The Mormon Renegade

Chapter 23

Andy's leather jacket is distinguishable in the violent commotion, dodging a fist to charge tackle a solid built male, two heads taller than him. His knees buckle on impact, bowling ball head colliding with a pile of harmless cardboard boxes.

I nearly choke on the coke trickling down my esophagus, observing the crazy scene unsure where to look. "Hey!" What am I doing? My legs carry me into the depth of the confrontation despite inward blaring alarm bells warning me against it.

A burly African turns, armed with a switchblade and evidently hungry for a fight. "Piss off, bitch!" He bounds forward slashing the area between us, the knifes edge slices my exposed forearm raised in defense.

It stings, but it's not the worst injury I've received. "Tristan, get outta here!" Andy opens himself up to a powerful punch in the torso, he doubles over spitting blood onto the floor.

I dodge the African's counter strike and gripping the coke bottle neck I smash the glass end on his thick skull, the trauma strong enough to knock him down in a heap.

The two other individuals --I realize are Indian and Asian guys-- engrossed in abusing Andy stop their assault at the sound of broken glass.

Equipped with the jagged points that remain of my coke bottle, the liquid contents stain the whining man at my feet. "I am not a racist," I'm not sure what made me feel the need to explain myself, "but I won't stand for this, leave before the police come." My voice quivers, lip trembling.

I imagine they are my parents. On Beckette's eighteenth birthday a mutual friend gave him Vodka as a celebration gift but father exploded for some unknown reason and in the kerfuffle this is how we stood. Me holding a shattered bottle and them standing dangerously still.

This time it won't end with another scar, I refuse to let it happen.

Andy ruins the tense standoff by shoving the Asian man so that his forehead knocks into a gutter, rendering him unconscious. This provokes the Indian attacker who tosses an expert uppercut knocking the tattooed boy senseless, his head whips like a hit speed bag.

The second his limp body collapses on the floor, the dark clothed male charges toward me from the shadows, fists wrapped around silver knuckle dusters. I won't stab him if I can avoid it.

Bracing myself I reenact the maneuver I performed on the basketball court. Barreling forward his booted feet painfully catch my ribs as I crouch low sweeping his feet up, he almost flips three sixty degrees to land on the African who continues to groan, rubbing the delicate injury.

Blood drips in thick blobs along my forearm, falling to my knees beside Andy lying on the littered concrete. Man, this cut hurts. "Andy, hey, open your eyes if you can hear me." No response, I cradle his weighted head.

Offhanded grunts and furious stomps proceed an angered statement. "You stupid bitch!" Leaning back a shard of glass scrapes the skin of my décolletage, crawling out of strike range far enough to grab the switchblade belonging to the African.

"Stop!" I shout imploringly.

We freeze. The tip of my borrowed knife a millimeter short of his denim crotch, his makeshift weapon raised in preparation of a downward stroke. Our chests rise and fall at an unsteady rate, waiting to see if the other will cave.

The African man whines attracting the Indian's attention and somewhere to my left Andy shows signs of consciousness. I notice the conflict amid his actions wanting to hurt me and wanting to help his associate. "You take care of your guy before the cops come and we can put this behind us."

He recoils in surprise, his stance softening as the proposal settles in. Cussing to himself, he raises his hands up in surrender eyes regretting the cowardice decision.

Stepping backwards to heave his disorderly accomplice by the arms, the black skinned lump of limbs applies pressure to his open wound as he's dragged away.

Once they're out of sight I pocket his switchblade as a precaution, aiding a dazed Andy to unstable feet, "I gotcha."

The cul-de-sac provides two potential paths, one the pair of thugs took and another which we soon discovered leads to an off the street diner. "Maybe they'll have a first aid kid here." His eyes are glazed over still relishing from the impressive head blow.

Deena's Diner's neon red sign flickers in contrast to the violet sky, an idyllic setting of teal booths illuminated by vintage lamps fill the enclosed establishment. My arm is crimson coated in half dry blood matching the are beneath my collar bone.

Luckily my sweater is burgundy, unluckily these stains will be impossible to remove.

"Hello?" The lights are on but a sign on the door reads closed in red font. I bang harder, Andy regains mobility, standing on his own now but leaning into my arm enveloping his toned waist.

A sketched image of Jesus stretches across his neck side under a bruised jaw.

His angular eyebrows are drawn together, licking his cut lips and rotating so his breath fans my forehead I tense at the subtle contact, raising my eyes our faces are extremely close. "Tristan..." I can't help but adore the way he says my name croakily.

Ding ding

Moment killer. "Are you alright? What on earth happened to you, there's so much--" The middle aged woman who I presume is the owner assesses us, pausing on a thickly swallowing Andy. "Damn." He unintentionally whispers in my ear causing shivers.

I can't believe the abrupt change in her demeanor from wide-eyed concern to not-this-crap-again.

My suspicions are confirmed when she says, "Shit, Andy you always gotta drag other people into your problems, dontcha?"