by Jo Raven
“Your mother would like to talk to you.”
I jerk, a reflex movement, and make a grab for the edge of the counter. I hit the glass, because not hitting it would be too much of a lucky stroke, and knock it off.
It crashes to the ground with a sound like a gunshot and Fuck. Me. This isn’t happening.
She’s alive.
Fuck.
Fuck!
“Mr. Tucker, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I struggle to pull myself together. “And again, who the hell are you?”
“John Adams. Her lawyer. I’m calling on her behalf.”
Her lawyer. Troubles with the law. Probably why she vanished. But it’s been fucking years…
“How did you get this number?” I bite out. “I sure as fuck didn’t give it to her.”
“That’s my business, Mr. Tucker. Your mother—”
“She can go to hell, for all I care.” Yet curiosity flares. “What did she do?”
“Mr. Tucker…” The guy sounds more tired than annoyed. “Ms. Cynthia Tucker was arrested for drug possession and trafficking.”
“Really.” Shocker. God, all I can think of is that she’s not dead. “Where is she?”
A short pause, during which the lawyer probably wonders how big an asshole a son can be, not caring about his mom, and not even knowing where she lives. “Indiana.”
“Indiana, huh? Has she been arrested before? Was she in prison?”
“Can we focus on the matter at hand, Mr. Tucker?”
“I don’t fucking care about the fucking matter at hand.” Fuck you, Mr. Lawyer. “Have yourself a good day.”
“Mr. Tucker, wait. Yes, your mother has been arrested before.” He pauses. “Look, the courts around here are backlogged. If she doesn’t make bail, she’s probably looking at sitting in jail for six months before her trial. She says you are her only living relative.”
My hands are shaking. He doesn’t know her, I remind myself. Doesn’t know me, either, doesn’t know us, our past, our history.
Otherwise he wouldn’t have called. Wouldn’t have expected yes for an answer—even if I had that kinda money, which I don’t.
“No,” I say into the phone, surprised at how calm my voice sounds. “Tell her no.”
Then I throw the cell against the wall and slide down to the glass-covered floor, trying to catch my breath.
***
That’s where Shane finds me when he comes later with some sandwiches and soda. He has a key to the apartment, though he comes by less often than Jesse or Micah, or even Ocean. He’s family, real blood and flesh. Our mothers are sisters.
Or rather were, until his died on the day that changed his life. Fucking nightmare. Hard to believe, knowing him now, that he wasn’t always so silent and lost inside his head. Funny thing is, he used to be the optimist of us both. The open-hearted, happy-go-lucky kid. The one who always cracked jokes and laughed.
Hard to believe these days.
He stands in the kitchen doorway and stares down at me. Barely blinks, the paper bag from the deli down the street and the sodas clutched in his hands. Dark hair has escaped his ponytail and is falling in his eyes.
“What the fuck happened here?” he says eventually. “Seffers. Why’re you sitting in this mess?”
“Because I can’t fucking get back up.” Didn’t even try. Kept thinking about my mom in jail. About the fine. About the past.
God, my head throbs fit to burst.
I wouldn’t pay for her even if I could. Not in a million years. She deserves to be behind bars. She deserves all the bad in the world. She’s at the root of my bad luck. She started it.
She had me and then threw me away. So I shouldn’t feel guilty.
I don’t, goddammit.
Shane puts the food on the table and gives me a hand up. “Easy now.”
My knee creaks and burns but locks and holds, allowing me to get on my own two feet. My boots crunch on the shards.
“Fuck, need to clean up.”
“Shouldn’t you be in PT?”
“If you knew that, then what the hell are you doing here?”
“What the fuck’s your problem today? I was going to leave you a sandwich and a soda and be on my way. Zane’s waiting for me to practice on a guy.” Shane shoots me a quick grin. “Frigging huge eagle tat, man, with an awesome feather design. You should drop by and see it.”
I grab my walking stick and take a tentative step toward the table. Ow. Christ. “Go on, then. Go before Zane chews your ass out.”
Doesn’t bother me that I’ll be the last apprentice left at Damage Control, that Jesse already graduated, and Shane is about it. Nah. I’m cool with that.
Okay, not really. Fuck me raw, man. Bad luck is one thing, but my life? It’s a goddamn joke. And okay, I’m still tangled up in the web of the past and getting free of it is kinda difficult with Shane here.
He’s tied into that past. He’s part of it, the threads of our lives woven together, and I can’t even talk to him about it, tell him about my mom, do anything to remind him.
’Cuz he’s still caught in it, in the dark web. Still dangling from the spider’s legs. And I don’t know how to help him.
Can’t help my mom, either. Can’t help anyone.
Not even myself. Missed the hospital appointment, need money and goddam painkillers before I saw my own leg off, and hell—the thought of going back down the stairs makes it hard to breathe.
You’ll be fine, Seffers. Things are better now, never you forget that. Never you fucking forget.
***
That’s a bit hard to remember an hour later as I puke my guts out in the toilet. Don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s the sandwich Shane brought me.
Just the thought of it makes me gag, and I puke again, clutching at the porcelain bowl. My head is pounding, and my throat burns with acid.
Kill me now.
Did I mention this is a fucked-up day? Just in case I neglected to make it clear. Maybe it’s because last night wasn’t that bad.
It was nice. Real nice.
So this is payback.
Fuck you, life.
I manage a bark of laughter at the irony before I’m bent over again, throwing up bile. Shit, this is exhausting. Depressing.
When will things take a turn for the better? The roommate I was supposed to get changed his mind at the last minute. I still owe the landlord money for last month’s rent, next installment is coming up soon, too, and I’m broke. A broken leg and bartender job don’t go well together, it seems, or so my boss decided as I sat at home with my leg in a cast and pumped full of painkillers.
Customers don’t like it.
Or maybe he got ahold of my record. I assumed he doesn’t know about it, but I’m not so sure anymore. Texas Road House is a big chain. He might know. My past just keeps coming back to bite me in the ass.
So I’ve been out of job, and I only managed to go to Damage Control once after almost two months—this week. Zane is patient, but I know he’s wondering why I’m being such a pussy.
Broken leg, pah. Not the first time one of the guys got one.
Not my first encounter, either, with broken bones. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any bone in my body that has never been broken.
I wasn’t joking about my bad luck. Thing is, it often takes the form of people and their fists, their boots, the bats and sticks in their hands. And I fought back and played along for a time. Did my time.
For others, bad luck is burning your toast, missing your bus, locking yourself out of your apartment.
For me, it’s a matter of making it through the day alive.
But if I tell Zane and the others about my past injuries, the ones aggravated by my recent ones, it’ll all come to the light. One story leads to the next, and before you know it, you’ve puked out your whole sordid past to the people who are supposed to believe in you.
And I doubt I’ll be staying at Damage Control
and under their protection once they know.
Fuck. I scoot back and lean my back against the wall of the bathroom, my eyes closing. So tired. And of course my knee is blaring in pain from kneeling on the hard tiles for so long.
Fuck you, knee. Fuck you, bones.
I think I’m gonna crash here tonight. Not the first time I’ve slept on the bathroom floor. Can’t move. Can’t get up. Don’t think I would even if I could remember where I left my walking stick. Must have dropped it at the door, racing to reach the toilet before I tossed my cookies all over the fucking floor.
Someone is knocking at the door and ringing the bell.
Well, good luck with that. I seriously can’t move, my limbs heavy like lead. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and every attempt to sit up straighter brings more bile up my throat.
My eyes are closing. Maybe I can catch a few winks.
I must have been bad in a past life to deserve this, I think, falling asleep slowly, in degrees—a darkness at a time. Real bad. A murderer of babies or something. Must have kicked puppies for a living. I don’t know. Bad.
God, I wish Manon was here, her hand on my face, soft and warm, like last night. Last night, which seems more and more like a dream that was never true.
***
“Jesus, Seffers, whatcha doing?” a voice says directly above me. “What the fuck?”
Shane?
Someone shakes me so hard my teeth rattle, and oh fuck, this is a bad idea. Blinking blearily, I lunge for the toilet and barely make it before I hurl again.
God, my throat burns. There’s nothing left in my stomach to puke out.
“Fucking hell,” another voice says, and I’m being hauled up, my arms pulled over the guys’ shoulders. Micah has my left arm, and Ocean has my right.
Another bad idea. My knee does buckle this time, and now everyone’s cursing as they try to keep me upright.
“What the hell, man?” Ocean mutters when I hiss and try to pull back my arm.
“That’s the one that was dislocated,” Micah grinds out, and yeah, I’m a wreck. Great, huh? And these are just my recent run-ins with fate.
“Fuck.” Ocean lets my arm down, and I curl it over my stomach. “Sorry.”
“What happened here?” Shane flushes the toilet and scowls down at it.
“Sandwich,” I mutter.
“What, food poisoning? You serious?” Shane sounds disgusted. “My sandwich was fine. Man, we’ve been going to that deli for months now. That’s rotten luck.”
Told ya. But I don’t have the energy to talk anymore. I just want to be left alone on my bed, to curl up and sleep. I wanna be alone, goddammit.
I’ve had enough.
But it’s not happening.
“I’m staying with him,” Ocean says as Micah drags me toward the sofa. “Make sure he’s okay.”
“Don’t need you to stay,” I grouse, weaving on my feet. Damn, so dizzy. “’M fine.”
“Make him drink water,” Micah says, talking over my head as he lowers me down. “Eat crackers.”
“Ain’t got no crackers.” I glare up at Micah who blinks.
“I’ll go buy the goddamn crackers.” He huffs. “Man, did you hit your head or something? You’re acting weird.”
Did I…? I gape at him as he walks away, because the truth is, I’m not sure.
“Well, fuck you, too,” I mutter when I hear the door slam behind him, because I don’t know what to think.
“Is he always this grumpy?” Ocean drags a chair from the kitchen and sits on it backward.
“Just today,” Shane drawls.
“You motherfuckers done talking about me like I’m not here?” I twist on the sofa, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt my leg, or my shoulder, or my elbows, or any of the million goddamn spots on my body that burn and ache. “Fuck off.”
“What’s going on, Seth?” Ocean asks, because he never gives up. Maybe his past is all unicorn farts and rainbows, and everything always ends up well. “Why don’t you come to Damage anymore? Your cast is off.”
“Yeah, I’m ready for the New York marathon. Can’t you tell?”
“No, but you can walk. You could last time you came out of PT. Why are you staying locked inside? What’s the problem?”
“No problem.” I glower at Shane, daring him to say anything about my knee, about my past. I double-dare you, cousin.
He says nothing.
Ocean sighs. “You can barely walk now. What happened? Are you going to physio?”
“He missed one session this morning,” Shane says. Always so helpful.
Yeah, well. I close my eyes and decide I’ve had enough of today. I’ll sleep this off and hope tomorrow is luckier.
Yeah, like that’s ever an option.
***
Someone is shaking me awake.
Again.
Goddammit, what’s wrong with these people? I twist and push whoever it is away from me. The twinge in my shoulder and the burning in my elbows and hands stops me short. I groan and blink my eyes open.
Big mistake. Pain stabs the back of my eyeballs. I fall back on the sofa and throw an arm over my face.
“Go away,” I hiss.
“Hey, tough guy. Talk to me.”
I lift my arm a fraction, startled. “Ash?”
Asher Devlin, Zane’s best friend, ex-MMA fighter. He’s sitting in a chair right next to me. And behind him stands Dylan, hands in pockets, looking down at me. They’re both in college with sports scholarships. Dylan is in football and Ash…
Can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?
“Seth.” Asher is leaning in so close I’m going cross-eyed trying to focus on his face, and damn my skull is about to explode. “Don’t zone out on me. I asked you a question.”
He did?
“His hands are all scraped up,” Dylan says. “Elbows, too. Should check the back of his head.”
Okay, definitely missed some chunks of conversation, because this is making no fucking sense.
“Hey man.” Asher is frowning down at me like I’ve got something written on my forehead. “Did you fall down yesterday? Did you hit your head? This is important.”
“I didn’t…” Wait a sec. “Maybe I did. Ran into a car and—”
“A car? You fucking serious?” Dylan is now in my face, face flushed red. “What happened?”
“Just crossing a street. It was raining. Driver didn’t see me.”
“Jesus Christ, Seth.” Dylan straightens and starts pacing, running his hands over his short hair. “You could’ve been killed.”
“Well, I wasn’t.” Fuck, my head. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Stop talking. Headache.”
“You been dizzy since then?” Asher is asking, and damn, can’t he shut up for a second? “Disoriented, confused?”
“I was almost run over. Damn right I was confused.” Ow. “Happy?”
“Damn.” He sighs and scratches at his chin. “Sorry, Seth. I think you might have a concussion. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Oh fuck. That wakes me up all the way. “No way. I’m okay. Not going back to the hospital.”
“You need to be seen by a doc, buddy,” Asher says. “Doesn’t have to be the hospital. This is serious. Not leaving here without you.”
“Jesus, Ash.” When did we go from food poisoning to concussion?
Figures, though. Food poisoning just wasn’t bad enough, was it?
“Come on, we’ll help you up.”
“Wait. Wait.” I lift my hand and squint at them. The overhead light is like splinters driving into my eyeballs. “Medicaid covers this, right?”
This is important. I’m kinda broke right now. Out of job. Out of options.
“Tell me you know who hit you. Dammit, Seth, was it a hit-and-run?” Dylan looks murderous.
I think of Manon and grimace. “No, that’s not how it went down. She stopped the car in time, but I slipped and fell. It was raining.”
“What the hell wer
e you thinking, going out in the rain?” Dylan is still pacing, and he’s making me so dizzy I might just hurl all over the sofa.
“Had to buy some stuff. Are we fucking done with the twenty questions?”
Asher shakes his head, chews on the inside of his cheek. “Not really. Guys tell me you having trouble with your knee? This something new?”
Goddammit. I so do not need this moronic interrogation. Not today. “None of your business.”
“Yeah? You sure it’s not something I should know?”
“I’m sure.”
“If it’s a complication from breaking your leg, if they didn’t set it right—”
“Back off, Ash. I mean it.”
He gives me a long, hard look. “Dickhead. Just looking out for you. We’re a family, dammit. It’s what we do.”
Dylan has stopped pacing and is staring at me as well.
Shit. These are the people who got me off the street, who gave me a second chance, and I’m acting like an asshole.
But I can’t tell them. If I open this can of worms, they’ll want to get to the bottom of it, and it’s a fucking mess. Plus, Shane’s involvement in it means I just can’t talk, period. It ain’t only about me.
Fuck.
“All right, let’s go,” Asher says as Dylan comes around the sofa to help me up—like I’m a toddler and can’t do it on my own, but damn, I’m so dizzy it’s all I can do not to throw up again.
When they get me upright and throw my arms over their shoulders to keep me from falling, when my bad leg folds, and they curse and drag me out the door, I only hope neither of them notices that the knee giving me problems isn’t the one of the leg I broke.
Chapter Six
Manon
Cassie managed to get me Seth’s phone number—not sure I want to know how—and I’ve tried it three times already.
He won’t answer.
Or he’s asleep or something. But it’s been hours. And my courage is starting to flag.
Maybe he doesn’t want to see me again. Or talk to me, for that matter. His friends are probably with him, and they’re having beers and watching soccer.
He was okay. Apart from his knee giving him some trouble, he was all right. No reason to worry.
No reason to call or visit. And he doesn’t seem interested in talking to me or seeing me, either. That much is clear. I’m the fool who went looking for his number. What if he’s looking at the missed calls right now and ignoring me, hoping I’ll stop?