Finding Tessa by Jaime Hendricks (best ereader for comics .TXT) 📗

see it. Hobart slows and pulls in. Crowds of people are leaning against every car in the lot, some sitting on the hoods and some directly on the top of the cars. Some are even dancing, pounding their feet to the beat of the music from the stereos and making dents.

It’s not like anyone has a Mercedes.

Despite knowing how to throw a punch, my stomach flip-flops. I don’t want to go through them to get my stuff, but they aren’t exactly clearing the way for Hobart to drive closer to where my room is located.

“I’m gonna walk you up,” Hobart says.

Usually a terrible line to try to fuck me, I see no ill intent in Hobart, and I would welcome bringing him to my room. He parks the car exactly where it is, and I’m afraid by the time we get back it’ll be turned over. He puts the cab in park, gets out, and opens my door to the delight of the onlookers shouting ooooh and ahhhhh and Grandpa’s gonna get some pussy! He takes my arm sternly near my elbow, a way I’ve been shoved around before, but he’s doing it protectively, not in the do as I say or else way.

We shimmy through the crowd and go up the stairs and I quickly fumble with the door lock. The knob feels looser than it did earlier, and I wonder again about someone being inside. Or maybe it’s just my nerves. When it opens, I invite Hobart in, but he declines and stands outside my door.

“Just hurry,” he says.

My bag is still opened on the rickety dresser, and I take my hair products and makeup off the bathroom counter and throw them in. I never hung anything up or used the drawers, so everything should still be in here. I don’t double check. My money is in my purse, so I zip the bag and drag it out. Sixty seconds. Max. Everything is going to be fine.

But of course . . .

“That’s the ho that’s tryna steal Marcus!”

The crazy girl is back. And she has two friends with her this time, who fall in line behind her as she approaches the bottom of the steps, and the melee begins. They start shouting over each other at me.

“Oh, girl, you in trouble, girl!”

“Think you hot shit, bitch?”

Hobart charges down anyway, and I follow closely. “Just gettin’ her stuff and gettin’ her outta here anyway. You don’t gotta worry about this no more,” he says.

Crazy girl doesn’t negotiate as she tries to make eye contact with me beyond Hobart. “He yo’ damn keeper? Cat got ya tongue?” She produces a switchblade, hits the button and extends the sharp end. “Maybe I should cut it out.”

Fuck!

Before I even have a chance to panic, Hobart pulls a gun from his waistband and brandishes it in the air.

“GUN!” someone in the crowd screams, and everyone scatters.

“That’s right. Ain’t y’all so tough now. Get out of the way!” Hobart shouts.

All day I’ve been riding around with someone who was strapped. I hate guns. Unfortunately, I’ve had them pointed in my direction more than once. One mentally ill foster brother. One of the Assholes. Wait, two of the Assholes.

Of course, I’m grateful for its presence now.

I quickly follow Hobart to the cab and jump into the back seat with my suitcase, and he starts the engine and peels off.

“Sorry ’bout that.” He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “You doin’ okay?”

What’s okay? My heart is racing so fast that Hobart can probably see my veins throbbing through my skin, and my fingers are tingling. The gun is comfortably lying on the passenger seat, in full view. Small, shiny, metallic. One that you see in the movies when they play Russian roulette, with the thing that spins. Not one of those guns with a clip that you smack into the bottom.

I’ve seen John Wick.

All I’ve been trying to do is get away from the violence in my life and start over. I never should’ve put myself in this position to begin with. I consider myself lucky that I’ve left the situation unscathed. I should go buy a lottery ticket.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I pause, and I don’t want to talk about it, but I have to ask him. “Why do you have a gun?”

His right hand drifts on top of it in the next seat, like he’s making sure it’s still there. “You can never be too safe. I drive a cab. Been robbed before. Had a gun held to my head before. I ain’t takin’ no chances no more. I got a wife. Three kids. Grown, but they ain’t needin’ to go to their old man’s funeral.”

Hobart has more in common with me than he realizes.

“I’ve had a gun held to my head before too,” I say quietly.

“You been robbed?”

“No. Just asshole exes.”

“Ah, kid. I don’t understand that shit. Threatening a woman. How low can you go?”

I decide that even if I sign up for Uber and Lyft, Hobart is going to be my friend.

We arrive at the new hotel. Nothing but cars in the parking lot—no people, no parties, no music or drug addicts or prostitutes. I take my bag out and it thuds onto the ground.

“Thanks again. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.” I really mean that.

“No problem. If you need anything else, let me know.”

I pay him his fare plus an extra twenty, which he tries to refuse but to be honest my life is worth more than the Andrew Jackson I throw at him. I may not see him much going forward since I’ll be starting an Uber account, but I don’t tell him that. I’ll use him occasionally just so he knows I’m okay. I’ll text him every once in a while, to make sure he’s okay too.

It’s after midnight when I check in to the new hotel, which seems to be only a few blocks from where I had dinner. The room is ninety-nine dollars tonight