Page 3 of Walk on the Wilde Side
Baby Soft has rejoined his team. It takes three men to get hold of Zander. Zander's wet hair flies back as he whips his face up. It looks like he just stepped out of the surf, and he's throwing back his hair, only blood flies with the drips of water. His lip is torn. Blood is pouring off the hand of the cut arm. For a brief, heartbreaking second our gazes catch, and for that same split moment, I'm carried back in time. There's no boat, no kidnappers, no rough sea under our feet, and Zander is gazing at me from across the school cafeteria. He did it often. We hung out in entirely different social circles. We could go for days without talking or seeing each other at school and then there'd be that one moment in the cafeteria or hallway when we'd catch a glimpse of each other, and it felt as if we were alone in the world as our gazes held. Then something would break the connection, and we'd both wander off to our own corners, pretending it never happened.
"Look out!" I scream.
Zander pulls free of their grasp before Chug can slam him with his fist.
I'm no longer hiding my escape attempts. I saw my hands back and forth. I just need the ropes to pass my knuckles, then they'll slide down my fingers and I'll be free. More skin is being scraped away as I move my hands urgently past each other. Zander is up against five again. Pete never recovered from the first blow. He's still lying in a heap on the floor below the kitchen sink. Zander lays out Baby Soft with one massive blow. A solid kick slams Taze hard against the galley table. Paper plates and beer cans fly every direction. Zander is gaining the upper hand, and Chug's too preoccupied with getting the shit beaten out of him to remember his gun is sitting beneath a bench on the side wall.
I keep working my hands as I start to jump-scoot toward the bench. I want to be in front of it before Chug remembers to look for his gun. It's down to just Chug and the guy who was driving the van that picked me up. He's beefy and tough looking, but he's no match for Zander, and he seems to know it. Zander is just about to wipe the floor with the guy when the boat literally tilts to the side as if some sea monster has grabbed hold of the railing and is trying to capsize us.
The cabin door has been swinging back and forth with the rhythm of the ocean. Now, it swings wide and cracks off the hinges. The shoe that lands on the first step is big enough for a cat to curl up in and take a nap. It's Gargon.
Zander looks at Chug. "What the fuck? Did you haul that monster out of the sea?"
An ugly smirk appears on Chug's bruised and battered face. "Looks like you've met your match, Wilde. Speaking of Wilde, how's that old man of yours? Heard he's just one rushed heartbeat away from the grave." A creepy laugh follows, then he turns to his beast. "Gargon, take him out." Chug steps clear of Zander, and Gargon plods with Frankenstein-like steps toward Zander. The giant's forehead is big enough to be a billboard, and his hands look like they could crush a bowling ball. I feel a moment of pity for the woman who pushed him out of her womb. The beast's eyes are slightly crossed, and his blubbery lips are wet with drool. He truly does look like a monster that was pulled from the deepest depths of the sea. Zander is massively built and the strongest, toughest person I know, but my heart races in fear. It's not the first time I've seen Zander fight, but it's the first time I've feared for his safety.
Zander positions his feet to brace himself for impact. With the grace of a drunken hippo, Gargon lunges at Zander. His heavy steps rattle the small cabin. My chair inches forward on its own. The arrival of Chug's monster makes me forget my mission to free my hands. I hold my breath as the two giant men meet in the center of the crowded space. Zander doesn't have enough room to dodge Gargon. Gargon's fists look like granite boulders as he lifts them and brings them down on Zander. Zander flies sideways, but still takes a blow to his right shoulder. He yells out in pain and grabs hold of his arm. It looks loose as if it's been removed from the shoulder, and the arm hangs lower than it should.
"Fuck you, you goddamn beast!" His right arm, his dominant arm, rendered useless, Zander kicks Gargon. His steel-toed work boot makes direct contact with Gargon's nose. We all moan in disgust as the sound of cracking bone and squishing flesh fills the air. Blood pours like a river from the giant's flattened nose. He wipes at it casually as if just scratching an itch. With a feral roar, the beast flies at Zander. Zander spins around and manages another kick. This time it lands in Gargon's stomach. He bends over a second to catch his breath. Zander uses the opportunity to punch the creep's already broken nose with his left fist. Shockingly, the giant drops humbly to his knees, signaling surrender. His nose is so flat and his face so filled with blood, he's struggling to catch a decent breath.
"Any more surprises or is this shit over?" Zander asks cockily as he spins around.
I'm so focused on the fight, I don't notice Chug standing next to me until the cold barrel of his gun presses into my temple. Zander tenses every muscle in his body. It makes the dislocated shoulder look more pronounced.
"Take that gun off her right now," Zander growls through gritted teeth.
Chug pushes it harder against my temple. "Looks like you lost, Wilde."
I scream as a boulder-sized fist comes flying through the air. It comes down hard on Zander's head. Zander collapses to the ground.
"Zander!" I cry through torrents of tears.
Chug pulls the gun from my head, but none of that matters. Zander is unconscious and still on the ground.
"Zander!" I call his name over and over, but he doesn't stir.
"Tie his hands," Chug orders.
Baby Soft and Taze tie rope around Zander's wrists. He still hasn't moved. I close my eyes and wish hard for him to wake. He's not dead, I tell myself. I've seen Zander in every stage—angry, happy, sad and occasionally lost—but I've never seen him vulnerable.
"Toss him overboard and carry her up to the deck, so she can watch." Chug's evil grin turns my stomach.
"You fucking asshole!" I scream at him. Calm, cool and resolute Nev is gone. This is it. I'm going to lose Zander. We're both going to die, and it's my fault.
I yank at my hands with all the strength I have left. They're still tied effectively together, and that rope is still tied to the chair. Gargon lifts Zander. He drops him over his shoulder like a rag doll. Baby Soft and Taze lift the chair and carry me upstairs. I try with all my might to kick a leg out, but the ropes are too tight. They set me down on the deck. A wet breeze sprays my face, and the sea salt mixes with the salt of my tears.
Gargon wastes no time. His entire face is swollen like a pillow, and his nose is nothing more than a flat blob with two uneven holes for nostrils. Zander still hasn't moved. Gargon pulls him off his shoulder and unceremoniously drops Zander into the ocean.
"Zander, no!"
two
Zander
6 weeks earlier
I shut down the engine and press my face close to the cab window. I run my hand in front of my neck, my signal to let Jorge and Gus know its break time. Not that they need reminding. Gus checked his phone at least four times in the last ten minutes.
I pull off my ear protection and sit back a moment to scan today's progress. Sometimes, excavating feels like an endless cycle where you're just moving piles of dirt around, and for the first few months on a big job it looks like exactly that, like piles of dirt being moved from place to place. Now the beginnings of a residential neighborhood are starting to emerge from the piles of dirt. A rich fuck, a complete and utter asshole, character traits that always seem to go with being a rich fuck, is building a cluster of apartment buildings. He's a developer or at least that's what he calls himself. Jameson and I are doing the digging and earthmoving for the site. We might just be moving dirt, but there's no way for a developer to cut corners on excavation. After we're done, he'll probably bring in a shoddy crew of underpaid, overworked and mostly unskilled construction workers. They'll quickly throw together—almost literally—shabby apartment buildings complete with badly hung doors that don't close properly, new roofs that leak and floors that creak louder than my old man's bones, and the rich fuck will pocket overblown rents from people who are desperate for a place to live.
