Under the Devil's Wing

The Beast of Birmingham

Under the Devil’s Wing

T.S. Barnett

Copyright 2014 T.S. Barnett

Published by T.S. Barnett at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1 Lilah

2 Sam

3 Alicia

4 Sam

5 Alicia

6 Marcy

7 Alicia

8 Sam

9 Marcy

10 Alicia

11 Marcy

12 Alicia

13 Sam

14 Alicia

15 Marcy

16 Alicia

17 Marcy

18 Marcy

19 Sam

20 Alicia

21 Sam

22 Alicia

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my husband, Jesse, a constant inspiration and source of endless support. And thanks to Daniela, without whom any German would be woefully inaccurate.

1 LILAH

You don’t normally see many new folks in this town. The bars are filled with the same people, day after day, night after night, eating their burgers or chicken wings and drinking their beers. The wood floors are worn in trails from the jukebox to the bar, around the billiard tables and back and forth from the dart board. It’s a quiet kind of bar, most nights, and that suits me fine. I’d much rather get the same reliable tip from Bronson and his boys or serve up burgers in a basket to a family passing by on the interstate on the way to somewhere more interesting than deal with city crowds and city attitudes.

Tonight seems to have shaped up to be a very normal kind of night. The neon-trimmed clock on the wall says it’s about 1 a.m.—just two more hours until I can wipe down this counter and head on home. It’s about as crowded as usual on a Thursday night. A few tables full of old friends, guys relaxing after a hard day’s work, Jerome and Henry playing darts between beers. I take a minute to re-tie my ponytail, tugging my coppery split ends tightly into the elastic. I need to get it trimmed.

Mack and Bill wave to me as they head for the door. You keep these fellers in line, Lilah, Mack calls with a grin, earning himself a playful objection from a nearby table.

You know I will. Have a good night, boys.

When they’re gone, I move out from behind the bar to clear their table. I stuff their tip in my apron pocket, pick up the two empty beer glasses, and wipe down the table, all with practiced monotony. The glasses go into the tub in the back sink along with the others Marshall is washing, and when I come back out to the front, I’m slightly startled by the sight of someone new sitting at the bar.

He looks like a normal guy, mid-thirties maybe, the kind you’d expect in a place like this. Messy brown hair late for a trim, heavy stubble, tan skin and a thick build. His dark blue t-shirt is a little dirty, and the neckline is starting to fray. He smiles at me when our eyes meet, friendly like, but I’m distracted by his face. All along his left cheek, his facial hair is broken up by scars that run down across his mouth and chin, ending around the right side of his neck. Some kind of animal attack, or work accident, or something. It’s hard not to look, but I put on my smile as I walk over to him and do my best to keep my eyes on his. That’s much better; they’re a very pale green and quite nice to look at, actually.

You’re out late tonight, stranger, I say brightly. What can I get you?

A neat whiskey, if you please, ma’am. Whatever’s cheap. He shifts on the stool to dig in his pocket and drops a wad of small bills on the counter, flattening them out with calloused hands. There’s some minor scratches on his forearms and scrapes on his knuckles, like he’s been in a recent dust-up. But I don’t see any fresh marks on his face, so I guess he must have won. He grins up at me when he’s finished. An’ however many that’ll get me. His drawl is thick, but it’s not Georgian. Mississippi or Alabama, maybe.

I pull a glass and bottle from behind the bar and pour him a couple fingers. He thanks me, calls me darlin’, and sips at his drink. I want to ask him what brings him here, what kind of trouble he’s been in. I feel like I don’t want to leave him, especially when he half-smiles at me over his glass and I feel a warm pit in my stomach that I haven’t felt in a long time. Just about too long. But he turns away from me when one of the boys across the way calls to him to challenge him to some pool.

The bar slowly empties over the next hour, and I clear the tables and collect my tips like normal, but I can’t keep my eyes off the man with the scarred face. He plays a couple of games of pool, and leans on the jukebox while he punches the buttons to play some Hank Williams. His blue jeans are dusty with a small hole torn in one knee, and the bottoms are worn at the heel of his boots. He certainly doesn’t look like the type to drive through on vacation. And I’ve had more than my fair share of trouble when it comes to men. So why do I keep staring at this drifter’s hips whenever he walks back to the table for a drink of his whiskey, or watching his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt when he leans over the pool table?

He smiles at me whenever he comes back to the bar to be topped up, and eventually he settles back on his stool, waving good night to the men he’d been passing the time with. Marshall comes out of the back and asks if he can cut out early to pick his girlfriend up from the bus station, and I let him go since there are only three or four people left.

You always take care of this place all by yourself, darlin’? the stranger asks, leaning his elbows on the bar.

It’s normally pretty quiet. Doesn’t take but one person. In the back of my mind, I know I should be wary of a stranger asking me how frequently I’m alone at work at 3 a.m., but I push the thoughts aside in favor of staring at the white lines of scar tissue marking his lips. If he notices me looking, he doesn’t seem to mind. You always drift into bars in strange towns in the middle of the night?

Not always, he answers with a sly grin that makes my stomach tighten. The last few people trickle out the doors, and then it’s just the two of us. He turns his back to the bar to watch me gather up the glasses and wipe down the tables. Should I be gettin’ on out of your way, sweetheart? Hate to be a bother. Or maybe you’d rather an escort home? It’s awful late.

A small laugh comes out of me as I set the tub of empty glasses on the bar beside him. I’m used to it. I feel my face flush a little. I can sense his eyes on me, one hand still loosely cupping his whiskey glass on the bar top.

Well that sounds a mite lonely. He reaches out to me, and any instinct I may have had to pull away melts instantly when I feel his rough hand trace the back of my arm. When I look over at him, that sly smile is back on his face. Do you get lonely out here, darlin’?

I’m about to do something stupid. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t even know this guy’s name. There’s something about him, something strange and attractive and predatory. If anybody else in this bar put his hands on me, they’d draw back a stump. Instead of slapping his hand away, when he pulls me closer to him, I let him. When he sets me on his knee and slips a slow hand up my thigh, I let him. He’s so warm; even through my clothes I can feel the heat of his touch. Goosebumps form on my skin as he grips my hip, and I shudder when he leans in close and I can feel the rasp of his stubble against my cheek. Yep. Definitely about to do something stupid.

Suddenly his teeth are on my skin, sharply but only just, making me gasp. My fingers dig into his thick shoulders to brace myself so that I don’t slide off his lap, but the hand on my hip wouldn’t let me move anyway. His free hand is under my shirt, and I arch against him when I feel the snaps of my bra come undone. I feel dizzy; I’m in a haze as he lifts me effortlessly onto the bar and tugs my shirt up over my head. I touch his cheek, his chest, anywhere I can reach, clenching handfuls of his hair while his mouth travels down my bare torso, kissing and biting at my breasts and stomach. He loses his shirt at some point, and I find myself giggling as I run my fingers through the thick hair on his chest.

I’m aware of him unbuckling my belt only because of the sound, and I hear the clunk of the change in my apron hitting the wooden floor as he discards it. I feel like I’m barely taking in air at all, even though I’m panting. I’ve never been this worked up before, and I certainly wouldn’t have pegged the dirty, scarred-up whiskey-drinker with bloody knuckles as the one to do it to me. I squirm under his kisses as my pants are tugged down my legs and onto the floor. I think they rip, but I don’t care. I can feel the chill of his undone belt buckle against my inner thigh when he pulls me roughly to the edge of the bar, and the press of his body against mine, and I don’t care that the lights are still on and the door is unlocked.

I reach behind my head to grip the edge of the bar and steady myself, for what little good it does. I’m only half on top of it anyway; he’s easily supporting my weight with a firm grip on my waist and my legs wrapped tight around his hips as he pushes me back against the bar again and again. All thoughts of the outside world are gone now, and I’m biting my lip to keep from crying out too loudly.

A sharp pain brings me back to reality, and I look down to see a smear of blood on my chest, and a single drop falling almost in slow motion from his chin. He doesn’t acknowledge me when I shout. I try to struggle, but he pins me down with one hand on my neck, and even with both hands on his arm, I can’t budge him. I can feel his fingernails digging into my hip and thigh, sense the fresh scratches forming there. His teeth are on my neck, my shoulder, my breasts, leaving springs of bright red blood wherever he passes. I feel the heat of it pooling on my stomach, and hear his deep growls as his tongue runs over the blood before too much can spill down my sides.

I start to scream, but his grip on my throat tightens, and I can’t breathe enough to make any real noise. I’m lifted up from the bar and pulled close against him, but I don’t have the strength to even attempt to hold myself up. There’s blood on his face—my blood. I feel the wet heat of it on my cheek as his mouth closes over my ear, and I cry out as best I can as the flesh tears, overwhelming the tiny clink as my hoop earring hits the floor. Then I can’t cry out at all. His hand closes tighter on my neck, and something cracks inside. I can’t breathe.

He drops me back onto the bar, how much longer later I don’t know, and when he pulls away I crumple helplessly to the floor. My vision is dark, my body is weak from lack of blood. I don’t know how many wounds I have. I want to say something, to beg, to ask him why. I feel his hand on my cheek, almost softly, and he tilts my head up to look at him. His face, chest, and hands are covered in blood. I think there are tears on my face, but my head is fuzzy. He says something to me, I think, and his thumb brushes my lip tenderly. Then his other hand is on my face, and I feel the sharp jerk of his twisting motion before the black.

2 SAM

I wake up as the bus lurches to a stop, my forehead rolling once against the cool glass before I sit up. I wipe away a bit of dried spit from the corner of my mouth and rub the sleep from my eyes as I yawn. I glance around as the bus empties, agonizingly slowly. It smells in here. I can smell the old woman beside me, pickled in vinegar. I can smell the kid in the seat behind me, shirt stained with some kind of juice that’s turned sticky. The smokers, the sweat, the beef jerky, and I really need to get off the bus.

As soon as I’m able, I push my way into the aisle and step out into the comparatively fresh air outside the station. I grab up my duffel bag and throw it over my shoulder, pausing to have a little stretch and scratch idly at the scruff on my jaw. Need to shave. David will have a razor, I’m sure. I hope he lives in the same place, because I’ll have a hell of a time finding him otherwise.

Atlanta in June is hot as hell with thick, humid air that sticks to your clothes. Too bright for someone who just got off a bus. I pause outside a convenience store with some tourist turnstiles out front and pretend to look at postcards until the guy inside turns away. Then I throw on a pair of sunglasses from the rack and carry on down the street.

I drop down on a bench at a MARTA stop and dig in a side pocket of my duffel bag for the small, ragged black notebook I need. There’s various papers stuffed in between the pages, and one of them blows away and down the street while I’m looking for the name I want. It’s faded, but I can still read my own handwriting from years ago. David. Now to figure out where that address actually is. I lean forward to peer at the nearby street sign, and I snort a little in irritation. The city’s so different. Why do places have to keep on getting bigger and bigger, keep on changing? There’s plenty of space all over the damn country, but folks have to just pile up and up in one spot and be in each other’s way.

I try to ask a clerk in a store for directions, but he barely speaks English, so I leave and wander farther down the street. I bump into a few people on the way, storing up a small pile of wallets to look through later. The money I got from that bartender girl in Dalton was just about used up on the Greyhound ticket. I try another store when things start to look familiar, and I’m pointed in the direction of the apartment building.

Still a shithole. What’s the point of keeping the front of a place like this locked? Who the hell’s going to break in, and what would they think they could get if they did? Maybe one of the shitty air conditioners hanging onto the windows with three pounds of duct tape might be worth scrapping. I check the listing on the buzzers by the door, but I imagine his name is different now. It must have been ten years since I saw him last. There’s a couple of D’s listed. D. Morris. D. West. D. Talbot. I start at the top and buzz the first D, but no one answers. A woman answers the second one, so I know that’s not his place. I ask anyway, but not a chance he’s shacked up with a girl. That just leaves Mr. Talbot. There’s a pause, then some static after I push the button.

Hello? That’s him.

Open up this door, boy. The intercom clicks, but the door doesn’t make a sound. I frown at it, and buzz again.

No, Sam. Go away.

You ain’t gon’ turn me away in the street, son. Let’s have it open.

Not this time. Leave me alone.

I will bust this door if I have to; you know I will. Now I wanna come up and be friendly, see my boy.

Another pause. I wait.

Okay, he says finally, and the intercom shuts off a few seconds before the lobby door clicks unlocked.

I push my way inside and trot the few floors up to number 13. At the landing of David’s floor, a woman almost bumps into me as she comes out of the apartment across the hall. She slips a little, but I catch her arm in my free hand and settle her.

Oh, lord, thank you! she says with a laugh, putting a hand over her heart as she looks up at me with a shy smile. She smells like cats. She’s a skinny, mousy blonde, pushing 30, with a blouse that doesn’t suit her and a bun falling out of its bobby pins. You startled me. Are you new in the building?

No, ma’am. Just visiting a friend. I tilt my head toward the door across the way, and she smiles.

Oh, you’re a friend of David’s! He doesn’t have visitors very often; I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. He’s such a sweet boy, but I think he must be awful lonely sometimes. My name’s Sylvia, by the way.

Sam.

Well it’s great to meet you, Sam. She pats my forearm affectionately as she squeezes by me to start down the stairs. Sorry I can’t stay and chat; tell David I said hello. We should have dinner while you’re here!

I’ll pass that along. You be careful now; don’t be fallin’ where I ain’t there to catch you. I wink at her, and her face flushes before she turns and bustles down the stairs.

When she’s out of sight, I try to rub the scent of her off of my hand onto the wall. Cats. I knock on David’s door and he opens it instantly. He must have been listening.

Get inside already, he mutters, and I clap him on the shoulder as I pass through his doorway.

Afternoon, Mr. Talbot. The place isn’t so shitty on the inside. He keeps it neat, and it’s decorated with artsy black and white pictures on the wall. He has a laptop computer on the end table by the sofa, and what looks like a bag for a fancy camera on the coffee table. Through the doorway into the kitchen, I can see a clean little metal table, and a rack of spices on the back counter. There’s even a potted plant. I really don’t understand this kid at all.

I set my duffel on the floor and drop onto his sofa, leaning back to rest my heels on his coffee table. He slaps at my feet as he goes by me to sit in a chair, so I humor him and move them. He hasn’t changed much in ten years. Maybe a little older; he looks like he could buy himself a drink now. From the right bartender, anyway. On a busy night. The kid’s got a hell of a baby face. Which makes it a little hard to take him seriously as he’s glaring at me from his chair in his khakis and polo shirt. Maybe he should grow a beard.

What do you want, Sam? I don’t have any money.

I ain’t here for money, damn, I say with a laugh. He doesn’t like that. He sits forward in his chair, black eyes narrowed at me.

I told you last time I didn’t want to see you again. I almost had to up and leave again because of you. I’ve finally settled in here, and I like it that way. I have a job, and it’s not just flipping burgers or stocking shelves. The paper pays me for my photos. He stops, and sits back in his chair with a frown. Even with all that protesting, he still slipped right back into telling me all his news and waiting for me to be proud of him. I try to