Catalyst to the Gutter: The Universe was in her Head
- Tracy Haught
- May 13
- 20 min read
Updated: May 25
Excerpt from Chapter 12, Like Free Spirits, Unpublished Novel
Story scratched her head, hoping she didn’t have lice again, her chewed-up nails aching from the pressure. “I hate acid—and tonight—what the fuck was I thinking?”
They sat under Frank-tree in the park. It was Story’s favorite spot; she could see the whole park, but half the park couldn’t see her.
Cassidy stretched her legs out in front of her. “How can you not like to trip?” She tilted her head toward Story with an annoyed look. “It’s fucking Halloween. It’s the best time to trip.”
Story didn’t feel like explaining why she didn’t like it; she could hardly explain such things to herself. Like why she continued to eat acid when she really didn’t enjoy it. Trying to explain things to herself, to anyone, just made her dislike herself even more. If she’d been smart, she would’ve tucked the two hits into her pocket when Cassidy offered them and sold them.
Cassidy laid back on the grass and looked up at the sky. She let out a long, dramatic groan, “I miss Forrrresssst.”
Ever since Cassidy had reappeared, she and Forest had been inseparable. Cassidy had been staying with some college boys up near the UCSC campus in a swanky new apartment. One of the guys, a rich twenty-year-old named Drew, was under the impression that Cassidy was his new girlfriend and was so crazy about her that he’d invited her to move in with him and his roommates almost immediately. Cassidy told Story that when she was alone in the apartment, she’d smoke Drew’s pot and eat his food and watch daytime TV, or snoop around looking for items she could pawn. One morning, she woke up early missing Forest something fierce. Even though she enjoyed the compliments and attention Drew and his friends gave her, the luxurious apartment, and the cash Drew would leave on the nightstand for her when he left in the mornings, it felt stale and demeaning. After Drew and his roommates had all gone to their classes and jobs, she quickly went around the apartment gathering expensive watches, old baseball cards, clothing, an expensive pair of Italian leather shoes and a Gucci belt, along with a brand new, unused hiking backpack to carry it all in.
After pawning everything, Cassidy had over two thousand dollars.
Forest, Cassidy, and Junkie-Jed went in on a furnished one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from downtown. Jed slept on the pull-out couch in the living room. Ray and Story had been kicking them whatever money they could come up with, usually five or ten bucks, to crash on the floor at night.
Cassidy and Story watched the trick or treaters running from porch to porch across the street from the park.
“I wish we had costumes,” Cassidy said, moving onto her side and resting her head on her elbow.
“We can pretend that we’re not homeless and go as homeless people.”
Cassidy laughed. “We should try to sneak into the Catalyst. There’s supposed to be some big Halloween party. I bet we can get one of the kitchen guys to let us in.”
“I doubt it,” Story said, looking down at her baggy clothes. She was wearing Ray’s long-sleeved black t-shirt, which fit more like a baggy dress than a shirt, with some black men’s cords she’d stolen from Goodwill. “I’m sure someone will let you in.”
“I bet someone will let us in for a couple hits of acid."
Tony was his name—young, handsome but sorely pimpled—his face sweaty and pink from the hot kitchen. His eyes morphed a whole size bigger at the mention of acid. He told them to come back when they were busier, after nine.
Forest and Ray had taken the bus up to San Jose on a meth-run and were going to catch the last bus back. Just before they left, Cassidy looked at Forest with wide eyes, reaching out for his hand like he was going off to war. She’d been super-nice to him ever since she’d come back, acting like they’d never broken up, like she hadn’t just been off with another guy. Story didn’t understand how Forest could be so forgiving.
Cassidy and Story walked to the tobacco shop on the corner of Laurel and Pacific where Cassidy bought them both a pack of cigarettes and orange juice, saying she’d heard it makes your trip better. They found a bench near the street where they sat down to have a cigarette and share the juice.
“So, why don’t you like to trip?” Cassidy asked, pulling her hair around to one side.
Story stared off at nothing, took a deep drag, and exhaled. Before she could stop them, the words came tumbling out.
“When I was fourteen, this guy, he was older—like twenty-one—he gave my friend a couple of hits. She’d told him that she was sleeping over at my house. When my mom left to go to her boyfriend’s house, she called the guy, invited him and his friends over, didn’t even ask if it was okay. So, these white-boy thugs show up at my house with a case of beer and a bottle of whiskey, eyeing us like we were on a menu.” Story looked up at a little ladybug-girl wobbling by with her parents; she looked down like she was doing something wrong, looking at them; she felt spaced-out, almost detached from the words, like she was telling Cassidy about a movie she’d seen.
Story lowered her voice. “It was my first time tripping. The guy who gave her the acid asked me to show him where the bathroom was. Then he pulled me inside, laughing, like he was just messing around. He kept asking me to give him a blowjob. I didn’t want to. I’d never done it before. He got mad when I said no, then he...” Story saw herself, in the little half-bath, her shoulders held down, head pressed into the sink, forehead banging against the faucet.
“He raped you?”
Story covered her eyes like she had a headache. “I hate that word.”
“Were you a virgin?”
Story was shaking like she was cold. “I’d had sex once before, sort of. It only lasted about a minute. A senior told me he loved me, talked me into it, then never spoke to me again.”
Cassidy didn’t say anything; she stared at the ground and took a drag of her cigarette.
They made their way down the street, zigzagging around people. Everyone had costumes except the homeless. The air was sharp. Goldish-white stars were spit-splattered against the inky night sky.
Cassidy made a nodding motion with her head to get Story to look across the street. Three men were walking on stilts, dressed up like women. They looked other worldly, thin, striped like they were in a circus; red, white, purple, emerald-green, and blue. All sparkly. It appeared as if they were being stretched, lifting up into the cosmos.
They went around to the back of the building. Story’s body was tingling, her mind chirping, zooming. Panic percolated in her chest.
“C’mon,” Cassidy said, pulling her along.
Tony snuck them in through the warm, steamy kitchen into a back hall near the bathrooms. The music was pounding, instrumental-techno-rave shit. They made their way to the front, through arteries of people, until they were on a large dance floor. Cassidy immediately started jumping in place, waving her hands. Story felt stiff. As she tried to move, to sway, her body felt under attack, like the music was firing bullets and she was alternately being hit by and dodging them. She scanned the room, sure people were watching her, laughing. A man next to her held his arms in the air like Jesus on the cross, thumping his head, eyes closed, his hands making a motion like he was smacking the air down. All around, people swayed and jerked, oblivious to her.
Story felt something cold and wet on her arm.
“Oh, shit. Sorry!” A blonde, heavyset guy with big red cheeks smiled, sweat dripping from his hair. He was looking at her shirt, her wet sleeve.
“It’s okay,” Story said. “At least it was clear.”
“Gotta love vodka!” he shouted. The music shifted to intense, rapid beats. The disco ball above came alive, shooting purple, pink, and orange lasers around the room. He started bouncing along to the beat, spilling his drink a second time, this time onto the floor. “Shit! I think I’ve spilled more than I’ve drank! I’m gonna go get another. You want one?”
Story smiled through her eyes.
After a double Screwdriver, Story’s apprehension was gone and she was full on dancing. Cassidy beamed, grabbing her hand and spinning her around. The room moved with them. People smiled, dancing close, laughing. They didn’t seem to notice that they were the girls from the street that asked them for spare change.
Cassidy stopped dancing. “Where’d that guy go?”
“What guy?”
“The guy who got us the drinks.”
“I don’t know.”
“There.” Cassidy pointed with her chin. She pulled Story to a tall table near the bar. The red-cheeked guy was talking to an older man; the two men watched as they approached, running their eyes along their shapes.
“Hey,” Cassidy said. “Wanna buy us another drink?” She smiled a sweet smile.
Red-Cheeks closed one eye. “And what are ya gonna do for me?”
Before she could answer, the older man jumped in. “Now, that’s no way to talk to a lady.” The man with the gray stubble and diamond earring cleared his throat. “I’d be happy to buy you girls a drink. What would you like?”
Cassidy and Story were dancing, holding on to each other, their hair damp with sweat, when they came back with the drinks.
“Lookie there,” the older one said, smiling.
They joined him and Red-Cheeks at the table. Story downed her Screwdriver, her tongue feeling numb from the cold.
Red-Cheeks shook his head. “I see ya don’t just dress like a guy, ya drink like one, too.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Cassidy cocked her head to the side, one hand on her hip, the other holding her glass in front of her mouth like she didn’t want it getting too far away. The older man leaned forward, placing his hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t think he meant any harm, honey. Relax.”
Red-Cheeks laughed. “Hey, I’d still fuck her,” he said, like Story wasn’t right there. “She’s cute enough—she’d just be a whole lot cuter in a little skirt, maybe some stockings.”
Story sat up straight. “Like a little schoolgirl uniform?”
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Red-Cheeks said, nodding.
“Yeah? So, little girls are your thing?” Story stared at him. Stared into him. Felt her stare beating him into submission—she didn’t think it was possible for his face to get any redder. “Thanks for the drink,” she said to the older guy. Story turned to Cassidy, feeling like her head was unpeeling, scalp tingling, fear and rage, and all of it ready to erupt. “You ready to go?”
Story felt slightly better outdoors.
“Fuckin’ assholes,” Cassidy said, shaking.
“No shit. You okay?”
Cassidy spun around too quickly, her eyes hard. “Why’d you have to tell me that?”
“Tell you what?”
“Earlier.”
Story looked away, toward the people gathered down the street. “I don’t know—I’d never told anyone before.”
Cassidy took off running.
“Cass?” Story tried to catch up to her. She felt like she should apologize, but wasn’t sure what for. Cassidy ran faster, disappearing into the crowd that had spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of the café and the gay bar next door.
Slowing to a walk, Story maneuvered her way through a mob of painted faces, black pitted eyes, stripes, sequins; a kaleidoscope of colors wherever she looked. She turned, colliding with the groin of a giant—her head tilted in slow motion—up, up. Intimidatingly tall on the stilts, with the make-up—eyes painted up all evil—huge teeth.
Story backed away, leaning against the front window of the antique store, searching the crowd for Cassidy. Feeling overwhelmed, she let her body slide down to the sidewalk, pulling her knees up to her chin. She managed to pull a cigarette from the pack Cassidy had bought her, the soft pack sucking the cigarette back in as she tried to free it.
The air was cold but fragrant, cigarettes and the sweet smoke of a cigar, so many smells: perfume, coffee, urine. There was the slight scent of a shampoo she’d used before, but couldn’t place it. It reminded her of her dad. Head and Shoulders?
Story sucked on her cigarette, staring at the bus station across the street—she kept seeing the bus pull up in front of the terminal, pulling right up under the streetlamp near the benches—but when she’d look again, it wasn’t there. The clock across the street said it was almost eleven. The guys should’ve been back already. She glanced back at the crowd, hoping to see Cassidy.
Frozen with fear, holding on to the wall behind her, Story managed to stand. That’s when she saw her. Cassidy was standing in the gutter, looking up at a tall woman who seemed even taller standing on the curb. It looked like they knew each other. The woman was dressed up like some kind of superhero-dominatrix, black leather head to toe. She had a whip-like laugh and an actual whip. Her hair was dyed black; it looked wet. She was chewing gum and talking loudly. The woman’s mouth looked abnormally wide as she talked and smacked her gum.
Cassidy saw Story and elbowed her friend. The woman turned to look, whispering something in her ear. Cassidy laughed loudly, smacking her own leg like she was in Hee-Haw.
Story’s eyes burned as she watched them. Cassidy’s eyes looked blank, cold. Story turned and headed away from them, feeling like the sky, the sidewalk, the buildings, the cars, were all closing in around her. She tried to slow her breathing down, started to count in her head. One, two, three, four...
Light and shadows crept over her as she walked. There were too many thoughts in her head, the loudest, I HATE HER. This was followed by, Why did I ever let myself think she was my friend? Why did I tell her? Why did I eat the acid? Where’s Ray? What the fuck should I do? Where can I go? Her heart pounded too hard, too fast.
When she got to the Laurel Street bridge, she stopped and lit a cigarette, thought about walking down to the dark space below. Scenes from the King and Koontz novels of her youth started flipping through her head. Every sound, every outline, seemed ominous. She closed her eyes.
Spirals formed in her brain like little quotation marks. As she watched them from within her mind, they turned into equations—equations like stars floating, spinning in the blackness inside her head—like mini white neon signs—neon white fuzzy bright sparklers of words and numbers and stars—stars like tiny asterisks. It looked like space. Story knew she was looking at the universe. The universe was in her head.
For a second, she thought, I’m a genius. I get it. I understand. And then she opened her eyes, heard bass pounding somewhere nearby; she got up and started walking toward Spirit’s house.
“Yo!”
A car crept along parallel to her, Ray leaning forward in the passenger seat, smiling his big dumb grin. He looked happy. He looked really happy. They pulled over and waited as she came around and climbed into the backseat of the beat-up sedan.
“Baby! I’m so glad we found you! Cassidy said you went this way.” Ray spoke like his lips couldn’t keep up with his voice, like he was tweaking hard. “Sorry, I’m so late—This is Lucky.” He raised his eyebrows and then narrowed his eyes. “Cassidy said you’re trippin,’ said you just walked off and left her.”
“That’s not what happened.”
The car smelled like B-O, like guy B-O. Story felt like she’d climbed into the closet of a teenage boy. She held onto the plush seat in front of her where Ray sat, the side of her face bumping against the seat as they rode along. Squeezing her eyes together, she replayed the scene on the street with Cassidy and the woman, her nerves itching like something was crawling on her. Ray reached his hand around to touch her face. Story pulled away and sat back.
“You okay?” He peered back at her over his shoulder.
She nodded, glaring at him from the darkness of the backseat.
“Good.” Ray glanced over at Lucky, then back at her again. “Cuz, Lucky here’s got a plan for us to get a free room and some cash, but we need your help.”
The plan, which the guy said he’d done before, was essentially to scam a church. Lucky wanted her to pretend to be his pregnant girlfriend. Being from the Midwest, where Story had grown up surrounded by churches and churchy people, she immediately felt panic. How low can you go? she thought. Then she thought about all the churchy people who did bad things. The horrific things that have been done throughout time in the name of religion. The cruel kids that she’d grown up with that went to church every single Sunday. Her mind felt like a calculator quickly adding up the reasons why it was okay.
Lucky was saying something about how he’d just gotten out of prison a few days earlier.
They pulled up to a payphone, and Lucky went to work. He dialed a local Catholic church, pretending to be a priest from another state, and explained that a young man had reached out to him needing help. He described the kid as a college student, out in California with his soccer team, said he’d brought his girlfriend along, and they were stranded. Hoping for a little extra sympathy, he added: his girlfriend just found out she’s pregnant.
“Yes, Father,” Lucky said confidently into the phone, “he’s a good kid. I’ve known him his whole life. I know his mama. Comes from good people. His buddies were drinkin’ and smokin’ marijuana when he, the boy’s name is Tomás, he insisted they let him drive. Well, they pulled into a convenience store and told Tomás and his girlfriend to get out of the van. Did I mention he just found out she’s pregnant? Anyway, the other kids took off and just left them there. Stranded.” Lucky looked over at us and winked as we watched him from the car, and then he scanned the street like he was looking for something.
“Uh, huh, ummm. He said they’re at a gas station at Ocean and Broadway. Oh, you do? Uh huh. Yes, yes. He did do the right thing. The boy doesn’t have any money on him, and they haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Lucky turned, nodding like the person on the other end could see him. “Oh, yes. That is good news. God bless you, Father. Yes, thank you so much. Goodbye, now.”
Lucky hung up the phone and rushed over to the car. “Okay. Ray, you wait here with the car. Story, you’re comin’ with me. Guy’s gonna be here soon. I’ll page you,” he told Ray, “when we get to the hotel.”
Ray and Story got out of the car and then Ray climbed into the driver’s seat.
Story’s heart was racing. “What guy?”
“Priest,” Lucky said. “He’s gonna take us to a hotel, get us a room,” he paused, reading her face. “Don’t say anything. Just let me do the talking. Don’t worry, I’ve done this a hundred times.” Lucky walked over to her; he was short, almost the same height. “Here.” He pulled the hair tie from his ponytail, held it out to her. “Put your hair up. It’ll make you look younger, more innocent.”
A white van with a big red cross and the name of a church painted on the side pulled into the parking lot. Lucky waved and smiled a friendly smile, reached out for Story’s hand, and pulled her close to him. An obese, olive-skinned man stepped out of the van; his mostly bald head looked plastic and shiny under the parking lot lights, black stringy hair hung like shredded curtains over each ear.
“Tomás?” His dark eyebrows rose, crinkling his sweaty forehead.
Lucky nodded and stuck out his hand, and the priest shook it, looking relieved.
“I’m Father Jon.” The priest looked over at Story, smiling shyly or sympathetically, Story wasn’t sure which. “How are you both doing? I hear it’s been a pretty rough day.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucky let go of Story’s hand and reached his arm around her shoulder, hugging her to him. “She’s really tired, just wants to lie down and go to sleep.”
Story nodded, trying to look sleepy; she placed her hand on her stomach, resting her temple against Lucky’s chest.
The priest took them to a newer hotel further up Ocean Street, paid for the room, then, in the hall outside the office, handed Lucky a hundred-dollar bill.
“Maybe you can order some pizza or something. I’m sorry there’s not more I can do for you.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Thank you so much, Father.” Story nodded her agreement.
The priest looked at them with concerned eyes and then turned and walked away.
While they were waiting for Ray, Lucky crushed some meth, dividing it into two fat lines. Story knew nothing about him other than he’d just gotten out of prison and she’d just helped him scam a priest. She could still feel the acid, but it was less intense. She wondered how it would feel to do speed on acid, wondered if it could kill her.
Lucky snorted both lines, looking up like he’d just noticed her, like he’d been caught stealing cookies or something.
“Oh, did you want one? I thought you were tripping—wasn’t sure.” He tilted his head back and sniffed. “Ray’ll be here soon. He’s got some.”
Story felt deeply relieved when Ray knocked on the door. He looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected to find her in one piece.
“Nice place,” Ray said, looking around the large, beige room.
“The guy gave us a hundred bucks,” Story said immediately, in case Lucky hadn’t planned on mentioning it. “We should order some pizza.”
“A hundred bucks? For real? Damn, that was too fuckin’ easy.” Ray pulled the phonebook out of the nightstand, held it out to her. “You gonna call?”
As she listed off the different pizza places that delivered, Ray cut lines on the table. Lucky got up to go take a shower, telling Story to order him a large pepperoni.
After she’d called the order in, she joined Ray at the table, not hesitating to do a line.
While Lucky was in the shower, they desperately pulled at their pants, dropping them to their ankles. Ray pulled her onto the bed and they began licking and kissing each other. A few minutes later, when they heard the shower turn off, they quickly pulled up their pants, wiped their faces, and sat up on the bed. Ray turned the TV on.
Story was fully aroused, every cell in her body singing or screaming. They had money. They had drugs. They had pizza on the way.
Sitting down on the bed closest to the door, Lucky motioned for Ray to toss him the remote. Ray threw it like he was making a foul shot, and Lucky caught it.
“Man, you shoulda seen your girl, Ray,” he said, flipping through the channels. “She’s good. I’ve never gotten that much cash before.” Lucky smiled briefly at Story and then found a soccer game, setting the remote down. “You guys like soccer?”
Story shrugged, bouncing slightly on the bed. Ray looked at her, smiled, but it wasn’t really a happy smile.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Story said, making eyes at him.
“Yeah? I could use one, too.”
They didn’t care how loud they were. They fucked like they were fighting—pulling, pushing, biting. She made him sit down in the tub so she could ride him. He was so big that it was awkward, but she managed, their bodies squeaking and bumping against the sides of the tub.
When they were done, Ray pulled her up and hugged her. Story’s legs were shaking.
“I love you, Story. God, I love you.”
The shaking spread to her whole body. Ray held her tighter. “You’re cold.” He grabbed a towel, started drying her off. “You okay?”
Story nodded.
“Pizza’s here, lovebirds,” Lucky called from the other side of the bathroom door.
“You’ll feel better after you eat,” Ray said. “Did you eat today?”
She couldn’t remember.
When they came out of the bathroom, Lucky smiled at them from around the pizza slice that was in his mouth. “I got um sodas from uh oda musheen.”
Ray opened the box of half-cheese-half-pepperoni pizza and set it on the bed. Story picked up the sodas from the table.
“Hey, my bro Tank’s gonna stop by. Should be here in a few minutes.” Lucky turned away from the TV to face them. “He’s a cool dude. You’ll like him.”
Lucky changed the channel to MTV. The Red-Hot Chili Peppers were singing “Under the Bridge.”
Lucky’s friend, Tank, showed up, and everything got weird fast. Tank reminded Story of a greaser version of Fabio. Lucky looked like a child standing next to him. Tank was wearing a cheesy fringed black leather vest with nothing under it, revealing his bulging, hairy chest. It looked like he could touch the ceiling with his head if he stood on his toes. He and Lucky got right to work cutting lines. Story watched as Tank snorted the fattest, longest line she’d ever seen anyone snort. He sniffed it up in one breath, making a train-whistle-like sound afterward that sounded like, Yeeeeeeeooooowwww!!
Ray had finished his pizza as well as the rest of Story’s. When he pulled the plastic baggie out of his pocket, Story wanted to tell him not to do all their shit up in one night but didn’t say anything. He cut two lines on the phonebook as she rolled up a dollar bill and waited. While she snorted a line, she tried to imagine what it would feel like to snort a line as big as Tank’s; she passed the dollar bill to Ray, careful not to let it unroll. Lucky and Tank started playing cards at the table.
Out of cigarettes, Story asked Ray for one.
“I’ve only got one left.”
“Here, you can have one of mine,” Tank said, his voice a low and manly rumble. He must’ve been in his thirties, at least, Story thought as she climbed off the bed and walked over to get it.
Ray lit his last cigarette, watching.
“Thanks.” Story took the cigarette from Tank. “Camels. That’s the first cigarette I ever smoked. Camel filters.” She sat down on the edge of the bed next to Ray’s feet, facing Tank and Lucky.
“I was eight when I started smoking,” Tank said, puffing his chest out a little. “Marlboro Reds.”
“Twelve,” Lucky said. “I started on Reds, too.”
“I was thirteen,” Story said, looking over her shoulder at Ray.
Ray looked at her like, I don’t want to play this stupid game.
“So, why ya with this boy?” Tank laughed, nodding his head at Ray. He raised a big, dark caterpillar of an eyebrow. “Why not get yourself a real man?”
Ray looked like his head was about to explode.
Story felt her throat tighten; she placed her hand on Ray’s foot, smiled, and felt her face getting warm. “Ray’s definitely a man.”
Pulling his foot away from her and trying to get up quickly, Ray gave Tank his tough-guy smirk, but it looked awkward with him almost losing his balance.
“Why you talkin’ to my girl like that?” Ray threw his beefy arm out like he was doing a karate chop. “Look at you, you child-molester lookin’ son of a bitch. You don’t even get to look at her.”
“I’m lookin’ right now.”
Lucky stood up behind the table, looking back and forth from Tank to Ray. “You guys need to stop, now,” he said. “Everything’s cool. Let’s just chill and play some cards, alright?”
Tank’s whole head and neck were rocking like he was headbanging—like in the middle of a hardcore mosh pit kind of headbanging—breathing heavily, his huge, hairy arms shoving his chair out behind him as he rose.
They were both smiling eerily at each other. Both trying to show they were fearless. Ray stood almost as tall as Tank; he was huge, due to genes and his previous steroid use, but Tank looked bigger, like beer-belly bigger. They stood there with their crazy smiles like they were teasing one another, their smiles red flags being waved in front of a bull—in this case, two bulls.
“Please don’t,” Story said to Ray. “We’ll get kicked out.”
Ray didn’t take his eyes off Tank.
Tank winked at Story, smiling his devilish smile.
“Please, Ray.” Story was on her knees on the bed; she reached for his forearm, pulling on him gently.
“Get back, Story.” Ray spat the words in her direction, not taking her eyes off of Tank.
Lucky was talking in a low, fast way, trying to calm Tank. “C’mon, man. We don’t need any trouble. Just let it go.”
Story felt like an electric current was surging through her arms and legs. She tugged harder on Ray’s arm, and he spun around, pulling his arm away, shoving her back as he did. Story fell off the edge of the bed onto the floor, hitting the back of her head on the thin carpet. As she sat up, rubbing her skull, she saw them lunge at one another.
They were breathing noisy, angry breaths like engines revving as they swung at each other. Story scooted back against the wall behind the bed. Ray tried to punch Tank. Tank swerved and grabbed Ray’s arm, swinging him into the TV. The TV went crashing off the edge of the dresser onto the floor. Ray turned, and when he did, Tank nailed him in the nose. Blood gushed bright red onto Ray’s favorite white Dr. Dre shirt, but it didn’t stop him. Ray lunged at Tank, and they both went over the table, knocking it over with them.
“Stop!” Story looked at Lucky. “Do something!”
They scrambled across the floor, bumping into the other bed, their grunts sounding sexual as they grabbed and punched, Ray’s nose bleeding all over them both.
Lucky cautiously reached for Tank’s shoulder, jumping back before they crushed him as they tore into each other, banging into the door. Lucky stood waving his arms like they were a plane he was marshalling.
“Guys, someone’s gonna call the cops, and we got all kinds of drugs up in here.” Tank and Ray stopped, looked at him, still holding onto each other as they panted. “You better stop this shit. I ain’t goin’ back to prison,” Lucky said, shaking his head.
They shoved each other away at the same time, both looking exhausted. Story could tell Ray was hurting, his nose huge and red, his lip and nose bleeding. The blood that was clotting in Tank’s arm and chest hair appeared to be Ray’s.
Lucky was at Tank’s side, trying to convince him to leave. “C’mon, bro, let’s get the fuck outta here before the cops come.” He looked over at Ray, who was staring at Tank like he was about to charge. “Where’s my keys?”
Ray nodded toward the nightstand.
Tank’s chest was heaving as he looked over at Story, who was still sitting on the floor against the wall behind the far bed, hugging herself, and then he turned and threw open the door so hard it banged into the wall, and then he was gone. Lucky hurried after him.
Ray’s shoulders slumped, he set the table upright like he was in a daze, and then went to pick up the chair and TV. Story got up slowly, feeling a sharp pain in her chest—her heart was beating fast, strange fluttering spasms—she was afraid to move, afraid that she might be having a heart attack—she managed to walk to the door and lock it.
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