Whiskey Poison - A Mafia Romance

PIPER

Thunder rumbles through the ground under my tired feet the moment I step out of work. If I wasn't so sick of hearing my own voice, I'd laugh. Or maniacally cackle. Whichever would more clearly denote that I am losing my ever-loving mind.

The world seems to agree, via brooding cinematic ambiance, that today sucks. A flash of lightning? The patter of raindrops turning into a steady downpour? Sure, why not? All the better to wash away the last of the day's hopes and dreams.

I lean out from under the threadbare awning and glance up at the dark sky. I'm not sure what I expect to see. Maybe a countdown clock in the clouds. Some sign of when the rain will end and I can resume my miserable life.

There's nothing, of course.

Thick clouds cover the waning moon and the streetlight outside the downtown Child Protective Services office is still burnt out, so it's eerily dark. I registered a complaint with the city four months ago, but the person in charge of replacing lights is probably as overworked as I am.

Still, all of that means it is dark dark outside.

"Like my soul," I quip quietly to myself.

Apparently, my week from hell hasn't stolen all of my wonderful qualities. My self-deprecating sense of humor is fully intact.

That being said, the guardian I dealt with today wouldn't find my joke especially funny. He'd probably call it accurate, actually.

Dark soul? More like a stone-cold bitch.

That's the thing about working for CPS: you're the face people associate with their child being ripped out of their arms.

It doesn't matter that the face of the child in question is filthy, scrawny, and covered in unexplained bruises.

It doesn't matter that the arms of the parent in question are studded with track marks from dirty needles.

They still think you're the bad guy.

Or, to quote yesterday's gem of a birth parent, a "raging bitch with shit for a heart and a bear trap for a coochie." As far as things go, that one was pretty good. I rated it a ten out of ten for creativity and submitted it to the office-wide "Best Insults" email thread.

"You should add that line to your dating profile," my boss, James, responded with a crying-laughing emoji.

What dating profile? I wanted to respond. But at some point, the self-deprecating humor isn't funny... or a joke, even.

I deleted my dating apps months ago, only a few weeks after downloading them post-break up. Hence why I am standing on the doorstep of work trying to muster the courage to ride my bike home in the dark. In a rainstorm.

Because there is no one else to call.

I don't have a boyfriend waiting for me at home anymore, Noelle is working tonight, and Ashley's car is the most compact of compacts. She went on a "save the world" kick last year when she got out of rehab and bought a used Smart Car online. Even if she were available, I'd rather ride home in the rain than jam myself into that death trap.

When the claustrophobia starts, it lasts for hours.

"Okay, Pipe," I say to myself, hopping lightly from one foot to the other to psych myself up. "Here we go. Make it home and you can take a shower and put on your pajamas and eat that frozen stuffed crust pizza in the freezer."

And die alone.

I groan at my own intrusive joke and shake out my shoulders. "It's just a ten-minute ride. Then this day will be over and you can relax. Ready, set-"

To try and trick my own brain, I skip "go" and leap out into the rain.

I'm glad I didn't bother with a hat or the cute-but-useless rain jacket I keep in the bottom drawer of my desk for occasions like this. Because this is a soaking rain. The kind that drenches you through and through the moment you step into it.

There is no protection from this.

I keep my eyes down at the ground as I run, making sure I don't trip on the uneven pavement or slip in a giant puddle. Looking around is pointless, anyway-no one is out in this deluge. Even if they were, I wouldn't be able to see them. Every time I lift my head, the rain blurs what little of my vision the dark hasn't already stolen.

I round the corner into the alley next to our building. There's a dingy orange security light attached halfway up the brick facade, but it doesn't offer light so much as a strong sense that I've stumbled into the apocalypse.

I kneel down in an orange puddle to unlock my bike.

"If I'd known it was going to rain, I would have carried you up the stairs," I say.

If maniacal laughter wasn't already a clue that I'm losing my mind, talking to my bike surely is. I fumble with the lock chain in the dark. My fingers are slippery from all the water, and when they slip and I accidentally bend a fingernail all the way back, I want to curl up in a ball and cry right then and there.

Shower. Pajamas. Pizza.

I repeat my evening plans like a mantra as I finally pop the lock free, loop it around the base of the sopping wet seat, and tug my bike away from the rack.

Then the world tips sideways.

Correction: someone tips my world sideways.

For a second, the hands around my throat blend in with the pounding rain. My brain is overloaded with things to notice, so when I'm yanked to my left and thrown unceremoniously into the garbage-filled stream of dirty water running down the alleyway, I'm confused.

"What the-"

"You fucking cunt," a deep voice hisses.

That was definitely not the wind. Or the rain.

Panic lashes through me. Someone fists the wet material of my shirt and hauls me to my feet like I'm a sack of potatoes. I look back over my shoulder, but rain is pouring down my face and the man is backlit by the orange safety light.

So much for safety-I can't see shit.

I try to scream, but the man slams me against the brick wall. The air in my lungs leaves me in a whoosh.

"Not so tough now, eh?" He pins me in, crowding so close that he blocks some of the rain.

And for the first time, I get a good look at my attacker.

"I know you," I wheeze. "I-I-"

"You-you-," he mimics, his voice going unnaturally high. Then he lets out a deep, bitter laugh that isn't mirthful in the slightest. "You took my kid away from me."

The past few days have been a blur of meetings and home visits and filing case reports. The faces that stand out are few and far between. The woman who spat out the word "coochie" with zero humor at all definitely stands out.

This man, with his prematurely wrinkled skin and dark, worn clothes, didn't make an impression. He was just another in a line of parents too deep in their own addiction to recognize the child in their care needed, ya know, care.

Until now. Suddenly, he's in Technicolor.

"It wasn't my decision." I hate the way my voice breaks. An unspoken plea wedged between the words. "I make the reports, but someone else-"

"You said I was 'unfit.'" He draws closer. The alcohol on his breath washes over me.

The smell takes me right back.

Back to being five, seven, ten years old. Back to being young and helpless. Back to making myself small, hoping if I stay quiet, it will all go away.

He slicks his yellowed tongue over his teeth. "You wrote in your fuckin' paperwork that I hurt my kid."

The little boy had bruises after every visit with his dad and tiptoed around adults like he was walking through a minefield. It wasn't hard to guess what was happening.

I've seen it too many times.

I've lived it too many times.

My heart is racing a million beats per minute, but it isn't blood pumping through my veins. It's panic. Fear. Decades-old trauma like concrete weighing me down.

Fight, I beg myself. Push him away. Fight back.

"Not so tough now, are you?" The man grins. One of his front teeth is brown and the other is broken in half. The smell of vodka is so thick I'm going to gag.

Goddammit. Fight, Piper!

But I can't overcome what I was taught as a child: if I stand still and don't fight back, it will be over sooner. The man will tire himself out hitting me. He'll slink away once I crumple to the floor in a useless heap.

I learned all that the hard way. There's no unlearning it now.

The man wraps his meaty hand around my neck, and I close my eyes.

This will all be over soon.