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Casey

THEN, SIX MONTHS AGO

The Igloo received a surge of new clientele tonight. There were faces Casey didn't recognize— faces who belonged to either some rich patron's plus-one or associates of his boss. They've certainly come to the right place; add the alcohol, subtract any rationality, divide the girls and pray that no one multiplied.

The wheel of fortune to work at 'The Ice Hole'— the club within the club that served as a breeding ground for all the sleazy penguins itching to dive into a pool that would indulge in their every desire— landed on Casey tonight. He hated working there. Anything that had to do with questionable substances and tough-looking mobsters was a pot brewing with trouble.

But it's like his coworkers who've been here longer than he had said, you've gotta kiss the ring. That part rang true; he wasn't getting paid to sit on his ass and let the drinks serve itself. Besides, wasn't that why the pay was good? For a chaotic environment that could potentially turn unfortunate for the employee?

And if he had to be honest, there was only one thought that made getting the most expensive bottle of whiskey from the bar and walking up the neon light staircase a little more bearable: Ana. He hadn't seen her for a few days. Images of their night together darted through his mind like a herd of galloping horses— her rosy breasts against his skin, his breath fanned against her smooth skin scented with sweet honey, her thighs trapping him under her like a cage. Secondary details as those mattered to him as much as Ana's words and body language at the coffee shop the other day did.

The Ana he took home from the club was not the same Ana he met up with at the coffee shop. That was what really peaked his curiosity. It was like there was a flame that burned inside her, yet also a wall of ice that corrupted her well of trust. However, that look he gave her before she bolted— one of hopeful promise, a slight crack in her polished armor.

It was a look that betrayed cynicism.

Casey adjusted his black button-down, sliding a tray under his arm. The bouncer guarding the door shifted slightly, sticking out his bottom lip as if Casey spat on his five-hundred dollar designer shoes.

"Where do you think you're going?" The bouncer asked.

Casey flashed his card— proof from the boss herself. "Hospitality," he said.

The bouncer squinted at the card to make sure it was real, which made Casey a little annoyed. Was this bozo new or what? Once satisfied, the bouncer let him through.

The neon lighting awashed low blue and purple lighting along the room like an underground light show. The glass floors and walls reflected the blurred bodies stuck to each other in dark corners and the stage where the strippers performed. The room pulsed to the rhythm of the upbeat techno bass playing from the loud speakers. And then— the laughter. Men who were decked in navy suits, smelled like Old Spice aftershave, and flashed their Rolex watches, laughing side-to-side with women who were young enough to be their daughters. Here, it didn't matter if you were some Wall Street hotshot or a silver-haired senator; secrets that were marinated, steeped and served on a crystal platter mattered.

Casey went to a group of men who looked like they'd been hitting the happy juice since Black Monday. Keeping them company were a few hot exotic dancers, whose every inch of pearly skin were explored by well-manicured hands and mouths were dominated by wet yet firm tongues. Of course, why else would someone venture here. For smiles?

It also didn't hurt to play the charming bartender type. At least until someone flipped the table. "Macallan Lalique or WhistlePig?" He set down his gear and held up either bottle. In case they didn't hear him, he said it pretty loud and even showed their options practically in their faces.

One of the men, who pulled away from his flavor of the night as he was getting his chest rubbed, waved his hand off. His dope-filled smile stretched farther than a band of elastic. "I'm buying for the whole damn table, so take your pic! In fact, if you kiss my feet, I'll pay the tab for everyone in this room! I'll even buy that mural on the wall over there and buy everyone drinks every night!"

His friends howled in laughter, clinking their drinks.

"WhistlePig it is, then."

As Casey served a round, he noticed a gleaming band around DrunkStar's finger— a wedding ring. Like that would end well. They probably all had wives waiting for them back home.

"You ever wish your favorite whiskey could become a person?" DrunkStar giggled. "Because there's different types? If I drink this right now—" he pointed a crooked finger at the copper liquid bottle "—I want it to turn into a lady that is spicy like black pepper but smooth like whipped cream!"

"Just drink the damn glass, Cooper," one of his friends said, slapping his shoulder. "You make it sound like you're describing a person."

"But I am describing a person."

Laughter. . . and more laughter.

Casey sighed. This was going to be a long night. If he could just. . .

He froze. He saw a familiar face exiting a room across from where he stood. She moved like she was the only real thing in a place full of illusions. Her sequin dress that hugged her slim figure caught and reflected light in various directions like little mirrors. Her lipstick was dark and bold enough to remind clients that it was her eyes who held all the power.

Ana. But something about her was wrong. Casey observed the best he could in this neon light fest. Was that a. . . blotch on the side of her face? A mark?

He was too occupied trying to look when a disgruntled remark brought him back to focus.

"What the fuck, man?"

Casey looked down. The glass he was pouring overflowed and spilled its contents at Casey's feet and one of Cooper's friends.

"Hey, these shoes are brand-new," the man slurred. His posture indicated he was about to look for a brawl. "Do you have any idea how much they're worth?"

"Sorry, sir," Casey apologized. Though, he was less interested in estimating his shoes worth and more interested in Ana, who was getting further away by the second. "Allow me to get some napkins for you."

He set down the bottle and hurried in the direction Ana was walking to. Any rationality had been turned off as he tried to keep up with her pace.

"Ana." He managed to catch her arm.

She gasped and jumped back, turning around. Casey's stomach dropped. There was a ring of swollen purple and blue around her left eye. Even underneath all that concealer and in this low lighting, he noticed the faint yellow of healing underneath it. Her neck— at first what he thought could've been hickies— had a distinct pattern of bruising that looked like it had been done by someone who tried to choke her.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded.

"I work here, remember? I thought you said you only worked downstairs."

Ana went silent. She avoided his gaze.

"Okay, I don't care that you lied about that. What I care about is what the hell happened to you."

He pointed out her bruises. She adjusted the strap of her dress that had slipped down.

"It is nothing," she dismissed.

"Really? What kind of casual bump-and-slip causes a black eye? Those bruises on your neck?"

"Not every injury on a woman's body is because someone hurt her."

"What about you? Why else were you walking like you were trying to get out of here?"

"I am working, Casey."

"Just tell me who did this."

"It is not your business."

She tried to leave, but Casey went around her. He couldn't leave her alone; not when he knew something serious was going on. "Which asshole did it?"

She briefly looked around like she was afraid for her safety. "Do not make this into a problem," she whispered.

"Then he should've thought of that before he started smacking you around."

Ana was about to open her mouth, but a thick voice sliced through their ears. A man appeared behind them, his gaze sweeping over them from head to toe— mostly at Casey with calculative and cold eyes. He was handsome, sure, but the scar that crawled from his cheek to his jaw and his intimidating presence alone made Casey guess that this man was guilty of a crime or two.

"Is there a problem over here?" The man questioned. Casey half-expected to hear an accent, but every word was pronounced perfectly.

Ana's spine locked. "None, Khartov. Just talking."

Khartov looked over Casey once more. He looked at him like he wanted to turn him into a rodent and run him over with a Lamborghini. "I've never seen you around here before. Do you work with the clean-up crew?"

Casey tried to keep his cool. Twinkle Toes was just goading him so he could have an excuse to punch his face. He smiled. "Server, actually. And if you're a regular here, you should've seen me at some point."

"Never in the right place, I guess," Khartov suggested. He slid an arm around Ana's waist. Like an owner tightening a dog's leash. "Or should I say you're never in the right place? Because I believe your place is downstairs refilling and cleaning shit up like your ass was hired to do. This conversation between you and her is over."

"You just want it to be over so you can continue choking her lights out."

The air between the three went dangerously still. It felt like someone had taken a humongous GULP. Ana stiffened under Khartov's firm grip. Khartov's hand lingered to the bulge protruding from his side— a diamond encrusted handgun, most likely. But at the last second, he got a hold of himself. Khartov gave a wolfish grin.

"I get it. You're trying to be one of those virtue-signaling do-gooders whose mission is to save hurdles of women from toxic masculinity. You've ever heard of fantasies? Role-playing? Maybe it's hard for your faux-feminist brain to understand, but there are women out there who relish being dominated and crave pain. You just gotta wait till you fuck a bombshell of your own and she begs you to squeeze the living breath out of her. Which, looking at you now, might take longer than the rest of us."

Khartov turned away, leading Ana with him. Casey curled his fists at his sides. How dare that slash-sheared degenerate gargoyle? Who did he think he was? Making assumptions about his sex life? Lecturing him about fucking BDSM?!

Ana looked over her shoulder once, like Casey was a lifesaver that was within reach, but at the same time too far away. She could only extend and extend, while Casey could only watch and watch.

Right now, he wasn't sure which one was worse.

***

NOW

Conferences, to Casey, have always felt like slipping away from reality. It had everything to do with the concept of time, really. He could look up at the clock and see that only a minute had passed, even though it much rather felt like five hours. It was exactly how he felt during lectures— the continuous chatter of his professors, the bored looks on everyone's faces, how the only interesting thing to focus on was his desktop background— that made it easy for him to jump into one of his many made-up worlds and pretend he was someone else. If he wanted to get immersed in another role, he'd hop right into the next one. Sometimes, he wished life worked like that. Especially when his life was a fucking zoo. What he would give for—

"Mr. Jones?"

Casey blinked. Right. I almost forgot. The concept of time also applied to sit-downs with the principal of a posh, all-girls boarding school.

"I'm sorry, what?" Casey said, straightening his posture in the chair.

The woman across from him wore an expression that was equal parts polite concern and exhausted disappointment. He noticed the framed portrait of a little girl on her desk. Was that her daughter?

She cleared her throat. "What I was saying, Mr. Jones, is that Amanda is one of our most brightest students. Straight A's, engages actively with her peers, and volunteers for New Leaf— a nonprofit organization sponsored by us that promotes sewage management to help prevent major pollution of water bodies in the five boroughs."

Casey felt pride surge through him. He knew his sister was an environmental science whiz, but this was another level.

"But," the principal added, "as inquisitive and driven Amanda is, we have to address her. . . tendency to derail class discussions. Especially when she disagrees with the views of her teachers and classmates. Amanda can be— how can I put this— vocally spirited."

Casey glanced sideways at his twelve year-old half-sister. Amanda looked totally unbothered, one leg crossed over the other and bouncing rhythmically.

"I like to call myself 'righteously informed'," she said, smirking.

Casey almost laughed. The principal, on the other hand, sighed. "Of course, we encourage critical thinking. Expect it, even. But when it disrupts the learning process—"

The principal then dove into a lecture explaining in the most professional way possible the importance of looking for better ways to engage with classroom without invalidating the opinion of others. The droning of her words caused Casey's mind to drift off. Again. He thought about his situation and how it would all end. Where was the FBI at finding Ana? Did they have any leads? Would they tell him if they did? When they find her, would she have to be put in WITSEC? What about him? Would he have to testify in front of every mobster? Of course he would! Unless the trial was held in a secret chamber. And then there was that other problem with White Knight—

"Mr. Jones."

Casey blinked and shook his head. "Huh?" 

The principal gave a tight smile. "I promise you, Mr.Jones, that I want your daughter to succeed and—"

Amanda wrinkled her nose. "Gross."

Casey coughed. He smiled awkwardly. "Oh, no. I'm her older brother. Well, half-brother. But a brother is still a brother, right?"

Goddamn. Does that mean I look much older than I already am? Am I going to have to drink collagen water from now on?

The principal arched her eyebrow, probably wondering why Amanda's college-aged brother was here having this discussion instead of their father.

"Technically, it's allowed," Casey added. "In the situation that neither birth parent can be present, an exception can be made for other family members as long as they're eighteen or above. Which I am."

"Yes, I know what the family exception clause is," she said, flipping through a folder. "In any case, I need you to take this."

She handed him a letter. A disciplinary action form. "A parent signature is required to ascertain that Amanda understands her display of misconduct."

"Got it. Thank you."

The principal nodded. Casey and Amanda left the office in silence. Once they were outside, he rolled his eyes.

"Seriously, Mandy?"

"What?" she answered stiffly.

"Derailing class? Making the teachers cry?"

"I didn't make him cry! He was just embarrassed that a twelve year-old knew more about carbon emissions than he did. Plus, he openly and I mean openly, talked about Elliot Newhall! What kind of intro to environmental science teacher is going to praise someone who denies the scientific consensus of human-caused climate change?"

"Okay, so he's a hypocrite. Was that really enough justification to call him a 'salt slug' and get sent out into the hallway?"

"I was referring 'salt slugs', as in plural, to all the capitalist jerks and politicians who believe in fossil-fuel-greedy hogs than the science in front of them. I wasn't really calling him him a salt slug. Even though I was." 

"Well, he felt like you fractured his ego."

"Because men are such big babies."

"That include me?"

"Oh, especially you."

Casey snapped his fingers. There it was. "Fine. Let's just say that every man out there has an ego problem. That still doesn't give you the right to insult your teacher. You're the student in this scenario, Mandy. You think the school is going to give a flying cocksputter if you're right? All they're going to see is an educator of plus-twenty years getting schooled by an angry rhinoceros in pigtails because he got something wrong about the water cycle. It's not a good look."

"I'm not going to be quiet when people are wrong," she snapped. "Isn't that what you always say? To speak up?"

"Yeah, but don't hijack the whole damn lesson. That's what debate is for."

She glared at him but stopped, sucking in her cheeks like she did when she was mad. With her pigtails fastened with bat hair ties, feet tucked inside Converse knee-high sneakers, and carrying Coraline— the name for her bat-wing coffin-shaped backpack embellished with a rhinestone heart (because according to Mandy, rhinestone hearts were in fashion), the action only made her look even cuter.

He was going to refrain from calling her that this time. If there was anything Mandy hated more than anything in the world, was not being taken seriously enough.

"All seriousness aside, Mandy," Casey said, "your enthusiasm is a gift. It makes people listen. And that's exactly the kind of person this world needs."

Mandy snorted. "It seems like what the world would rather want is people who will be good little boys and take in misinformation."

"More reason to take action and empower everyone with your message, right?"

"Right." She paused before speaking again, "It's a good thing I asked you to come instead of my mom or Winslow. I would've never heard the end of it from them."

Casey caught how Mandy didn't call Winslow 'stepdad'. Or 'stepfather' or whatever. From what he was told about him, he seemed like a decent guy. Worked in tech, a little old-fashioned, a little brusque, but a decent guy nonetheless. He got extra points in Mandy's favor when she overheard him bashing Connor Larkin— that conspiracy-theorist wacko who claimed the reduction of greenhouse gases would be detrimental to the economy and lead to a global revolution that would see people fighting for their constitutional rights. Even though Winslow and Mandy's mother had been married for almost six years, Mandy had yet to exit the hey-we're-familiar-but-not-really-there stage. Casey guessed she was just scared of accepting another man as a father figure, but Mandy never talked it over with him.

"You're just lucky your big bro here made time out of my busy day. Being cool is pretty exhausting."

"Cool at what? Writing your number on the hand of any girl you see with a Sharpie?"

"Please, Mandy. I have much more class in my little finger than Nicholas Cage has in that big forehead of his."

"So it's to say that you have none."

"At least my height of coolness outweighs digging in a compost pile for a can of worms."

"I am benefitting nature by fertilizing gardens. While you seem to benefit it by fertilizing eggs."

Casey widened his eyes a little. "How do you—"

"SexEd curriculum. I know too much. Sorry."

Yeesh, his baby sister was growing too fast. "As I was saying, it's not everyday I get to visit my little sister. We should do this more often."

"For that to happen, I'd need to land in the hot seat again. And again. And again. . ."

The two laughed. They made it out into the parking lot.

"Speaking of visiting," Mandy said, taking the disciplinary form out of Casey's hand, "you haven't visited at all. Has school and your job really been kicking your butt lately?"

Casey stuffed his hands in his pockets. The FBI had been kicking his ass the hardest. They walked a few paces more. "Yeah. Just the joys of higher education. Nothing I can't handle." He suddenly grinned. "There's no shame in saying you missed me, you know."

"I'd rather hug the black mold that grows in my school's crawl space. But no. I just thought that if you couldn't come, I'd have to ask. . ." she let her silence fill in the blank.

Casey frowned. "Dad. I know."

They stood there as the cold crept in. Casey felt like someone dipped a piece of salt in vinegar and then made him lick it. He knew eventually they'd circle back to this topic.

"You haven't talked to him either, huh?" She asked quietly.

"No. And I don't plan to." Casey's voice came out more bitter than he'd meant to.

"I know he's a mess. . . but he's still our dad. Someone should care."

"Mandy. . ."

"He doesn't have anyone, Case."

"Last time I checked, his siblings are still alive."

"I mean children. No matter how many screwups he's done, it doesn't change who we are to him."

"You want to check on him? I'm not stopping you. But I'm not dealing with his bullshit any longer. He's made his choices. We don't owe him anything."

Mandy frowned, possibly taken aback hearing Casey's harshness. "I just don't want you to hate him forever. That's all."

Casey softened. He reached a hand to pat the top of Mandy's head. He wished he had a bigger heart like hers. Wished he cared more. He couldn't be mad at her for trying.

"It's not that I hate him Mandy. I just. . . shit between me and him is messy. One mess after the next and you just get tired of cleaning it up. We don't have to try to fix him, you know."

Mandy brushed his hand away. She looked at him. Really looked. "You've been with him longer. Was he always like this? I mean, he didn't wake up one morning and became like that. . . right?"

Casey said nothing. For all her brazen-faced attitude, Mandy was still a kid. She didn't understand how complicated these things were. No one was born a monster. It's not like anyone wanted to be one.

Then how, despite best efforts, did the monster find a way to emerge?