Lawless Read online

  I smile, the muscles in my face largely unused to the sensation. “It’s been too long.”

  Steve shakes his head. “You’re damn right about that. Look, I was sorry to hear about, you know… Your time upstate.”

  I pocket my hands. “It’s fine. I fucked up, Steve. After I did my knee in, I took a real nosedive.”

  “I was there. I remember. You gave Charlie Sheen a run for his money in the crazy stakes. It was a real pussy buffet at your place for a while.”

  I’m trying to forget. “And what about you?” I look around. “I heard you’re running this place.”

  He glances over his shoulder at the rink. “You used to talk about Oatville I thought I’d come see what all the fuss was about when I retired from the ’Nucks. I saw this place was up for sale, and boom, I’m suddenly a small-town ice rink owner. It’s hardly an arena like Rogers Place, but it’s quaint in its own way. And hey, at least it’s not full of drunk, unruly fans, right?”

  “Right. I also heard you were looking for a Zamboni driver.”

  I’ve only been inside for two years, but Steve looks like he’s aged ten. He was lucky, though. He left the Canucks at the top of his game, a hero.

  “You’re pretty well informed for an ex-con,” he smiles.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t you know? Ex-cons are the most well-informed people of all.”

  He glances behind his shoulder again. “I do need a driver, someone trustworthy who knows how to baby the ice, not carve it to shit like these hillbilly locals. But I can’t pay big bucks here, Carter, even for a friend.”

  I nod with understanding. “I know, Steve. I just need a job. That’s it.”

  He extends his hand. “Alright, Crusher. Consider yourself hired.”

  I take his hand. “When do I start?”

  His smile grows. “What are you doing tonight?”

  I start up the Jeep outside. There’s a white Accord that’s been following me around town for the last day or two. I know why, but it’s not cause for concern… yet.

  I head out of town driving east. The Accord turns off, lost in the traffic.

  I park in front of the cabin and get out, drawing in another breath of freedom, and it feels good. It feels fucking incredible, actually.

  The cabin’s an old logging two-bedder I picked up when I got my first check from the Canucks. I wanted somewhere quiet where I wouldn’t be disturbed, the kind of place I could take girls. I’d throw down a bearskin rug, put on the fire. Besides, there’s nothing that says ‘fuck me’ like a man with an axe on his shoulder. They went mental for that wild woodsman shit.

  David had his own key, not that he ever came out here. He wasn’t into the outdoors, connecting with his inner Bear Grylls. No, he lived in that office downtown just like Dad did. Poor prick even had a fold-out bed in there. That was before he moved to New York with Wren, took her away completely.

  I put the saucepan of water on. Coffee ain’t gin, but it doesn’t leave you with a hangover and your cock coated in a mysterious substance either.

  I sit at the table and close my eyes. Apart from the soft whistle of the element, the call of birds outside, it’s near dead silent—the kind of silence I remember from practicing at the rink late at night when everyone had gone home, only the cutting swish-swosh of my blades audible.

  Steve did a good thing today. He didn’t have to take me on. He’s right. I’m an ex-con, a washed-up former NHL player with nothing going for him besides a nickname, but Steve was always one of the good guys. Even on the ice he had manners. He wouldn’t bulldoze the opposition like I did, constantly skirting the rules, testing the limits.

  The thing with my knee made it ten times worse. I turned to booze and women, fucking everything in sight whether I wanted to or not, sometimes multiple girls a night. Nothing mattered, but it was misplaced. I couldn’t shake Wren. She was married by then. I’d lost. So, I focused on hockey, and when I lost that, I lost everything.

  It grew, the recklessness, the parties. That was before David came to me, before I found out about his little hobby.

  My cell buzzes across the table, the water beginning to boil.

  I pick up my cell and stand, shifting the saucepan off the stove. “Hello?”

  “Carter?”

  I breathe out. I didn’t expect her to call so soon, maybe not at all. “Wren. Are you alright?”

  She sounds nervous. “I, I don’t know why I called. I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

  “No,” I stammer, a touch more forcefully than I intend to, literally reaching out as though to hold her on the line. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene yesterday. You have every right to be angry.”

  “No, I’m glad you did.”

  Well, well. “You are?”

  “Your father still thinks David was the perfect son, refuses to believe he was cheating on me. But…”

  “But?” I press, carefully. The last thing I want to do is push her away, not now.

  Her voice starts to break. “I should be so mad at him, at David. I am. I’m angry, furious, so why do I feel…” She hunts for the word.

  “Sad?” I fill.

  “It’s not that. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  I let the pause pass.

  “Is this weird?” she asks. “Me calling you. We haven’t spoken in years.”

  “No. It’s not weird at all. Where are you staying?” I ask, hoping to shift the subject.

  “At some crazy fifties-themed room in Port Coquitlam. It was either this or the deserted island suite.”

  “Not like those tacky hotel rooms in Edmonton Mall. Remember those?”

  She gives a small laugh. Fuck me it’s so good to hear her voice, the sonorous trill of it even if the crappy speaker of my cell does it zero justice. “Exactly like one of those. I think it was the only room left in the whole damn province thanks to this comic expo thing. There’s a mirror above the bed, half a hot pink Chevy on the wall, a jukebox, a leather-print lounge… God knows where they got that from. I don’t even want to sit on it.”

  “Do you remember when we broke into the Igloo room at that mall hotel, during holidays? What were we? Fourteen?”

  She gives another small laugh and I can picture her smiling again, that smile I’ve been picturing over and over, the one making my cock hard even now.

  “It had those stupid icicles hanging from the roof,” she says.

  “And an actual igloo.”

  “A plastic igloo.”

  I sense the smile fading.

  “I didn’t know you were in prison, Carter.”

  “All of Vancouver knew, probably all of Canada.”

  “I’ve been in New York, with David.”

  “Right. They’re not so big on hockey down that end of the world.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Too warm? I think baseball’s the go-to sp—”

  “No,” she says. “Why were you in prison? What did you do?”

  It’s a Google search away. There’s no reason to hide anything. “I shot a man.”

  “What for?”

  “We had a personal disagreement.”

  She doesn’t ask for more information. “Did you kill him?”

  I suck in another breath before speaking. “No. He survived.”

  “But he was a bad guy, right? Because I can’t believe the Carter I knew would do something like that out of the blue.”

  “You didn’t know me then. I was messed up.”

  “The injury. I heard. And now?”

  I reflect. I’m free, but what have I come back to? My family still disowns me. I’ve scored a part-time job driving a Zamboni, I’m living in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. “I’ve changed,” I tell her, unsure why I’ve gone with this line.

  “People say that all the time. David…” she drifts out, unable to finish the thought.

  “I’m not David,” I reply.

  Truer words were never spoken.

  Silence builds
, forms between us as if my brother’s somehow listening in, fucking things up all over again.

  We were always competitive, David and me. Dad made sure of that, built that competitive streak into us from an early age whether it was tennis or pool or simply who could finish dinner first. Everything was a game, a chance to prove ourselves. I grew weary of it in my teenage years, refused to play along, but David loved to run with it, desperate to please Dad, to show him he was the best. I told him about my feelings for Wren, confided in him.

  It was the biggest mistake of my life.

  “Are you still working for that charity?” I’m clutching at straws here, anything to keep her on the line.

  “The Star Bright Foundation, yes.”

  “And you enjoy it?”

  “I do. Most of the kids we deal with are seriously sick, many terminal. What kindness we can show them, what dreams we can help them fulfill, no matter how small… It’s worth it.”

  There’s a loud knock on the door.

  I stand and move to the window.

  Fuck.

  It’s Dad.

  Already I’m tensing up. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you right back.”

  “Okay,” she says, the disappointment clear.

  I don’t know what else to add, so I hang up and pull the door wide. “Impeccable timing, as always, but I’m afraid you’ve driven all this way for nothing.”

  He shoves past me and stands in the middle of the cabin. He’s here for war, his finger jabbing at me like a knife. “You had no fucking right to come to David’s funeral.”

  I take a seat, place my cell on the table. “Like I said earlier, it’s nice to see you too, Dad.”

  He shakes his head. “My only living son is a criminal, practically a murderer. How do you think that reflects on me, on the company?”

  I lift my shoulders. “I can’t say the White Group was foremost in my thoughts that night.”

  “So what the fuck was?!” he shouts. “David is dead, Carter. He’s not coming back.”

  “And yet you still can’t believe he wasn’t the golden child everyone thought he was, can you?”

  “You shut your fucking mouth.”

  I nod. “Alright, but you don’t know anything about what happened that night.”

  “I know you were coked up and drunk out of your mind.”

  “I’m not denying it.”

  He exhales, weary, looking down at his feet. “I want you to leave, to stay away.” He takes an envelope from his suit pocket and slaps it down on the table. “There’s more than enough in there to set yourself up somewhere far away from here.”

  I pick up the envelope, stand, and shove it back into his chest. “I don’t want your fucking money, Dad.”

  He takes the envelope, tapping it on the table before tucking it back into his pocket. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, son. Think of your mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “It’s too much, with David and now you showing up out of the blue. She can’t handle this kind of stress.”

  “Mom’s a lot stronger than you give her credit for. I mean she stayed with you after, what was her name? Mary? Melinda? I guess that’s how it went with David. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I’m deliberately fishing for a response.

  I get it.

  Eyes wide, Dad lifts his fist into the air, drawing it back.

  I turn my cheek towards him. “Go on. Do it if it will make you feel better. I’ve been your punching bag for long enough to know what to expect.”

  He eases his hand down, shoving me aside. He pauses in the doorway. “If you’re going to do it for anyone, do it for Wren.”

  “What’s Wren got to do with this?”

  “You know damn well.”

  The door slams closed.

  I watch from the window as he gets back into his Mercedes. It hurtles back in reverse before taking off into the trees.

  The town of Oatville, ten miles from the cabin, isn’t the smallest you’ll find in these parts, but it’s sure fucking close.

  I glance up at the neon sign for The Dirty Duck. It’s a shitty name for a sports bar. The last ‘D’ isn’t lighting up, allowing passersby to speculate as to the potential letter combinations.

  I open the door and walk in.

  I used to spend a lot of time here before I went inside—a lot.

  There’s a smattering of patrons inside when I enter. The place hasn’t changed a bit. The Canucks are playing the Oilers on the big LCD mounted behind the bar.

  I notice the ‘Hiding from Wife?’ sign is still on the wall. It reads:

  Bar Phone Rates

  $1.00 – “Nope. Not Here”

  $2.00 – “Just missed him.

  $3.00 – “Had one drink and left”

  $4.00 – “Hasn’t been in all day”

  $5.00 – “Never heard of him”

  I never had a wife to make use of it.

  I take a seat, pop a peanut into my mouth.

  Louie, the bartender, walks over. He wasn’t limping like that last I remember. “Heard you were out. What’ll it be? G&T?”

  I tap the bar. “Club soda, dash of OJ.”

  Louie’s eyebrows knit together. “Holy shit. Did you go fruity inside? You want to park your Miata ’round back as well, find you some feminine hygiene products?”

  I smile. “You fucker, but no. I’m happy to say my sexuality is intact.”

  “And your asshole? How’s that doing after you bent down for the soap?”

  I shake my head at him. “It’s good to see some things never change, except for that limp of yours. What happened? Tripped over a fence running from your wife again?”

  He takes hold of it around the thigh. “Shot myself, believe it or not.”

  “Hunting never was your strong suit.”

  “I’m sworn off guns for good.” He takes a glass down from the rack above. “Say, two guys showed up earlier looking for you.”

  I place an elbow on the bar. “What did these ‘guys’ look like?”

  Louie adds a glug of orange juice to the glass. “Heavy types—ugliest fucking tattoos I’ve ever seen.”

  “Prison ink?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Trouble?”

  He fills the glass with soda and slides it across. “Most definitely.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “To get fucked. That I hadn’t seen you in years. You know, the truth.”

  “Thanks.”

  He leans across the bar, lowering his voice. “They’re going to piece it together. It’s pretty much public knowledge around here you’ve got a cabin out there in the woods.”

  I down half the glass, kind of wish it was a G&T. “I’ll be fine.”

  He leans back. “Whatever you say, Crusher.”

  He flicks his eyes towards the TV. “You seeing this? The Canucks have become a pack of pussies since you left. You’d think the fucking puck was invisible. I don’t think Garsia’s scored a goal in his life.”

  I watch, but I’m not concentrating. Those days are past.

  I slide a twenty across the bar. “For your troubles.”

  Louie takes it and smiles. “That’s a start.”

  Wren

  June surveys the hotel room. “I didn’t actually think people stayed in these things.”

  I lie on the deluxe king bed looking at myself in the mirror above the bed. I look hella tired, with panda eyes and skin so pale it’s like I’m gearing up for Halloween.

  June makes her way over to the jukebox and punches a button. Johnny Cash’s Cry, Cry, Cry starts to play.

  Perfect.

  She hits another. Peggy Sue takes over. “Better,” she says, collapsing beside me on the bed, the two of us quite a couple in the mirror.

  She takes my hand. “Were you okay here last night?”

  I nod into the mirror. “I called Carter.”

  She sits up, peering down at me through chestnut ba
ngs. “You did what?”

  June’s always been pretty in a ‘I don’t even know it’ kind of way. I wanted her eyes growing up—jade green cock-stoppers that could bowl a man over from a mile away. In the mirror, my baby blues, the color of cupcake icing, hardly compare.

  “I don’t know why,” I reply. “One moment I was holding the piece of paper he gave me and the next I was dialing his number.”

  June falls back onto the bed. “Interesting. And what did Mr. Broody have to say for himself?”

  “He said he’d changed. He said he wasn’t David.”

  June snorts with laughter. “Well, ain’t that the fucking truth—the not-being-his-brother part. David could never have pulled that leather jacket off.”

  I smile a little. She’s right. Carter always had an elusive cool about him, a swagger that didn’t go unrecognized with my friends at school. Once he joined the NHL, it was game over. Women were knocking his door down for a piece of the action. It was no secret what said action entailed either—all ten inches of it. Crusher dick pics aren’t hard to come by.

  “You should see him, face to face,” June enthuses, nodding sagely.

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why? Because you feel guilty, because of David? Fuck David.”

  If there’s one thing you can count of with June, it’s an honest opinion. Your boots don’t match your top? Seaweed in your teeth? She’ll tell you. “June…”

  “Wren,” she counters, loading up on the sarcasm. “You’ve got to move on, and what better way to stick it to your scummy ex-husband than getting your rocks off with his much hotter, brother. You told me yourself, Carter’s packing some serious penis power.”

  “June!” I exclaim. “God, this conversation is so, so wrong.”

  She pulls me up into a sitting position, holding my shoulders. “Sister, you need to be fucked back to life. You’re the best candidate for some grade-A dick defibrillation I’ve seen in a long time. You told me yourself. You’ve never had an orgasm. I mean, come on—literally. What. The. Fuck.”

  The song continues to play:

  Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue

  Oh how my heart yearns for you

  Oh Peggy, my Peggy Sue-who-who