICAGO archives--a deep cut, if you will. A way back from early 2020, before I really knew the characters and where I'd take the story! It's rough, unedited, and honestly, I'm not even sure what prompt I used to write this oneshot. I know it had no relation to the events Falling Like Snowflakes, nor to Face to the Rain. I guess I'm just really good at imagining my characters getting hurt all the time lol. I'm currently stuck on an action scene in the novel and just went searching for some inspiration in something I've already written and found this instead. Definitely not canon, definitely not gonna be in the novel, but I thought I'd throw those of you guys (im)patiently waiting for it a bone!
If you need more to tide you over 'til the novel is finished (still no ETA, but I'm working on it almost daily!) feel free to peruse the "short stories" section here on Jenna's Dilemmas. Or, buy a copy of my books on Amazon or Etsy! Etsy orders come signed AND with cool swag.
Talk to you guys soon!
<3 Jenna
コメント