Fast Lane: A Turbocharged Romance Read online

  Lane left in a strip out of here, kicking rocks and sand out behind his bike on the way out. Was he angry? He seemed in a rush to get back.

  He loves me and I love him. There is nothing that can ruin that.

  Chapter 43

  LANE

  It was an angry ride. I was angry at having my time with Celia cut short. Angry that Tyrelle took a beating. Angry at Victor.

  Arriving back at the center, I stop to send a quick text to Celia to let her know I made it back safely. Entering the center, I spot Amanda at the u-shaped front desk. “Hi, Amanda. How’s Tyrelle?” She looks calm despite the circumstances. I could always count on Amanda to maintain control.

  “He’s better. Horace gave him three stitches in the corner of his mouth. He has an icepack on his eye still. It’s completely swollen shut now. I finally got a hold of Latoya and she’s on her way.”

  I nod in approval and go back to see him. We have a small office with two cots and basic first aid supplies for situations like this. Tyrelle is sleeping as I walk in, and the ice pack has slid down to the side of his face. I pick it up as it has mostly melted and is just water now, and place it on the table next to the bed. Horace has gone home for the day and Tyrelle is alone now.

  I shake his shoulder gently. “Tyrelle…Tyrelle…it’s me, Lane.” He wakes up and blinks his one good eye. The ugly purples and blacks of a nasty bruise form a bullseye with the center being the punch that Victor threw. He’s a lefty. “How are you, buddy?”

  “Not too good. My whole head hurts. I can’t get rid of this headache.”

  “So, Victor did this to you?”

  He nods. “He was asking me for money. Momma has some hidden in the bag of flour, but I wouldn’t give it to him. He said he would hit me until I told him where it was, but I refused.”

  His voice was cracking now and a tear inches down his cheek and drops on the pillow. He reaches for the tender spot where the stitches hold the corner of his mouth together and more tears flow.

  “Sorry, it hurts to talk.” He continues anyway. “Momma worked hard for that money…it’s all we got.”

  I reach out to hold his hand and say, “You’re a brave boy, Tyrelle. Where’s Maisy now?”

  He considers it and replies, “She saw the whole thing, and when he was done with me, he took her. She screamed my name over and over, but there was nothing I could do.”

  He is sobbing now, his free hand trying desperately to wipe away the stream of tears. Seemingly ashamed at not being able to do more to protect his sister and hide his emotions, he rolls back on his pillow, then turns to face the wall.

  I feel the anger burning through my body like a fire sweeping through a dry forest. My fists are involuntarily clinching and I know right then what needs to be done.

  “You gonna’ call the police?” Still looking away.

  “No, not this time, Tyrelle. They seem to have their heads halfway up their backsides and I’m not leaving it to them. I’m going to handle this myself. ”

  Tyrelle's body tenses and I put my hand on his shoulder to reassure him.

  “You rest up now, buddy. Your mom is on her way.”

  “Be careful, Lane.” With that he closes his one good eye and attempts to drift back to sleep. It’s the only thing that will relieve the pain he is feeling.

  I stride back to the front where I find Amanda playing pool with a handful of kids. “Amanda, I need you to look up an address for me.” She bites her lip and hands the pool cue over to Alex. By her reaction, she knows just who I will be paying a visit to.

  Flipping through the files, she finds what I am looking for. She writes down 91 Mechanic Street, Apt 2C. Without a word, I grab the note from her hand and make my way out to my bike. The fury of a lifetime of abuse wells up inside of me.

  Enough is enough. I’m going to do something about it this time.

  It is fully dark now as I make my way first down the main streets of Portland, then across the train tracks to the other side of town. The ‘other side’ is the term kids who come to the center refer to when speaking of the slums. I know where I am heading. The dregs make their homes there amid burned-out buildings and the crack dens. That’s where I will find Victor.

  ****

  I park my bike in a narrow alley just a half block away from the address. Rats scurry in every direction as an alley cat pokes its head out of a garbage can that hasn’t been emptied in weeks, at least by the smell of it. I was hoping I could park my bike where it would be hidden from curious eyes. If discovered, it will be gone and stripped within minutes. I search the alley and find an old tattered tarp to throw over the top of it from an abandoned homeless hut made of an old cardboard refrigerator box.

  This will have to do. Donning my leather jacket and my Harley boots I put on before leaving the center, I am feeling ready for anything. My fingerless leather gloves will help protect my fists from cuts and abrasions. I raise my collar up to shield my identity and make my way out of the alley.

  Looking tough in this setting is the key to survival. If you look like a badass, people will generally look the other way. If not, well, you're toast. I strut down the street, the only sounds are distant sirens, some yelling from a few blocks over, and the sound of my shit-kickers against the pavement. Shit-kickers are heavy boots with a steel toe and they got their name from their popularity with tough types. The steel toe makes a great weapon once you get someone on the ground. Once this advantage was gained, you would kick them over and over in the ribs. Hence the name. If everything goes my way, these will pay off for me in spades.

  I follow the address with my eyes and cross the street to get on the odd numbered side of the street: 87, 89. The one was missing off the addresses, but judging by the 93 on one side and the 89 on the other, I am in the right spot.

  The old brick factory building looms above me like a sentinel, and the scattered light showing from inside tells me that it’s habited by people who don’t have any better options than this shithole. Sad, really. The heavy wooden 10-foot-tall door opens with some difficulty, and I make my way to the second floor. It is mostly dark in the hallway － lit by one dismal 15-watt bulb in the far reaches of the hallway － and I use my hands to trace the numbers and letters. It smells like piss and vomit and I can feel my own stomach starting to churn. Part of it was from the smell and the other part was from nerves. I knew what was about to go down, and it was more like butterflies before a big fight than being overtly nervous about something. My fingers continue to trace the outline of the metal. 2B. It has to be the next one over.

  The doors are made of heavy riveted steel and there is no way I can bust through them. I sense Victor is in there and the soft crying of a little girl confirms my fears. He has Maisy. She is only five and sounds frightened. The anger flows freely through me and feels strangely familiar, like an old friend who I know is bad for me.

  Think, Lane. Victor must buy his drugs from a Latin Kings gang member named Diablo. Most in this neighborhood do. If I can convince Victor I am a gang member, he will willingly open the door. He hadn’t succeeded in getting any money from Tyrelle, so he was likely still looking for a fix, and Victor just might be stupid enough to believe me.

  I pound my fist on the door. In my best Hispanic accent I shout, “Jo Victor. It’s Julio. Diablo wants to see you man. Joo better come out now!” Silence. Then an effort to shush Maisy’s crying. “I never heard of no Julio.”

  Think quick, Lane. Stay tough. Prey on his fear.

  “If you don’t come out now, I’ll tell Diablo you refuse to see him.”

  No response.

  Very loud now. “Last chance, man!”

  Total silence. Just another few seconds, then I hear footsteps coming closer. Then click, clank. The sounds of locks coming undone. As the door opens slightly and Victor sticks his head out, I front kick the door into him and send him reeling back with the force of a charging bull. I had taken karate for a brief time, and if I learned
anything, it was how to throw a vicious front kick. The power comes from the lowered hips and the twisting motion through the kick. I was taught to kick through a target, not just at it.

  He is on his back now and stunned as I pounce on top of him throwing rights and lefts in rapid succession. I can feel most of my punches connecting with his face and jaw with the power of unbridled fury. Somehow, he manages to get his knees up to his chest, then curls his toes up and flattens his feet against my chest. Before I can stop him, he pushes with all his might and I am flung backwards, slamming into the partially closed front door. The full weight of my back crashing into it slams it shut, as my body shouts out in pain. My head snaps back and strikes the metal door hard and stuns me for just a moment. I am not hurt badly and we both scramble to our feet. I can hear Maisy screaming now in a closed room off to my left side as my resolve helps me tap into hidden strength and bravery.

  Then it happens. He whips out a 6-inch knife from his pocket. By the way he is wielding it, I can see this isn’t his first knife fight. Shit. This is getting dangerous and I need to take this fucker out now.

  Picking up a small metal folding chair, I swing it at him catching his free arm. Bellowing in pain now, he reaches his knife hand across his chest and grasps it checking for breaks. Fury fills his eyes. I raise the chair in front of me with both hands outstretched and move aggressively forward at full-speed using it as a shield against the now wildly swinging knife. My weight advantage sends him reeling back into a wall between two windows as his hurt shoulder breaks through the already crumbling sheetrock. A foot to the left or right, and he would have gone right through a window and fallen two stories to the ground. I want to make him pay, but murder is not on my agenda.

  His knife on the ground now, I let go of the chair and hit him with two rapid uppercuts that snap his head up and back like one of those battling robots from the game me and my friends played as kids. Damn this feels good.

  He crumples to the ground and my shit-kickers do their dirty work on his ribs as I kick him four or five times while leaning my upper body against the wall for leverage. I kick the knife away with my free foot, and realizing he poses no immediate threat to me, I scream with spittle flying from my enraged lips.

  “If you ever touch Tyrelle or Maisy again, I will kill you. You got that?”

  He can’t answer as he clutches his ribs, but his eyes tell me he gets the picture. I make my way over to the door to my left and just down the hallway that traps Maisy and check it. It’s locked.

  “Stand back, Maisy! I’ll get you out!” Another vicious front kick later and the door is swinging precariously by just one hinge. I check her first to make sure she is not injured, grab her up into my arms and make for the door. As I turn the corner, I notice the knife is no longer on the floor and stop suddenly, breathing hard, figuring out what to do. I decide to run for it, and turning the corner now with Maisy, Victor lunges at me from my left with the knife just missing Maisy.

  With Maisy still in my arms and Victor’s momentum carrying his upper body past me, with one motion I kick upwards right into his nuts as hard as is possible considering I am holding a kid. As he falls to the floor and onto his knees, he lets out a sickening groan that tells the story. I kick again upward, my steel toe connecting with his chin this time, and hear a few of his teeth rattle to the floor as his body falls unconsciously forward with a loud thud.

  Lights out, Victor. He doesn’t move at all.

  This time, reaching down to the floor, I pocket the knife, make my way out of the apartment and to the landing, not bothering to close the door. I swiftly move down the stairs, and open the front door with my free hand. Breathing hard now and dying for some water, I run down the street, passing by a few homeless people making their evening rounds looking for food scraps and materials they can use to improve their makeshift homes.

  Rounding the corner, I see the tarp which conceals my bike. Putting Maisy down now, I tear it off, hop on my bike and motion for her to come with me. She is visibly scared, tears streaming down her face on both sides. Soft voice now. “You can trust me, Maisy. Tyrelle and your mom are waiting for you at the youth center. Take my hand.”

  She is hesitant at first, just looking at me, then quickly moves to me. Her hair is disheveled and tears lead her tiny sobs, but seemingly, she is okay. Leaning down off my bike, I pick her up and place her right in front of me. Reaching back now, I unhook the spare helmet and put it on her head. It’s way too big, but better than nothing. This is not ideal, but I have no choice. I re-position her behind me on the seat. “Hold on tight to me, Maisy. I’ll go nice and slow.” She does.

  I fire up my bike, and using my feet to guide us out of the alley, throttle my Harley in the opposite direction from Victor’s apartment. I don’t want to risk running into him again, not with Maisy.

  We slowly make our way back to the center. My mind rolls through all of the events of the night. Just four hours ago, I was with my Celia saying tearful goodbyes to her, and now I am on my bike with a five-year-old clutching on to me for dear life, just minutes after I had just kicked the living crap out of her crack-addict dad.

  Christ.

  I pull into the youth center as Latoya comes running out to meet her. It is a tearful reunion with lots of hugging and momma’s kisses. I watch for a few minutes before Tyrelle is lead out by Amanda. Latoya grabs me by the shoulder. Looking me in the eye, she says, “Thank you, Lane.” Her hug is long and genuine.

  I whisper in her ear, “Victor won’t be bothering you again. You can count on it.” I’m not sure my words are true, yet I say them anyway to give reassurance to a family who needs it. Amanda calls a cab, and as soon as it arrives, the grateful family climbs in and is on their way back home to their imperfect lives.

  “I don’t want to know.” Amanda looks at me and knows I’ve had a rough night. I was bleeding from behind my ear and my knuckles are bruised and swollen.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up there, Tyson.”

  I look at her and smile, knowing there is no better friend than her. “One more thing, Lane. You have a big heart and I admire what you did as much as anyone. Just don’t get yourself killed. You’re no good to these kids dead, and they need you desperately.”

  Thinking long and hard about what she said, I decided I wouldn’t have done anything different tonight. No one had helped me when I was going through it. I was in a position to help these kids where no one else could － or would have － assisted them. The police wouldn’t have done jack-shit. This is my life’s mission, and what happened tonight was all part of it. Not that I want to put my life on the line. When the kids need my protection though, I’ll do whatever it takes.

  Then it came and hit me like a ton of bricks. My father was trying to end my dream. He was trying to hurt me again, but not physically this time.

  He was trying to kill my soul.

  Chapter 44

  CELIA

  Fresh morning breezes, billowing curtains, and sunshine. After a quick morning shower and some Vanilla Roobios tea, I’m ready for some early morning yoga.

  My house is built on a long flat plateau, and off the edge of my property, it drops steeply into the Eastern Bay on the north part of the island. It’s an old carriage house converted to modern living quarters. I can feel its history and love the fact that horses spent a lot of time in this dwelling. My backyard is one of my favorite spots to unwind with some yoga.

  Since I started feeling unsettled, I’ve slipped away from my morning yoga routine of waking with the sun, stretching my body and breathing into my muscles. It settles and relaxes me. It’s a form of balance in an unbalanced world. Plus it keeps me flexible and limber. I know Lane likes that. I smile inside and warmth hugs my heart.

  Today I decide on a calming routine.

  I look in the mirror before I start and decide I look damn sexy in my black, skin-thin yoga tights. Since the regular sex started with Lane, a soft glow permeates from my skin rev
ealing a healthy shine. My eyes shift to my sculpted shoulders with just a bit of striated muscle, but not too much to lose my feminine qualities.

  Starting in Easy Pose, I inhale deeply and press my hips down to lengthen my spine. Relaxed face and tongue on the roof of the mouth, I breathe deeply into the belly through my nose. Next, I connect the bottoms of my feet into Bound Angle. Interlocking my fingers around my toes, I press my hips down, rolling my shoulders forward while pushing my chest straight out.

  Ahhh…that feels good.

  Left leg extends out now, and with the bottom of my right foot to my left thigh, my right arms extends over my head and toward my left foot while holding my left foot to the ankle.

  Breathing is clean and deep, with as much emphasis on inhaling as exhaling. Same stretch to the other side. I can do this routine subconsciously, just as I have many times before. I continue through, focused breathing and all, and my thoughts move to Lane.

  Likening his influence on myself to yoga, my thoughts go to balance. Can he be the balance in my unbalanced life?

  I was perfectly happy before he entered my life. Or was I? Was it a false illusion of happiness? Yes.

  Before, I was as happy as one can be without the magic of love. Love elevates all. The grass seems greener, the sky bluer, the air takes on a smell of pungent flowers. Yes, I am in love and my mood is heightened, my ability to feel both pleasure and pain is intensified.

  What of the pain? It is all in my past, but now it has risen to the surface. I know why, but I can’t keep it down. No, it has to run its course. Did I ever really get closure from the past? I had a sense of things being buried so deeply that they could never again rise to the surface. How do you get closure from pure love that is ripped away from you, leaving you exposed and bare?