It’s no worse than home, if I’m honest with myself. So I go to the couch, curl up under a scratchy wool blanket, and bury my face in the cushions.
If he hears me crying until the sun is peeking through the curtains, he doesn’t bother to ask why.
Duke, Rhett, and I rally at the protest long into the morning. It’s pushing 4am by the time everyone is clearing out of the streets, and unsurprisingly, there isn’t a cop or camera in sight. It’s a fifty/fifty shot with these. There’s either multiple arrests and injuries, or no media coverage whatsoever.
Depends what the department’s quota looks like for the month, I guess.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve gotten through one of these without a black eye!” Rhett proclaims triumphantly.
“Yeah, you’re losing your edge,” Duke says. “I’m pretty sure if you get another disturbing-the-peace charge you’ll get a medal or something. Pretty Boy of the Month club at the station, looks like a bar of soap.”
“Shut your whore mouth, Duchess,” Rhett gripes. “No one likes you.”
Duke smiles. “That’s ‘cause everyone loves me.”
“Yeah, loves when you shut up and go away.”
“Boys, boys, please.” An older man chuckles. The laugh is tired and doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s probably the closest he’s been to amusement in the last few weeks. “There’s no need for that.”
Rhett and Duke cower like obedient children, blushing and grinning timidly in the man’s presence. I offer him my best smile, hoping to sooth the frayed edges of his soul. “Hello, Mr. Jordan. How’re you holding up?”
He sighs. “Well, son. Thank you.”
His wife is at his side in a moment, dark bags under her red rimmed eyes, her mouth set in a tight line. “We truly appreciate you and your aunt’s efforts here, Rhett,” she says, struggling to sound lively. “It’s very sweet.”
Rhett puffs out his chest. “It’s the least we could do.”
“We appreciate it,” Mr. Jordan says. “A lot of people are resorting to violent forms of protest, and it just... Pip never would’ve wanted anyone else to get hurt.”
Tears brim his dark eyes and I reach out to squeeze his shoulder. His confession that I remind him of his late son, if he were to make it to his early twenties, still sinks my heart, and part of me wants to run the other way. Spare him of the sight, of the nightmarish reminder he’ll never see his son graduate, or fall in love, or have children of his own.
But my existence seems to comfort him, so I swallow down my own ache and bear the hurt as much as I can for him.
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” I say.
“The media coverage has shifted so much to protecting his daughter,” Mrs. Jordan sighs heavily. “It was going so well—the conversation was truly shifting to brutality against us. And then people started sending her those packages and threats... It breaks my heart for her.”
Rhett and Duke share an uncomfortable look, but refrain from comment. Both of them have sent nasty messages to Riley before I’d met her. They didn’t know her face, or even her name—just Daughter of Officer McLeon.
That was enough to terrorize her.
“I know his daughter,” I admit.
“You should’ve brought her tonight,” Mrs. Jordan says.
Mr. Jordan winces. “Oh, good grief. Darla, my love, I’m sure she despises us.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. I invited her tonight.”
“You did what?” Rhett asks. His dark eyes are wide, his hands on his hips as if his tone alone wasn’t enough to express how dissatisfied he is with my announcement.
I rub the back of my neck and look away from him again. “She thought it would be disrespectful.”
“Poor girl,” Mrs. Jordan says. “Will you pass on our apologies? For all of this coming back on her?”
It will break her heart to know they think of her like this. Not with hate, or envy. No blame or questioning why she gets to live a long, happy life while their son is six feet under. Just love, and parental concern.
I fear Mr. and Mrs. Jordan may worry more about Riley’s mental wellbeing than even her own father. That thought could send me into a rage if I’m not careful.
“I will,” I say. “She wanted to do the same. Her condolences, and her love.”
She never actually said that, but her hesitation speaks volumes of her guilt. Guilt she shouldn’t have, shouldn’t even have to think about. She has the kindest heart I’ve ever known, if only she could get past the tainted view of the world growing up with the family she had gave her.
Maybe I’ll be the one to get through to her, if I can just stay true. She knows how I feel now, how I want us to be an us. She would’ve said yes if her dad didn’t come in, she would’ve been here if I’d had just a few more minutes to convince her she’d be wanted and appreciated.
There’s hope for her, and for us. If I pull my head out of my ass and give her some time, this could be real.
The Jordan’s wish us goodnight and sluggishly make their way back to their car. I watch them long after their taillights have faded from view, just to avoid the death filled stare from my boys.
“She sent her love, eh?” Rhett asks, disgust dripping off each word.
“She refused to come out of fear she’d upset someone, Rhett,” I say on a breath. “I know her dad is a real piece of work, okay? But you’ve got to give her a chance.”
“I don’t have to give her nothing,” he snaps. “Her dad wasn’t the one that made you slink out of that hospital like a beat dog. Her dad isn’t the one that had the balls to say ‘it’s what any cop would’ve done’ in front of five black guys. You’re too good for this bitch, Sanders!”
“Don’t call her a bitch,” I snarl. “She’s been conditioned a certain way, man, same as you—same as all of us.”
“Same as me?” Rhett asks. “I wasn’t conditioned to believe people that look different than me are the enemy.”
“You drop the word ‘fag’ at any guy who flirts with you or acts even a little bit feminine, and you’re gonna stand here and tell me you don’t have your own prejudices?” I say. “What, is it only okay when you do it?”
Rhett’s fists clench at his sides, the muscles in his jaw ticking with rage. Duke takes a small step forward, tentatively putting himself between us before Rhett can decide whether or not to take the swing he’s considering.
“Fuck you,” Rhett hisses finally.
I’ve never seen him take so long to respond, only to boil it down to swearing.
“I don’t want to fight,” I say, almost pleading with him. “You’re like a brother to me, man, but I need you to trust me on this. I need you to give her a chance—fuck, give me a chance.”
He shakes his head and turns his back on me, shaking the fists off his hands and resting them back on his hips as he paces away. “One lost cause at a time,” he mutters.
“Rhett,” I say. This isn't like him. He’s got a rifle for a tongue and wit sharp as a sword. This is the second time I’ve seen him speechless, and the first time was my fault, too. “I didn’t mean to say anything hurtful, I was—”
“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t talk to you right now, because I’m gonna say something I regret. And you’ll never forgive me.”
“Talk to me, man, what did I say?” I ask. “I won’t be angry, I just don’t want to hurt you—”
“Linc, I’m asking nicely,” he growls. “Let it go.”
“Maybe this isn’t the best conversation to have at three in the morning?” Duke offers. “Y’know. I’m just thinking out loud here, but it’s been a bit of a rough night, lots of emotions and shit. And now you two are acting like an old married couple or something... Might be better after sleep? Coffee? A hug?”
Rhett winces. “Shut up, Duchess.”
“Rude,” Duke says. He walks over and claps Rhett on the back, steering him back towards the truck he and I arrived in. “Good. I like rude-you better.”
“You hitching a ride with us?” I ask, following after them.
Duke’s cheeks flush with embarrassment, and he shakes his head. “Oh... Nah, uh, a friend of mine is picking me up.”
Rhett glances at me over his shoulder, raising a skeptical brow. I must’ve stung him deep, ‘cause the look on his face suggests we didn’t spar at all. “A friend?” he asks. “What friend?”
“Ey, Duke!”
An ancient white lowrider rolls up on the curb beside us. It’s beaten and dented in multiple places, is probably double my age, and looks like it’s been through a war. The roof has been sawed off and a cheap, homemade awning held down by contorted wire hangers. Marijuana and cigar smoke waft freely in the air around the three men inside. Two black guys and a Latino, two wearing red headbands around their head and the third, the driver, a black snapback turned backwards with the letter D embroidered on it.
Duke’s demeanor changes instantly, a smug smile twisting his face. “My nigga, what’s good?”
Rhett steps back until he’s at my side, crossing his arms over his chest. “What the hell are those?” he asks Duke, referring to who I can only assume are the friends picking him up.
Duke glances back at us, and I see the fear, the shame in his eyes that he associates with a crowd like this. “That’s my crew, B.”
Rhett wrinkles his nose at the new nickname, the irritation clear on his face. “Don’t call me that.”
“Hey, man, watch your mouth,” the driver says menacingly. “Keep letting it run off like that, it’ll get you in trouble you won’t be getting out of one day.”
I step forward, shouldering Rhett behind me. “I don’t like your tone.”
The driver chuckles. “And I don’t like your friend’s face.”
“Watch it, pal—”
I throw an arm in front of Rhett, stopping him from full-on attacking the prick. It’s then I see the bounce of curly brown hair near the driver’s lap, the shift of a small body lying across the front seats.
Danika.
“You’re Derrick Rourke?” My voice comes out like a strangled gasp, the deep, intimidating rumble chased away by the panic in my chest at seeing her anywhere near these guys.
The driver, Derrick, nods. “One and only. Who the fuck are you?”
Danika stirs and sits up, rubbing her eyes as she peers around the outside of the car. She’s not buckled in, so when she sees me, her sweet face splits in a huge grin and she stands up on the bench seat. “Hello, Mr. Sanders!”
I plaster on a huge smile and come over to the car, opening my arms for a hug. Her useless brother lets her leap into my chest and doesn’t even flinch when I lift her out of the car. A perfect stranger, grabbing up his sister like it doesn't matter. “Hey, Nik. How’s my favorite girl doing?”
She lets out a huge yawn, trying to hold herself up to look me in the eye while she talks and failing miserably. “‘M sleepy,” she whispers.
“It’s late,” I growl, wishing looks could kill so her brother would choke himself dead on my glare. “You should be home in bed.”
“Mama’s at work,” she sighs.
Derrick rolls his eyes. “Ey, Duke—you hanging or not?”
“I’m comin’.” Duke comes up to me and holds his arms out, silently asking to take Danika back in the car.
I turn my body away from him. “I’m taking her home.”
“Nigga,” Derrick grunts, “she fine.”
“She can’t be downtown this late, you’re all exposing her to toxic substances, and fuck knows when y’all will be home,” Rhett cuts in. “Begone, heathens. All of you.”
Duke lowers his arms and gulps, conflict shimmering in his dark eyes.
“I can take you home, too,” Rhett says seriously, and it sounds like a warning. An ultimatum. Do not get in that car if you ever want my respect again.
Duke tilts his chin up, defiant, like a door slammed in his mind. “Nah, I’m cool,” he says. He steps backwards towards the car, acting as though he’s afraid to turn his back on us, and then gets in.
Derrick shoves at his head roughly, a smug smirk on his face. “Your lil buddy’s not some cho-mo, now, is he?” he asks, completely unconcerned with whatever answer he’s about to receive.
Duke snorts. “Might as well leave her at church.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried,” Derrick laughs. He squeezes Duke’s shoulder hard enough to make him fight off a wince, his voice lethal when he says, “So, kid. Tell me more about Big Mouth and Pinhead.”
He guns it off the road before anyone else can speak, the exhaust leaving a cloud of black smoke in their wake.
“What. A. Fucking—”
“Don’t,” I beg. Danika has passed out on my shoulder, her arms hanging limply at her sides as a teeny puddle of drool drips down my shirt. Rhett is known for getting way too loud when he’s peeved, I don’t need her waking up to him cursing about what a bitch her older brother is.
“Why is Duke with those kind of people?” he asks. “I mean, we all knew he was making bread somehow, but dealing? And with fucking Rourke—”
“Please,” I say. “He’s not dealing. He can’t be doing that shit, he knows better.”
Rhett’s disappointment is clear when he says, “You know, man, burying your head in the sand doesn’t make the bad shit go away.”
“I’m not burying my head in anything,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You’re supposed to be rubbing off on Riley,” he says. “Not the other way around.”
It’s the asscrack of dawn, and I haven’t even made it off Uncle Mike’s property before I’m trying to get in touch with Linc. I put on a pot of coffee and scribbled a flowery thank you on a sticky note for when my uncle woke up, and hightailed it out of there. I am not mentally prepared to rehash what we discussed last night, to dig even deeper into my dad’s horrendous biases.
Were those stories supposed to instill empathy? Like I’d hear the whole thing and determine Dad lost half his family because of black people?
Would he be this angry if Mom was screwing around with a white guy? Would he be violent towards radio DJs, maybe all men who drove that model of car?
Would he have disowned Ryker if he’d knocked up a little white girl? Someone from the right side of town, with a trust fund and big blue eyes, long blonde hair?
No. He wouldn’t.
He’s using freak circumstances to add fuel to his hate fire. And I’ve been tolerating it, all my life, without ever saying a word.
Fuck it. I ditch school and after a quick stop at the store, I head to Linc’s, hoping his manic schedule spares him this random day off. He does a little bit of everything, it seems—mostly teaching music, but cleaning old buildings, and some security work on the side. Whatever jobs will take him with a felony charge.
I wish my dad were better. I’d talk to him about getting those records expunged—not a drop of weight to them anyway, he shouldn’t have to suffer his whole life.
Thank goodness, Lincoln answers the door, and I shove two dozen purple and white roses up in his tired face. The gold paper crinkles as his hands meet mine, and his laugh soothes every chipped corner of my soul. “Well hello, troublemaker.”
I peek over the roses and smile at him. “I want to fight for you.”
He blinks a few times, trying to process my words. His eyes are adorned with a luggage set of dark bags beneath them, his hair mused like he’s spent more time yanking at it than he did sleeping the night before.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
He shakes his head, surprised. “Yeah, I’m fine—nightmares again, nothing new.”
I frown at him. “You know you can call me, when they’re keeping you up. I’m a night owl. I wouldn’t mind.”
He smiles at me. Exhausted, and heavy, but it’s a smile. “What were you talking about when you came in? Fight for me?”
Right. The reason I came here in the first place. “You said you’re willing to fight for this if I am,” I
say. “And I never got the chance to respond.”
He takes the roses from me and leads me inside to the kitchen. He waits for me to continue, patient as he gazes at me in his hunt for a vase, or something to put his flowers in.
“I’m ignorant,” I say. “And, you’re right—I don’t have black friends. I’ve never argued my dad’s stance, or my friend’s micro aggressions, or anything. It wasn’t my problem, so it was never a problem. But...I want this, Lincoln, I want you. And if people have a problem with it, then I don’t need them in my life anyway.”
I’m not completely sure I’m ready to live and die by those words. But I say them, because I want to own them. I want to be strong enough to not care that he’s black and my friends and father will have an opinion on that. I want to be brave and love him like nothing else in the world matters.
He abandons his flowers and pulls me in, his big hands around my waist and neck, and wordlessly he takes my mouth with his. It’s so different from all the ones before it, nothing hesitant or drunk in his touch. He holds my head in place with a firm grip around my neck and he kisses me forcefully, claiming ownership of me and every last piece of my heart.
This kiss is different, and jarring, and treacherous. His tongue parts my lips and he taste’s my moan, slowly savoring the way I fall apart under the simplest sweep of his lips. He explores my mouth with a new sense of curiosity, an urgency he hasn’t unleashed in the past.
He tries to pull away, to be a gentleman and speak. I don’t know what he wants to say, and if it has to be said in words, I don’t care. “Come back,” I whisper, his body shivering under my hands at the slight whimper in my voice.
“Riley,” he growls.
His grip on my throat tightens before he takes it away completely, trailing down my body until his broad hands are squeezing my ass with bruising force. I grab his shoulders and lift myself into his arms, hooking my legs around his wide hips and pushing myself as close to him as I can, claiming his mouth again before he can say anything important that could ruin the moment. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to evaluate my words and make more promises I don’t know if I can keep.
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