The Liberator

10 Here I Am to Stay

On the ride over to Aspen’s house, I think about the collector who paid me a visit last night. There’s not much I can do but keep my guard up. Not like I can go running around Denver trying to sense a cuff nearby. Dumb.

So instead, I focus on my assignment. I focus on the fact that Valery said Aspen was important, though that could mean a thousand different things. I know it’s not her fault that I’ve been sent to liberate her, but right now, I’m feeling resentful. After all, if she had her shit together, I’d be back with Charlie. So yeah, I’m not a happy camper this morning. But a job is a job, and no one can pull tricks like I can to get crap done.

It’s painfully early as I cruise through Aspen’s gate and head up the drive, but I’ve got to catch this girl before she heads off to school. After killing the engine and striding up her walkway, I stop and admire myself in the glass door. Looking mighty fine, if I do say so myself: red v-neck, dark denim, designer combat boots, and enough testosterone rolling off me to satisfy Nicki Minaj. Pow!

I knock once on the ten-foot tall door and wait until a little window opens. A guy cocks an eye at me like this is The Wizard of Oz and he’s Emerald City’s damn gatekeeper.

“How’s it going?” I ask him, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I’m here to pick up Aspen for school.”

The door swings open, and an older dude with Aspen’s green eyes stares back at me. He’s a burly guy, the kind with a barely visible neck. And he isn’t doing himself any favors with his too-tight dress tie. “Who are you?” the guy says, and I notice his voice sounds a little like how I imagine an alligator might talk, all throaty and showing way too much tooth.

“Dante Walker.” I stick my hand out because parents love that crap, but this guy only nods his head toward something behind him.

“She’s upstairs,” Crocodile Man says. “I’m going to work, so no funny business.”

I want to tell him not to worry, that we need to head out, and I’m a guy who likes to take my time when performing “funny business.” But I decide against this and instead move aside as Aspen’s dad brushes past me toward the garage. I take this as my cue to enter his humble abode, so I walk inside and shut the door behind me.

My eyes bug out of my head, because even though I was raised on the green, I’ve never seen this kind of excess. The place looks like a pic that’d pop up on Google when you typed in “Americans Who Prosper from Child Labor.” Glancing down, I notice the floors are Italian stone, the real kind. The kind that crack and soak up anything that spills but shows others how much more money you have than them.

There are also pops of designer wall paper in all the right places. Poor people think wallpaper is out, but that’s because they’re a generation behind the wealthy. And always will be. The rich will always say to themselves, “What do the poor people hate today? Ah, yes. Wallpaper. Good. Let’s embrace that, then.”

Crawling toward the top floor is a pair of sweeping stairs that’d make any Disney princess weep with joy. I imagine if most girls saw them, they’d run out and buy every wedding magazine they could get their simple hands on.

Not Aspen, though. I’ve only spent one evening with her, watching her, and already I know she’s never pictured how she’d look in a wedding dress.

For some reason, I assume Aspen’s room is probably upstairs, so I ascend quietly. When I get to the top, I stop and glance both ways down a gold-and-white hallway. I choose to turn left and am soon rewarded by the sound of heavy base.

At least the girl’s got an ear for music, I think as I stroll toward deep, screaming vocals.

I push the cracked bedroom door open the rest of the way and find a girl who looks every bit like Aspen but is half her age. The girl child’s eyes grow large when she sees me.

“Aspen,” she calls, and I notice the alarm in her voice.

Holding my hands up, I try to look innocent. “Sorry, I was actually just looking for—”

Pain shoots up my spine as I’m slammed into a wall. Aspen’s face is inches from mine, her forearm pressed against my neck. When she recognizes me, she lets up, but not much. As she cuts off my oxygen, I can’t help noticing she’s wearing fingerless gloves again; yesterday’s pair was black, and today’s gloves are bright green.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snarls. “Who the hell are you?”

“D-Dub in the flesh,” I manage, thinking this girl might do well in the WWE. She certainly has the charm for it.

Aspen glances at her sister, who’s moved closer. And the look she gives her baby sister tells me everything I need to know; Aspen would do anything to protect her. “Don’t come out of your room, Sahara. My friend and I are going to have a little chat.”

Sahara nods, her big, vulnerable eyes still enlarged.

Aspen grabs my upper arm and leads me down the hallway. I could easily overpower her, but I let her do her thing, since it’s mildly amusing.

After my prison guard has pushed me into a bedroom covered in reds and blacks, she turns on me. “Look, I was a little messed up yesterday, so I let it go that I didn’t know who you were. But I’m not now,” she states. “Let’s start with what the hell were you doing in my sister’s room?”

“Such salty language,” I tsk, trying to refrain from yawning, because seriously, this girl is boring me.

Aspen steps closer in an attempt to intimidate yours truly, but that so isn’t happening.

“I came to see you, not her,” I offer, remembering I have to befriend this girl for the sake of the assignment. “I didn’t know which room was yours.”

“Now you do,” she says, breaking eye contact. I decide the gesture means she’s nervous, which tells me even though she’s acting all Fearless Woman, I must make her uncomfortable. And that means, my friends, that it’s time to spew lies.

“Aspen, listen, your dad and my dad work together. I was sent over to make nice with you so that Pops will get a leg up. But I’d rather saw my own arm off than be his damn pawn. So I decided instead I’d come over and make your life hell.” I grab the cigarettes from her nightstand, pull one out, and light it. “I’ve since decided I don’t fucking care enough to do even that.”

One corner of Aspen’s mouth quirks upward. “Such salty language.”

I grin and offer her a cigarette from her own pack, knowing Charlie would not be pleased to see me full on smoking. But hey, she’s out partying, right? Aspen takes the cigarette. “Shouldn’t we be off to the playground?”

“We’re out for winter break.” Aspen sits on her bed and stares out the window, taking long pulls on her cigarette. I follow her gaze and notice the mountains look larger from here. Less like titties and more like mom boobs. I plop down on a black suede chair in the corner and admire the silver studs along its curved back. It’s very Adam Levine.

Aspen glances back at me and the small diamond in her nose catches the light. “So you hate your old man?”

I already know Aspen despises her own dad. I mean, maybe I’m wrong, but something tells me when you flip your parent the bird, you’re kind of over them. Remembering this, I say, “If I could use him as shark chum, I would.”

Aspen laughs hard and clean, like there’s nothing holding her back. “I feel ya.”

Blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air, I inspect her room closer. Part of bringing this girl in means knowing what would motivate her to live a purer lifestyle. And there’s no better place to start, I decide, than studying her natural habitat.

Her bed is queen-sized, even though she could easily fit three kings in here. And her floor is covered in black carpet, which I’m certain she picked out. A miniature crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, and all along the walls are splashes of red and white. Near the soaring window is an enormous black leather beanbag. Overall, the room is designed for a rock star and looks similar to a deck of playing cards.

I can’t help thinking Charlie would like the bold red. That maybe this is the room she’d actually like to have, even though everyone would rather picture her in something pink and sparkly.

Eyeing the area near the beanbag, I notice there are little trinkets on the window ledge. I stand from the pimp chair and move across the room. Aspen sees what I’m headed toward and leaps to her feet.

“Those are mine,” she says, and I’m surprised at the possessiveness in her voice.

Ignoring her, I edge closer. They’re music boxes, I realize. Well, not boxes, actually. More like just the little mechanical parts of music boxes, all silver cords and string. On the side of each device is a little crank. I want to turn one so bad, but suddenly I feel like my hands are too big. I glance at Aspen who’s standing close by, her face lined with worry. She flicks her cigarette into a chrome trash can like she never wanted it in the first place. “Do these actually play anything?” I ask.

Her eyes glare past me at the trinkets, and I note the blue eye shadow smudged over her lids. I wonder why she wears it, because Mom—who also has green eyes—always said the shade was blasphemous.

“Yeah, they work.” Aspen steps around me as if she’s guarding them. Then, maybe because she can tell how badly I want to pick one up, she chooses one from the back. Then she rolls it between her gloved hands and gives me a long look. It’s like she’s silently conveying how much these things mean to her, though she’d never say it aloud. Glancing away, she holds it out to me, trying hard to act like she doesn’t care if I crush it under my heel.

I take it from her and then, balancing my cigarette in the corner of my mouth, I crank the miniature lever. Music ticks out from the gadget and I can’t help but laugh. It’s freaking awesome. I have no idea why, but it is. Aspen turns away and goes to get another cigarette. She lights it and curls up on her bed like a compressed coil, like if I make one wrong move, she’ll fire across the room. “Why do you have these?” I ask around my cancer stick.

She shrugs. “Why not?”

I spin the lever a few more times and then put the gadget back exactly where it was. Then I glance around the room again, looking to see what else I can find. This time my eyes land on a checkerboard. At first I think it’s décor, considering her room is splashed with reds and blacks. But the board and pieces are blue and yellow, and look way too intricate to be intended for actual play. Still, I know better than anyone that rich kids’ toys are always extravagant. Even crap like board games. I reach for a yellow checker.

“Stop!” Aspen yells, leaning forward. “Just…just stop touching things.” My arm freezes in midair, and a chill shoots over my skin. Most people would assume she’s just some spoiled brat who can’t share. But when I see the fear hidden in her eyes, I know better.

“What are you worried about, Aspen?” I ask quietly. And for once, I actually care what comes out of her mouth. I know Aspen likes to party, but before, I thought this was about a girl whose daddy didn’t pay attention. Now I’m not so sure.

My eyes rake over her dark hair, the small diamond stud in her nose. I watch her hands clench and unclench, and I zone in on her fingerless gloves.

Aspen toys with a small silver chain around her neck. It’s an unconscious action but one I notice all the same. There isn’t a charm on her necklace. It’s just an empty thread, like whoever bought it forgot the most important part.

I take a small step closer. “Aspen?”

In a flash, she’s on her feet. “Don’t give me that look. I’m warning you. Don’t you dare look like you feel sorry for me.” She jerks a finger in my direction. “I have everything. And I certainly don’t need some poser acting like I’m the one who needs help.”

Poser? my mind screams. Moi? But then I remember I’m wearing high fashion while driving a busted-up Kia.

I consider letting this go, but I’ve never backed down from a challenge. And this girl, she’s tossing ’em around like it’s the freaking summer Olympics. In three quick steps, I close the distance between us. I grab her upper arms and jerk her so that she can’t avoid my eyes. “You’re real good at pushing people away, aren’t you?” I growl around my cigarette. “Push, push, push. That’s Aspen.” My eyes search her face as I reconsider what I just said. “Push them away or pull them closer, right? So close they can’t even see you clearly anymore.” Cigarette in hand, I put my mouth right next to her ear. “I don’t get pushed around easily, doll. And there’s only one girl I let pull me in.”

Aspen spins her arms in a quick circle, then throws her hands into my chest. “Get off me!”

I stumble backward, and we stare at each other, breathing hard. There’s absolutely nothing sexual between us. It’s just two screwed-up people seeing each other for the first time.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. I have no idea why I say this. It just comes out. But once I say it, I know it’s true. I don’t care about saving Aspen. Not really. Even if Valery does insist she’s important to Big Guy. But I won’t leave her alone.

Aspen mutters something under her breath.

“Speak up,” I bark.

“I said, ‘you will.’ Everyone goes away.” Her stone skin relaxes, like she’s just realized what she said.

“Nah, screw that.” I stub my cigarette out in a red ash tray. “I ain’t got nothing else to do.”

Aspen laughs. It’s riddled with nerves, but it doesn’t change anything, because now we’re both smiling like idiots.

“Can I come out now?” a small voice asks.

Aspen and I spin around to see her sister, Sahara, standing in the doorway. She appears to be about eight years old, and I notice she dresses the way Aspen does, all black with a pop of one other color. Sahara slinks into the room when Aspen doesn’t immediately tell her to leave. She goes to stand in front of her older sister, and Aspen wraps her arms around her shoulders.

“This is Dante,” Aspen tells her sister. Her eyes bore into me, like she’s warning me not to say anything about our super-strange moment.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Sahara holds out her hand like a businesswoman, and I offer my own in return.

“Nice grip,” I tell the girl. “You could be a race car driver.”

Sahara laughs and looks up at her sister. The muscles relax in Aspen’s shoulders as she watches us interact, and I can’t help but think Sahara seems pretty freaking cool.

“Want to see my new dress?” Sahara asks me.

I rub my chin like I’m deep in contemplation. “Depends on whether you want an honest opinion. ’Cause I’m going to give one.”

“Okay.” Sahara moves toward the door, smiling like the world is hers to hold.

I meet Aspen’s eyes, and she nods. Then she brushes past me toward Sahara’s room, and I follow close behind. The three of us trail down the hallway, and I can’t get over how odd this is. How moments ago Aspen and I were speaking in code about her messed-up life. And now we’re hanging out with her little sister like we’re best buds. But that’s the thing; Aspen can change her tune in a heartbeat. It’s what I always prided myself on, too, how I could put on different faces depending on who was in the room.

Aspen and I are so much alike, showing the world what we want them to see and hiding everything else away.

Watching Aspen touch Sahara gently between the shoulder blades, I realize she has something I never had—someone to cling to. A sibling. I don’t have one, but I’ve always wondered what it’d be like.

A wave of dizziness rolls over me, because suddenly I understand why I said I wouldn’t leave Aspen. Because she’s just like me. She and I could have been related.

She could have been my sister.