by Rebecca Ryan
My stomach turns and I lean closer. "Hey, you hurt?"
Shaking her head, she glances at me with an apology, as she adjusts the tiny kitten under her clothes: "Claws."
I straighten back up. She's gorgeous. Gorgeous and in trouble can combine into nothing but trouble for me. But I can't help myself. "I live two blocks from here. We're going to walk around the corner. I'm going to set out some food for you on my stairs. You're welcome to it."
"I'm not hungry," she says, but she's starting to stand up. I want to reach out and give her a hand. But I know better than to give anything, and it's why I never help anyone. It always comes back to bite you. But now, she's standing, wiping off her pants. She's wearing black skinny jeans and a light blue hoodie in late September and it's gotta be forty degrees out already.
"I live in New York City," sounds romantic, but it's not here in the river alleys between the buildings and the muck. The wind blows off the river and turns up a whole host of smells no human should ever have to breathe. She coughs and holds her nose with one hand.
"Come on," I say, "just follow me."
"I'm not following you anywhere," she says again, as the tiny tabby pushes its head out of the top of her hoodie like a surprised prairie dog. The girl is petite, coming just to my shoulders. She shakes her head and ringlets coil around her face.
"That's your decision," I say. "Follow me and then decide if you're hungry. If you're hungry, you'll know where to find food."
She looks away, which prompts my, "There's the shelter four blocks over."
I know the homeless shelter is for shit, unless you want to go lie on urine soaked mattresses and have your integrity ripped out. If I was trying to freak her out, I succeeded. There's something in the way she's looking at me—the way her eyes are widening, and I realize she's never been to the shelter. Or even a shelter. She's never even thought of it. With one hand on the kitten's head, the other holding the tiny body to her, I decide there is no way she is going to go there anyway.
Glancing at my watch, priorities align with time. It's twelve-twenty. "I gotta get up in seven hours and I'm not leaving you out here. Or this one," and reaching over, I pluck the little ball of fur from her.
"Hey!"
"You'll know where to find her."
"His name is Tig."
"Whatever. I'll take care of him."
"He's mine, give him back," she says and reaches for him.
The kitten squirms in my hand and I tuck him up against my chest, taking a step back. "You can't keep him safe."
I could tell from her face she knows I'm right. The little tabby meowed again and tried to nuzzle my face. "Where'd you find him?"
"Where do you think?" she says and suddenly I realize she's scared. All this annoyance masks fear. I know, because I was the most annoyed thirteen- year-old in the world growing up here. And I was scared shitless most of the time.
"How can I get him later?"
"Follow me."
I take her swallowing and a tiny nod as permission to continue. "All right. I'm gonna take the lead. I'm making a left around that corner."
That's it. I've offered her a ticket out, at least for the night. And she can take it or leave it. Holding the kitten against my chest, I turn left on to the street and don't hear a thing behind me. My sneakers are silent on the sidewalk. Somewhere, a siren calls and cop lights flash staccato blue and red down the next street. There's shouting off to the left as a group of people clump together, a few peel away, and they regroup. She'll never be able to find me if she's not right behind and I'm about to make another turn and duck right down the next alley.
I slow down just at the corner, waiting to see if she's going to appear out of the alley. Just one last chance for her to follow me. But she's not there. There's only a cold breeze flogging trash piled against the sides of the buildings.
I walk home, suddenly irritated I have this kitten and not her. I eat cold chicken, chop a little for Tig, shred newspapers in a shoe box lined with a plastic bag and hope he shits in it and try not to think of her. But my mind flits back to her constantly. Then I realize it never has strayed. There's the festering truth she's out there somewhere with trash cans, rats, addicts, and men that would hurt her, and women who would pretend to be her friend.
Who the hell is she? When she tilted her chin up so she could meet my gaze, she had stood too close—just an inch or two inside my invisible boundary and my groin had felt it. She seemed so vulnerable, so lost, so out of place.
And her skin looked so soft, her breath smelled sweet. And then there were those eyes: golden.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time. I didn’t eat the rest of the chicken breast or cold baked potato in case she showed up and now my stomach feels hollow. The kitten ate the small scraps of skin that was left and now is curled up against my stomach, breathing in little, light gusts. At least he's safe. But that girl. She doesn't want my food. She doesn't want my help.
And yet, I loved it when she let me into her confidence, explaining her surprise with the little guy's "Claws."
Shit.
Chapter Three
Lily
There's no way I would let him do anything for me. There's no way. I decide that early on. But I stand there for a moment, caught off guard when he takes Tig from my zippered hoodie. As his arm comes up, I see the tattoo. First, he's talking to me about following him and the next thing he's holding Tig and I can see it is on the inside of his forearm. Small, tight, stark in the filtered streetlight is exactly what I'm looking for: a blue worm with a fish hook through it.
This is the guy I've been looking for. Older, not Shreves, but high up and not an ass-wiper like some other guy named Juice I heard about. I stand there waiting to see what would happen next. What happens is he looks at me with these burning blue eyes that almost scorch. I look away.
I have to join the Hooks, but there's no way I'm going to follow him back to his ratty apartment. Too dangerous and my father is not some Liam Neeson wannabe. He and my mom are professors at Tufts University in Boston. I do think it's interesting this guy said I could follow him from behind, as far back as I wanted to.
But I'm not biting.
There's a scream from the street, cars honk and at least four people start a shouting match punctuated by shattered bottles splintering everywhere.
What am I doing in an alley with his guy and a tiny kitten? What am I hoping to accomplish? Why did I drop out of college?
I've got to get a grip. For sanity's sake. I've got to put one foot in front of the other and figure this thing out. My breath comes shaky and I can feel a tear starting in my left eye, but I wipe it quickly. Sniffling and crying is not going to bring Sammy back. I have to do this on my own.
I have to make my own way. I need to be initiated into the very thing my parents can't bear to think about.
I look Stone over again as he's explaining how I'm going to do this thing I'm not going to do. His eyes are drilling into mine and there's so much concern in his face I have to turn away. His face is gorgeous. Even a small half-moon scar under his eye is sexy. As he pets Tig I watch the muscles of his forearms move and then his bicep and then a ripple in his pec. I hold my breath and try to ground myself in a little reality: this guy's the enemy. The blue hook is the evidence. So, when he turns left, I wait five minutes and then go right. But I'll be back tomorrow night.
I need a plan. Plus, I can’t abandon Tig.
Chapter Four
Stone
Working at a fucking carwash is like something out of an old Jim Croce song. And the fact I know this is because Coach plays Croce, Holly Near, Bob Dillon, Eric Clapton, Coltrane and B.B. King. He gets tired of rap and at night, when its just the two of us, he puts on his old stuff.
At least Moby's Car Detailing is not a junk yard and I'm not a LeRoy Brown. I am well aware my life would be a hell of a lot harder if it was. None of the shitty kids who work here know who Jim Croce was, and I don't care. There are rap geniuses out ther
e though, and I keep trying to get Coach to pay attention to Quavo, Kendrik Lamar, and Lauryn Hill to show him there's other rhymes than bitch and rich.
But I kinda love my shitty kids, Donal, Dafoe, and Dunnie, and so we blast rap while we wipe down cars or go in for detailing, and the faster the rap, the faster we work. We get paid under the table, per car. Croce's "Car Wash Blues," is really Car Wash Bliss. This job pays my electric bill and half my rent. And these kids think I'm the old man. "Old Rocky," they call me and laugh their heads off. They are so young and so lanky I'm sure I weigh more than the three of them combined.
The good news is I'm off at three. I slip on my running shoes, and sprint home, dodging cars, trucks, people with shopping cart filled with their belongings, and only slow down a mile from the apartment.
Tig greets me, crying and rubbing his tiny face against my sweatpants the moment I step inside. I wolf the leftover chicken, sweet potato, and rice. Then I read. I don’t broadcast this, but it's the way out of my shit hole, and I read anything that's not self-help. I can’t stand that shit. I read about Lawrence of Arabia, Nelson Mandela, how there's fossil clues of fish in all of us, about each part of E=mc2, and I just finished The Handmaid's Tale which weirdly details a shit storm in action right now if you ask me.
And then I go hit the gym around six. All I ever do is eat carbs and protein. I make oatmeal and freeze it in ice cube trays and the rest of the day is veggies and chicken, with some fruit thrown in. It's not a particularly perfect diet but it's cheap. It's a better way to spend my dollar than on chips and coke.
Today, I have to stop off to send that bank check. I take that roll of money out of my pocket and keep five hundred for myself. I stop at the bank where the cute little girl with the overbite and thin hands prints out a check for fifteen hundred dollars. My next stop is two blocks over. The near-mute post office guy, who never makes eye contact and always acts like a robot, is used to my routine. He never looks at me. I think some men are intimidated by me, just because of how I'm built.
As usual, he snatches up the envelope, raises it to the light, turns it over, hold it up to the light a second time, and then tosses it in the bin after I've paid for my stamp.
Like I'm sending a line of coke.
If only he could have seen me in third grade: a little white boy in a school uniform with a backpack full of heroin and crack, tripping up the stairs to a dealer's house twice a week and coming out five minutes later with eighty bucks in my hand.
That's how I got started. That's how I joined the Hooks at thirteen. I'd been working for them for four years before I was officially indoctrinated
I don't remember picking up that die, looking at Shreves, and rolling a five. But I did because that's how long I had to last. That was my penance for anyone who OD'd because of me—the gore of those five minutes. Believe me, you have no idea how long five minutes is when a sweaty bunch of gang members get to beat the shit out of you. Five minutes of hell coughed up by any and all gang members who wanted a piece of me.
It nearly killed me. I was pissing blood for two weeks and Coach had to take me to the hospital twice.
I started sneaking into his gym when I was ten. After a while, he just let me come and Hobie's Gym became my only real home. Foster homes changed, parents changed, but the gym and Coach became an anchor. Coach has always believed in me and I am clueless as to why.
He's the reason I was able to leave the Hooks two years ago.
But it's always there. The threat of getting pulled back in.
People say you can't leave a gang, but you can. You just have to have the right collateral.
Watching Mr. Post Ass walk off with my prepaid envelope, I turn and leave, making a quick duck down the alley, heading toward the only place that has ever offered me peace: Hobie's.
Chapter Five
Lily
I'm standing outside the gym, looking in. I can see Stone inside, working out. He's got a rhythm going on the little bag. It's beating in a blur, like a smudge, and the only thing that moves are his massive arms, bent at the elbow, creating a rhythm of strikes, back and forth from one arm to the next.
It's hypnotizing, and I find myself in a daze. His shirt is off and his abs undulate when he moves. His back is ripped. Not only is he throwing away at the bag, but every now and then he does a kick or a squat, mixing it up. He goes on for ten minutes non-stop. Just this back and forth, back and forth the blur of his arms, the blur his hands, the blur of the small leather bag. I'm amazed it doesn't just go flying from its hinge. How do people do this? I can barely tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel of my Toyota Corolla.
He steps back, sweat pouring off his chest and he's panting hard, takes a swipe at the water bottle, shakes his shoulders and arms, cracks his neck, and hitches himself into position and goes right back at it.
It’s the focus and intensity that's so damn sexy. And him. All of him.
But I have to remember he's the enemy. I have to remember who he is. I keep watching for other guys coming out of the gym, watching for more tattoos. Thank God the back light out here isn’t burned out or broken. A noise behind me makes me turn and there's a thin, tall kid, cigarette in hand, with straight black hair and a big droopy mouth with five little rings pierced on one side of his bottom lip. It's those rings nested in a crusty row that jog my memory of what the detective told me: this was Juice.
"What do you want bitch? I seen you hangin' around gym clubs all week."
"I don’t have to talk to you," I say, trying to look tough. The guy just raises his upper lip in a snarl, then looks me up and down. Asshole. My eyes shift and focus on that little blue Hook on his arm. There's no worm. He's not that high up. Definitely Juice.
"This is a guy's-only muscle farm."
I have to remember who I'm dealing with. I have to think the way they do. So I smile like I know something he doesn't. "I don't want this shit. I want a membership in something else."
This makes his eyes narrow and he throws down the cigarette.
"Who do I talk to?"
He doesn't return the smile. Instead, he leans over and jabs a thumb at his own chest. "How old are you?"
Gangs want girls. Real little girls to control. "Fourteen," I say, knowing I look it. My mother still gets carded.
"You can talk to me bitch," and he licks that lip.
I punctuate my words with and an eyeroll. "No, no no," I wave dismissively. "I'm supposed to talk to a guy named Shreves."
At this, the guy's eyes flick back to my feet and then up my body and he stretches an arm above my head, leaning on the awning a little. I don’t like that he is so close, but I'm not about to take a step back.
"How does a little bitch like you know Shreves?"
The move here is not to give it all away, so instead of answering him I just smile. "I just need him to get ahold of me. I want in and I'm gonna get in. You'll see."
The guy looks at me funny and then says, "Beggars can't be choosers," which was the weirdest thing ever. My parents say this and it's so old-fashioned.
"You need to walk away bitch and don’t go advertising no Hooks here."
I guess he's telling me to keep my mouth shut. In case I didn’t get the message, he adds, "So shut the fuck up. You don’t tell Shreves shit. He tells you. You meet with me first." He points to himself again. "Juice takes care of things. Then you can talk up Shreves."
His arms drops.
"When?"
He grabs his crotch and glances behind him. "Just wait."
I think my heart hasn’t stopped pounding the entire time. I hear grit in the alley and see Juice nod to this monster of a man walking up behind him. A huge dude. Thick, big, broad chested and heavy with chains around his neck, and I know instantly he's Shreves. He has a split lower lip I can see from here that healed wrong a long time ago. He's older too, maybe in his early forties. Juice hops up and down like an excited little kid getting ready for cotton candy and the big dude moves confidently, just stride after stride. T
hinking the two are coming for me, I stand there, hold my breath, and try to get my heart to stop pounding, but they turn and step into the gym.
Is this an invitation? Do I go in? What do I do? I bend down and peer into the basement gym though the glass window.
Stone is in a boxing ring with a much shorter, older black guy, bald as an egg and wearing heavy sweat pants and a tank top. He's old but ripped, tattoos covering his arms and something tatted on the back of his skull as well. He has to be Stone's coach. Both this guy and Stone just stare at Shreves.
It's when Shreves waves a hand for Stone to come over that things begin to happen. Within seconds the coach steps out of the ring and talks quietly, glancing to the door, making movements with his arm like they should go, ending with a jerk of his head that says, "get outta here."
Shreves wipes his face with his hands and looks like he's going to kill the old guy. Stone just stands there and then, all of a sudden, he grabs the ropes, swings down and moves to Shreves and Juice like he's going to mow them down. And then, for some reason, Shreves senses something, turns around, and sees me peering in. Our stares lock.
He grins, as I pull back from the window.
And just like that, Shreves changes direction. He's like a shark who just picked up the scent of new blood, and he backs away from Stone and starts to walk towards the door again. Juice flips off Stone and the coach and follows Shreves out. Stone never sees me, doesn’t know I'm out here, doesn’t see Shreves grab my arm.
Next thing I know, we're halfway down the alley, away from the gym, turned a corner or two and are out on some street I don't recognize. A group of teens scatter as Shreves hauls me to a spot in front of a caged storefront, closed and out of business. The guy has my upper arm in his grip like a vice and is looking right in my eyes. His are cold, dark, with a slight film I can't decide is drug induced or the effect of having no soul. I see the blue fishhook on his forearm. Bigger, the worm pink and gray.