Free Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) by Hilarey Johnson

bottom, I grasp the handle only to realize it
locks from both inside and out.
    I hear a small laugh from the top of the stairs.
    “Where will you fly Baby Bird?” Brody’s voice
matches his placid face, and he holds a key chain from an extended arm. “Do you
want me to call you a cab?” His tone is a little deeper than normal, like he
just woke.
    Embarrassment drips like a bucket of hot sand
poured over me.
    “No, I’ll …”
    The handle jiggles from the other side of the door
and I turn, reluctant to have my back at Brody—even with the flight of stairs
between us. Even though he offered to call me a cab.
    “Well, hullo.” A bald man gates the threshold with
one hand on the side and one on the door. He is at least as tall as Brody, but
not as broad. He is leaner and harder, though, and his eyebrows are a dark
contrast to his pale skin. I look down quickly. He smells like the Wild Lily: a
mixture of sweat, stale smoke and spirits.
    I can’t bear to study his face, but my eyes defy
me and start to lift. His thin mouth smiles on only one side. His nose is large
and crooked, like it was broken one too many times. I have to know…his eyes are
hazel. Hard and cold, but he is not the killer.
    I duck under his arm and sprint.
    “Oh, excuse me.”
    I hear him speak but I don’t take time to analyze
my rationale. Hot fingers of the presence in the costume jungle seize my
stomach. I run as though I’m pursued. Always pursued, always hunted.
    I squat in the bushes outside the TorchLight until
both my legs are numb. First Brody, and then the bald guy leave, but I don’t
move. The perspiration on me chills, but the hedge insulates me from any
breeze. There is that McDonald’s down the street—again, a cab my only option.
If I had slept with Brody would I still be finding my own ride home?
    At the reservation I use the last of my car wash
money to pay the cab driver. Vietnam rock muffles the car door closing. It
comes from the house with torn toys all over the yard. Faint smells of charcoal
and spicy meat from a barbecue arouse hunger to yawn and stretch in my stomach.
All I’ve had tonight is soda. Lights illuminate Thom and Lorna’s trailer. Unfortunately,
it looks like they are still up. If only I owned a watch.
    The cab drives away, and the neighbor’s music lulls
between songs. I listen to the fading sound of rubber against asphalt. The
seventies music returns, a song I’ve heard before, but don’t like. It makes me
feel little.
     It’s mild for early spring. After the clamor from
the benefit, the image of Hayden and Leah together, and the touches from Brody—I’m
glad to be alone in the night. I don’t mind being outside in only an evening
gown, an evening gown I don’t even own.
    The stars watch me. They show as little emotion as
Hayden: untouched by my struggle, unfazed by my dilemma. It’s too much to go
back and work for Brody. I haven’t thought of the man with empty eyes since
right after…it happened. And tonight, I expected those eyes. I assumed I would
see them. What does it mean about a person’s mind, a person’s soul—when you can
look inside and see nothing?
    I need my flute, to hear the song my father taught
me, to feel the music flow out of me again. I can’t be empty like this.
    I sneak to the side of our trailer. The dress
slips easily over my head, and I stand in my lingerie, topless. The air is
colder now, maybe because my adrenaline ceased. I lift the lid on the plastic
box that holds the garden hose and delicately place the folded satin inside. No
one will look for this hose for months and everything inside seems dry. I turn
away from the trailer and look back at the stars. Feather light touches of
goose pimples tiptoe across my naked skin.
    “Do you care now?”
    The stars don’t answer me.
    I hear a dish against the sink, behind the trailer
wall. Reluctantly I slip into the clothes I left the house wearing. I’ll have
to call Sir Car Wash in the morning. I can tell Cal I