by Hamel, B. B.
My anger deflated and I stood. “I’m not inviting you in there with me.”
“You couldn’t handle it.”
I smiled a little. “I can handle a lot more than you know.” I turned and walked away, but not before catching sight of his expression: longing, and a little amused.
I took a shower. I washed my hair. I lathered myself up. And god, it felt good.
He was right. I was gross as hell.
But I wasn’t going to let myself revel in my own misery anymore. I put on a pair of jeans and a shirt that had somehow appeared in my room. Ren leaned up against the wall next to the bar, sipping a whiskey.
“There she is,” he said. “I knew she was there, buried beneath that filthy troll.”
“Not funny. If you want me to play pool, you’d better be nice.”
He laughed and walked over to me. I tensed for a second, but when he touched my cheek, I didn’t pull away. He held me there and I suddenly felt it, what I’d been suppressing this whole time, desperately trying not to look too closely at: my desire for him, my pure, incredible, physical attraction. He’d been so close all the time, sleeping stretched out on the couch, or standing in the kitchen and cooking me meals, or making coffee, or any number of small tasks that were unnoticed, invisible. I knew that without him, I’d be even more fucked up and miserable—or straight-up dead.
I turned away, unable to handle it.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go. I want to kick your ass.”
“Easy there, girl,” he said. “I’m only here to have some fun.”
“Says the guy that’s about to lose.”
“You want to make this interesting? Every game you lose, you take off some clothes.”
“Nice try.” I smirked at him, head tilted. “You’d lose, and I’m not interested in seeing you naked. How about twenty bucks a game?”
“All right then. You’re on.”
I let him lead me out into the hall, and I followed him through the quiet house, down the steps, along another long passageway, and into a room dominated by a single pool table and a bar against the far wall. A TV mounted in the corner played sports, and I got the sense that he’d spent some time down here, maybe when I was sleeping, or probably during the long hours I’d spent hidden away in my room.
It felt good to get out of there, even if we were just a few doors down. He lost the first game, then kicked my ass three games in a row, and I got the feeling that he let me win once for my ego—and won three times for his own.
I smiled and laughed for what felt like the first time in ages.
9
Ren
Slowly, she started to come out of her shell.
It helped when Mona started stopping by. She brought paint supplies the day after I kicked Amber’s ass at pool, and it seemed to make Amber happy. I liked to sit back with some whiskey and watch her paint, which was what she did most of the time when Mona wasn’t around, and we were stuck alone in that room together. I’d watch her, not her painting, but her: the way she moved, a graceful flick of a wrist, a quick jab with a brush, the way she’d flatten her lips and glare at the canvas when she made a mistake, like it was the canvas’s fault, and not her own.
I studied her. I took a masterclass on Amber, and each day I felt like I knew her a little bit better than before.
But things were happening in the mansion that she didn’t know about. I kept it hidden from her, because if she knew how bad it was getting, she might not be able to handle it. She was a strong girl, but her scars ran deep, and she was just coming back to me.
After a few days, I found Mona in the hall, her nose buried in a book. “Oh, Ren,” she said when I called her name. “How’s Amber?”
“Good,” I said. “Actually, I was hoping you’d do me a favor. Can you sit with her while I go out for a bit?”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t mind, but—”
“Thanks. You’re the best.” I stalked off before she could object.
The place was crawling with thugs. I knew half of them from my days on the street, and the other half were the kinds of guys I wasn’t interested in: young men that thought violence was a game, and figured they’d always be the winner. Young, disposable, stupid men.
I slipped out a back door connected to the kitchens and grabbed a cab down south. I got off on Passyunk and followed that for a while until I came up to an old rundown dive bar with Eagles memorabilia in the windows from the eighties, the green faded to gray, the silver more like white. I slipped in through the front and scanned the dingy interior.
The center of the room was dominated by a bar. The left had mirrors running along it with a few high-tops. The right was the same, but the tables were smaller and low, plus half the mirrors were cracked. A glitching, half-dead jukebox played classic rock in the back corner, and men sat belly-up at the bar, probably there since the early morning. I thought of them as fixtures, like light switches—a part of the scenery, but invisible.
The guy I was looking for lingered at the far end of the room. He had a pitcher of beer on the table in front of him, a half-empty glass next to that, and a laptop open. He was young, dark hair, flat-brimmed Eagles hat, gray hoodie, black jeans. When I approached his table, he looked up, ready to tell me to fuck off—but caught himself and grinned.
“What up, Ren?”
“Hey, Joey.” I sat down across from him. He pulled his laptop lid half closed but I knew he couldn’t bring himself to disconnect entirely.
Joey Malone was a local guy, another fixture, but an interesting one. He used to sell drugs back in the day, and he made a lot doing it, but he got seriously rich selling Bitcoin during the bubble. Now he worked as a day trader, buying and selling stock and all that shit, and last I heard he’d burned through half his Bitcoin fortune already.
“What can I do for you, man? Haven’t seen you around here in a while.”
I shrugged. “Got a job.”
“Yeah? Got a good one?” He snorted. “Jobs are overrated.”
“Says the rich guy that won the lottery.”
He grinned and tapped his head. “Smarts, man, that’s all you need.”
I resisted the urge to tell him to fuck himself. “I wanted to ask you some stuff.”
“If it’s about trading, hit me.”
“It’s not about trading.”
He looked disappointed. “Don’t know how I can help then.”
“I’m working for the Leone family right now.”
He made a face and leaned back. “I thought you didn’t get involved in all that—” He waved his hands in the air, “—big shit.”
“Normally I don’t, but the terms were good. I’m just a bodyguard to some girl.”
“Some girl, huh?”
“I need to know about the Dusters.”
“Don’t know how I can help.”
“Come on, Joey. I know you’ve been in the game ever since you hit it big.”
He looked around like someone might be listening, and I flashed back to that moment with Vincent on the couch when he admitted that he thought his house was bugged—and that he was sick.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
I leaned closer to him. “Joey,” I said. “Come on. I need to know how this little war’s going. I’ve been locked up on the inside and they don’t tell me shit.”
He relaxed a bit. “War’s been intense, I’ll tell you that.”
“How intense?”
“These Dusters, man. I thought they were some joke, you know? But the motherfuckers keep getting the drop on the Leone thugs and they’re all, like, blat blat blat. You know what I mean? Killing all those motherfuckers. It’s wild, man, never seen so much blood on these streets before.”
“The Leones are losing?”
“Probably? Hard to say. You know how big they are, though. They can lose a few guys and still keep going.”
“Are they hitting the Dusters back?”
“Sometimes, man, but I haven’t heard too much
about that. I guess the Dusters are smart and move around a lot or some shit? They’re a motorcycle gang, right, so they ride around and change their spots.”
“Sounds like a problem for the Leones then.”
“Yeah, man.” He leaned toward me, his eyes excited, and I could tell he was warming to the situation. “Word is Vincent Leone’s getting soft, right? I hear he’s got cancer or some shit, so all these little gangs, they’re thinking, maybe now’s the time to do something, you know? Maybe now they can make a move and grab some of that territory the Leone family’s been taking from them for years. It’s like a fucking free-for-all out there.”
I nodded slowly. “What you’re saying is the family’s fucked?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged, leaned back. “Maybe not. Don’t know, man, don’t know.”
“Tell you what.” I pushed my chair back and stood. “Keep your ear to the ground for me. You find me something good, and I’ll pay for it.”
He frowned. “You’re trying to get me to inform for you?”
“I’m trying to get you to listen for me. I’m not a fucking cop, Joey. I’m trying to decide when to cut and run.”
“What about your girl?”
“The girl comes with me.” I nodded at him. “You listen and you tell me when shit gets bad. You know my email.”
“I got you, man.” He hesitated, opening his laptop up. “Uh, how much we talking here?”
“Depends on what you get me. So it better be good.”
“Yeah, man, right. I’ll see what I can do.”
I nodded and left him there, heading back outside, ignoring the fixtures and their drinks and their wasted days and lives. The sun felt good and I stood there for a few minutes, looking at the city, at the cars drifting past, the people walking by, the motion, the life. I missed it, hiding out in that damn mansion, away from everything. I felt like I was secluded.
But then I thought of Amber, and started walking north again.
Vincent wasn’t telling me the whole truth. He wasn’t about to admit that his operation was shaky, and shit was going to come crumbling down. I couldn’t blame him for that, but still. I had to know what was happening outside the mansion or else I couldn’t make the right moves. I got complacent in Mt. Airy, in that nice house, flirting with Amber, teasing her, making her like me. I wasn’t going to get complacent again.
The city might be on fire around me, but I was going to make sure Amber didn’t get burned.
10
Amber
Ren disappeared one afternoon, leaving me alone to wallow in my absurdly luxurious room. I spent half the day on the couch until a knock at the door forced me to get up, blanket wrapped around my shoulders like a shawl, and peered out at Mona.
She beamed at me. “Hey there. How’s it going?”
I grunted like a monkey in response and stepped aside, letting her in. She gave me one long look then sighed and shut the door behind her.
“That bad, huh?”
“I’m struggling, Mona,” I said, flopping back down on the couch. “Not gonna lie.”
She chewed on her lip a little then walked to the bar, poured a small glass of something brown, and shoved it at me. I took it, stared at it, then tossed it back. The alcohol burned in my stomach and I coughed like I might throw up.
“You need a shower,” she said.
“Come on, I’m not that bad.”
“No, you’re pretty bad.”
I glared at her. “If all you’re going to do is insult me and get me drunk, you might as well get out of here.” I hesitated a second. “Well, get me drunk first. Then get out of here.”
She laughed. “Come on, sweetie.” She reached a hand out. “Take a shower then we’ll talk. You’ll feel better.”
I grunted again but let her pull me to my feet. Truth was, I felt terrible, like I’d gone half-feral. I caught Ren giving me some pretty questionable looks over the last couple of days, and although the anxiety and fears got better every day, I still felt like I was on the verge of spiraling.
But I got the sense that Mona wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so I sucked it up and showered. When I was finished, I put on fresh clothes, and found her sitting out in the living room with a tray covered in food. She looked over her shoulder as I joined her again, tentatively tugging at my wet hair.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Lunch,” she said. “You know about lunch, right?”
“I thought it was still morning.” I frowned, looking for a clock. “What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s two thirty,” she said. “Now sit down and eat something.”
I hesitated, but joined her. I took a small bowl of chicken noodle soup and a bottle of sparkling water, and although she gave me a disapproving look, I brushed it off.
“How have you been?” I asked. I hadn’t seen her in a few days, and I was starting to think she’d forgotten about me.
“I’ve been okay,” she said. “Things are tense around here right now. I feel like keeping Vincent from going off a cliff is a full-time job.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Really? I thought he was—you know, in control.”
“He is and he isn’t.” She sighed and rubbed her face. “The rumor about him being sick is true. Multiple sclerosis. It’s been stressing him out a lot, and this new war that popped up is only aggravating everything. He’s stretched thin, and although he insists he can handle it, I can see the cracks forming.”
That wasn’t exacting comforting news. In the mafia families, strength was prized above all else. If leadership was weak, then younger, stronger men would step up and take what was theirs. Every mafia don worked hard to exude power and health, because to do anything else was a death sentence.
If Vincent really was sick, that meant he was vulnerable, and that meant more challengers were going to pop up if he couldn’t stamp them out fast enough.
“This war is because of those rumors, isn’t it?” I asked softly. I took a bite of soup and it was surprisingly good.
She nodded and gave me an appraising look. “That’s right. Picked up a little something, living with your father, huh?”
I snorted. “I’ve been around these mafia guys my entire life. I sure hope I learned something.”
“Fair enough. You’re right though. The rumors say the Dusters are attacking because Vincent looks weak right now. He knows it, and it’s driving him insane. He’s never been in a position like this before, because he’s always been seen as big, strong, healthy, and very dangerous. He’s still all of those things, even with the MS, but perception matters.”
“What’s he going to do?” I asked.
She gestured vaguely with a fork. “Who knows. He talks a lot about killing them all, but that’s sort of meaningless without a real plan.”
“You talk like you’re a part of all this stuff, but I thought you were a journalist.”
“Well,” she said, smiling a little as she sipped her water. “I suppose I’m more of a mafia wife than a journalist these days, even if I remain somewhat compromised.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping Vincent can end this war and end it convincingly. If he can do that, then others might think twice about stepping up, even if news of his illness keeps spreading. It’s possible he can have MS and still be feared, so long as he shows that his disease isn’t making him weak. Still, there will always be questions, and I’m afraid he’s going to have to fight people off for the rest of his life.”
I shifted, slightly uncomfortable, and looked down at the table. “Aren’t you afraid?” I asked in a small voice.
She didn’t answer right away. She looked thoughtful, like she wasn’t sure if she understood the question, before leaning toward me. “Of course I am,” she said simply. “But the good outweighs the bad.”
“How?” I asked.
“You like Ren.” She said it as a statement, not a question.
“Don’t change the
subject.”
“I think that is the subject, though. You’re wondering how someone like me can love a man like Vincent, because you’re afraid of letting yourself give in to your feelings for Ren.”
“I barely know him,” I said, shaking my head.
“At one point, I barely knew Vincent. That doesn’t matter.”
“Come on. I owe Ren my life, but—”
“I’ve seen the way you looked at him. Are you really going to try to tell me you don’t like the man, at least a little bit?”
I opened my mouth to tell her no, no, of course not, Ren was just my bodyguard, and even though he saved me, I didn’t owe him a thing, and I certainly didn’t have feelings for him— but no words came out. I shut my mouth again and took a breath, and I didn’t want to lie to her, but I didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t true anymore.
I though back to that day, before the attack. I wanted to paint something for him, something just for him, and I felt strangely excited to do it. I didn’t know where that feeling came from, or maybe I did and I wanted to try to pretend like it was a mystery. Maybe Mona was right—maybe I felt something I wasn’t letting myself feel all the way.
“I don’t know what I want,” I said finally.
“I think that’s fair.”
“You have to understand. I grew up with men like Ren.” I shook my head and stood suddenly, unable to sit still anymore. I paced across the room, my wet hair cold against my scalp. “I always told myself as soon as I could escape my father and all the rest of them, I’d run away and start my own life.” I stopped pacing and looked at her. “Do you have any clue what it’s like to grow up with a house full of those bastards?”
“I can only guess,” she said.
“It was horrible. Every day, it was a new thing. Young men coming and going, teasing me, giving me shit, but mostly being treated like I didn’t exist. My father wanted a son, but he got me instead, so I was a burden on him, just another bitch that wanted to drain him of his money— those were his words, of course.”