Bad Parts Page 5

  “Ten miles out?”

  “Yep. Can’t drive past Clarks Summit if you’re going north. And if you’re heading south, you won’t get much farther than Wilkes-Barre.”

  “What if I did? Would my hand revert back to its damaged self?”

  “No, Ashlee. You’d lose it. Permanently.”

  She felt herself sinking into the mattress. A trade was her only chance of getting healthy for the Deathgrip show. But now he was telling her that even if she replaced her hand, she wouldn’t be able to take it beyond the local area. That couldn’t be true. She wouldn’t accept it.

  “So, wait,” she said, trying to reason out a solution. “It sounds like there’s this invisible fence surrounding the area. And if you try leaving, your part gets snagged on it. Is that right? What if there’s a gap in the fence?”

  “Nope. No gaps.” He frowned. “We already checked.”

  Why would anyone bother to trade if this was the cost? There had to be a way around it. Had to be.

  “What if the barrier is only so high? Bet I could fly over it.”

  “Few years ago somebody tried flying out in a chopper. Her traded part buzzed and burned till she begged the pilot to turn back.”

  “Planes fly higher than choppers.”

  He sighed and patted her unbroken hand.

  She pulled it away.

  “The doctors said I won’t play guitar again.” Wet heat prickled behind her eyes. “I have to trade. When I do, I’ll escape somehow.”

  “What if you can’t? You okay spending your life here?”

  Tough question. Staying local would severely limit her choice of recording studios. It would mean no touring, no gigs beyond the ten-mile radius. Keeping Bad Parts together would be impossible. Post-breakup, she’d at best have a solo career with guest appearances on other albums. Then again, it’d be hard to network while she was stranded here.

  Bad as that sounded, she needed guitar in her life. And it wasn’t like she had other options. Job interviews got awkward when she showed up covered in tattoos and had to explain why she quit school. Besides, desk jockey wasn’t her thing, and she sure as shit wasn’t gonna become five-oh like her father.

  “Fuck it,” she said. “I’m trading.”

  “Listen.” He stared out the window. “When I first visited that creek, I saw things I shouldn’t have. Things that still haunt me.”

  “Yet you traded your knees.”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Bullshit.” She sat up more. “You had a choice.”

  “Ashlee, I got kneecapped!” He snatched her plate away. “My choice was between a wheelchair and walking. And that was in the early days of the trades. We didn’t understand Snare then like we do now.”

  “Snare?”

  “The creek demon, or whatever it is. We named it after the creek. Now, don’t—”

  “Dad.” Her eyes burned with moisture. “I live my life through my left hand.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have punched that wall.” It came out snarky, knowing.

  “I didn’t! I—” She stopped herself. If she told him, he’d go all cop-mode. Probably try to hunt down whoever did it. She wanted to kill the prick herself, but revenge wouldn’t fix her hand. “Just tell me how to make Snare appear.”

  He frowned.

  “Dad.”

  “No.”

  Her fist slammed the mattress. “See? This is why I don’t return your calls or texts. It’s always secrets with you. Just like with that corpse you buried ten years ago.”

  His tone went sharp. “That had to be done. Otherwise the Traders—”

  “I don’t want an explanation. I want you to trust me. I’m supposed to be your daughter, right?”

  For a moment he looked hurt, then narrowed his eyes. “You want honesty? Fine. Truth is, I don’t want you near that creek. Last thing I want is you upset because you can’t leave here without your hand disappearing off your arm.”

  “My hand’s useless anyway—hell, I’m useless!” She hadn’t meant to sound desperate, but she was. She needed her hand back. Needed her life back. “Dad, please.”

  “You try fixing the unfixable, bad things happen. It’s not worth it.”

  “The hell it isn’t.” She met his eyes. “Please. It’s the least you could do after all those years of prioritizing the Traders over me.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. He turned, headed for the door.

  “Where you going?”

  “To take care of something.” He sounded tired. His hand squeezed the doorknob so hard it rattled. “Thought we could catch up today. Guess I was wrong.”

  “Dad…”

  “Talk to Candace about trading,” he said. “She’s probably eating breakfast at the burrito shop. Pretty sure you’re still banned there, though.”

  He slammed the door and thumped down the steps.

  11

  Ash checked her bedroom, hoping Dad hadn’t thrown out her old shit. She expected the worst, but everything looked exactly the way she’d left it years ago—her sun-faded Metallica posters, her acoustic guitar lineup, even the chipped bongs and goat skulls littering her bookcase. Aside from dusting and vacuuming, Dad had preserved her room like a crime scene.

  Flitting through her closet, she found a bulky leather purse and slung it across her shoulder. She adjusted the strap till the bag rested against her hip. It made a solid hiding place for her cast.

  None of her old clothes fit, so she dressed in her muddy jeans and jacket from yesterday. The pants were stiff with dirt, but they loosened up as she rushed out into the morning cold.

  On her way to meet Candace, Ash checked the ninety-two text messages clogging her inbox. Her bandmates were more worried than ever, especially Cheeto. Since being attacked, she’d done everything she could to prevent him from seeing her like this, even going as far as arranging separate rides to the hospital. Now she needed to keep him in the dark a little longer.

  With her good thumb she texted back.

  ASH: Relax, Cheets. I’m fine. Hitched a ride to Hollow Hills. Visiting the fam.

  CHEETO: You ok? The detective I talked to said you were admitted at the ER. Same place as Flanny.

  ASH: I’m good. Just landed in some broken glass during the fight. Had to get some bits removed from my hand.

  CHEETO: Your hand? Shit! Can you play Friday?

  ASH: Yeah. Need a day to heal.

  CHEETO: You ok otherwise? That asshole didn’t hurt you, did he?

  ASH: Hell no. One kick to his nuts sent him running. You’re welcome for avenging you.

  CHEETO: LMAO! Wish I’d been awake to see that.

  ASH: You missed a show. How’s your busted ass doing?

  CHEETO: Got a swollen lip and a bruised noggin. Think I need Nurse Ash and her top-notch care LOL.

  ASH: How’s Flanny?

  CHEETO: Pretty rough. We’re driving to Philly for a second opinion. Leaving at noon.

  Noon. Shit. That didn’t give her much time to make this creek trade. She pocketed her phone and hurried.

  After picking her way through backyards and driveways, she reached the main road. Cars crammed both sides of the tire-beaten street. At this early hour the Downhill Diner attracted its share of coffee slurpers while the burrito shop caught the fast-food crowd. Ash headed for the burrito shop. Its door decal—an animated laughing cactus—mocked her by giving a thumbs-up. In a nearby speech balloon, the cactus asked, “How’ve Ya Bean?”

  “Terrific,” Ash muttered.

  Waves of nervous nostalgia tossed inside her stomach as she squinted through the glass. Behind the register Bill Werner, who co-owned the shop with his wife Rosita, wrapped a burrito in foil and took a customer’s money. Werner was a grumpy walrus of a man, complete with a massive mustache and blubbery chest. The second Ash opened the door, he looked up, but didn’t seem to recognize her.

  Inside, talk buzzed at every table. Mariachi music jingled while salsa bottles clicked and staffers shouted back and
forth. The air reeked of spilled grease and cheap steak, along with the lemony scent of mopped floor tiles.

  Ash took two steps before Werner stormed out from behind the counter, apron flapping against his knees.

  “Get outta my shop.”

  The seated customers pretended not to notice.

  “Bill? What’s wrong?” said a voice from the kitchen. Rosita Werner burst through the door hugging two massive bags of lettuce to her sides. She slammed them down next to the tortilla presser and hurried to her husband’s side. “Ash? Ash Hudson? Get out, now! You’re not welcome here.”

  “I’m looking for Candace,” Ash said, her cheeks burning.

  “Look elsewhere.” Bill Werner spread his thick arms, blocking her path forward. “Get going.”

  “But—”

  “Last time you were here,” Rosita said, her voice cracking, “we had to call the fire department and remodel. Now leave!”

  “Last warning,” Werner added.

  “I need to see Candace.”

  “That’s it!” Werner grabbed his phone. “I’m calling the cops—real cops, not half-wits like your father. I won’t have any tattooed terrorists in my shop.”

  “Shut it, the both of you,” a voice snapped from the back of the restaurant.

  That voice. Candace.

  She rose from the back booth, her face gray and shriveled. Goddamn, did she look like hell. Wrapped in a bulky denim jacket, her upper body resembled an overstuffed beanbag as she approached. She stepped alongside Werner and whispered something in his ear. His outstretched arm drooped. He steered his wife behind the counter as Candace added, “That kitchen fire was fourteen years ago. Get over it.”

  Ash couldn’t be happier to see her.

  Candace gave her a hug that could crack stone. “Great having you back, girlie.”

  “Missed you,” Ash said, squeezing with her good arm.

  They went to the back booth and sat across from Mick, Candace’s shaved-headed giant of a son. Last time Ash saw him, he’d been a skinny fifth grader. Now he was the size of a soda machine.

  “Damn, Mick,” Ash said, gawking at his wide, bulging shoulders. “You shrank.”

  “Shrank?” Mick snorted, a grin spreading between his scruffy cheeks. He looked nothing like his namesake, Mick Jagger. “What, you drink yourself blind out on tour?”

  “No, the booze keeps me sharp,” she said. “Which reminds me, did you grow a brain since I left? Last I saw you, you were flossing with one of my guitar strings.”

  Candace laughed into her napkin. “God, you two. Ash, if you ever want your babysitting gig back, say the word. Hell, maybe you can get Mickey’s grades up.”

  “Failing outta middle school, are we?” she asked him.

  “Pssh. I’m forty credits from graduating.”

  “He’s a starting linebacker at Penn State,” Candace said, her tone proud. “Even got a vote for All-Conference last year.”

  “All-Conference?” Ash asked.

  “It means he’s one of the best,” Candace said. “And not just in my eyes.”

  “Ma…” Mick whined. For a huge dude, he had a nasal, nerdy voice.

  “Ma, what?” Candace said. She turned to Ash. “Speaking of the best, I bought multiple copies of your albums. I want them signed.”

  Ash frowned. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something.” She lifted her hand from her purse but kept it beneath the table where only Candace could see.

  Candace set her jaw. She jingled her keys out of her pocket and slapped them on the table. “Mickey, since you’re not eating, head to the banquet hall and start moving those tables.” She looked to Ash. “We’re shampooing the carpets for the holidays.”

  With a grunt, Mick took the keys and left the booth.

  “Want his burrito bowl?” Candace asked, gesturing at it. “He didn’t even touch it. Athletes and their oddball diets.”

  “I just ate.”

  Candace frowned, scratching her scalp. “So, your hand. How bad?”

  “If it were a mutt, you’d put it to sleep.”

  “Poor puppy. Can’t do surgery?”

  “It won’t save my career.”

  “Neither will the creek.”

  “Bullshit,” Ash said, clenching her fist. “Did my father tell you to say that?”

  “Ash, the left hand was claimed years ago. And there’s only one of each part.”

  A void widened in Ash’s chest. “Is that why I couldn’t see my better self in the water yesterday?”

  “No, that was the cameras.” She lowered her voice as a busboy wiped down the adjacent table. “Snare only appears if you’re alone. The ghost gets stage fright if any extra eyes—including cameras—are looking.”

  “Who has the left hand?”

  “That’s private.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I can’t trust anyone,” Candace said, poking at her rice. “Otherwise we’d have people killing each other for parts. Would you like it if some cripple shot your father to free up the knees?”

  “No, but…” Her throat turned to sand. “Can I at least try to trade? Maybe Snare has extra hands.”

  “That’s not how it works. Besides, I’ve got a busy day ahead. Can’t be prancing through the woods.”

  “Then shut off the cameras. I’ll go alone.”

  “You went alone yesterday. How’d that work out?”

  Ash slammed her fist on the table. Silverware jumped.

  Werner glared disapprovingly from behind the counter.

  She lowered her voice. “I need that hand. If I can’t get it, at least let me have closure. Let me walk away knowing I tried everything I could to fix it.”

  “You already have.”

  “For fuck’s sake, I’m nothing without my hand.”

  “Now you’re being childish.”

  “Candace.” She bit her lip to keep from yelling. “Please.”

  Scooping her rice, Candace sighed. “Tell you what. Since Mickey’s already moving those tables, I guess we can make a quick trip up there. For closure.”

  Ash sighed with relief. “Thanks.”

  “One condition.” Candace tapped the table. “Promise me you’ll start texting your father again.”

  “Pick another condition.”

  “Ash, he needs you in his life.”

  “Not as much as he needed to bury that lady in the woods.”

  “Cut him a break. That was forever ago. Besides, he dug that grave to protect us Traders.”

  “He didn’t even tell me about the Traders till I caught him playing undertaker.”

  “He didn’t know how to tell you.” She stirred her rice. “You were a kid, Ash.”

  “A kid who kept getting ignored. Whenever a Trader called, he was out the door. Didn’t matter if I needed dinner, advice, a ride to rehearsal, anything. He was never there for me.”

  “Sure he was. He saved your ass big time.” Candace nodded at the kitchen. “Remember when he showed up here after the fire? Saved you a trip to juvie. Plus, he got you off easy that night you drunk-drove your brother home.”

  “He also made me feel extra shitty afterwards.” Ash realized she was sweating. “I mean, I felt bad enough about Trent. Then Dad kept hammering away.”

  “Oh, drop it. You’re what, thirty now? Move on. Give your father a chance.”

  “He had twenty years’ worth of chances.”

  “Followed by ten years of punishment. You should’ve seen him destroy himself after you left. God, they could’ve named a gin label after him. It was ugly. One time he pulled me over while he was trashed.”

  Ash raised an eyebrow. “He sober now?”

  “Yeah. Thankfully.”

  “If he’s better, then he doesn’t need me.”

  “You’d be surprised.” She frowned. “It’s sad. He thinks you hate him to his core. The things he tells me sometimes… Christ, he blames himself for everything. For being a boring old cop. For not being your birth father. For being black
while you’re white. The list goes on.”

  “Jesus.” Ash’s stomach flipped. “That had nothing to do with me leaving.”

  “I know that, and you know that. But your father, you know how he is—always overthinking, always beating himself up. With you, he goes into overdrive.” She gave a tired smile. “Whatever he said, whatever he did to let you down…forgive him, okay?”

  Ash sighed.

  “Girlie? You hear me?”

  “Fine. Let’s go see Snare.”

  12

  “Ready, girlie?”

  Candace parked at the rear of the banquet hall lot and wasted no time climbing the soggy forest trail. She moved with the vigor of someone half her age and size. Ash rushed to keep up, her hand pulsing inside its cast.

  The climb came easier today, no doubt thanks to sleep and breakfast. Not only that, the forest seemed to welcome her. Soft dirt cushioned her steps while the wind pushed leaves from her path. Whereas yesterday she’d arrived desperate, today she came demanding. She wanted a new hand and she intended to get one.

  Before long they neared the thicket outside the creek clearing. Candace approached a massive tree stump and sat down. She tapped something into her phone.

  “You’re set,” she said. “Cameras are off.”

  “Cool.”

  “Don’t be disappointed when—”

  “I won’t.”

  Ash entered the clearing. A floaty sensation filled her chest, not unlike the nerves that came prior to taking the stage. At the bend she kicked some rocks away, carved out a soft spot in the mud, and dropped to her knees. The creek clicked and splashed. Water spritzed her jeans.

  This was it. Time to reach in and take what was hers.

  As she peered over the water, her reflection appeared.

  No. Not her reflection. Not exactly.

  The woman in the water shared her features, facial structure, and skin tone. But the rest was…beautiful. Dark elegant hair. High, sharp cheekbones. Burning brown irises. Bulging lips. Smooth firm skin—and no bags under the eyes, either. Everything about her looked stunning.

  Or at least her reflection looked stunning.