by Jo Raven
Right. Still no job. Still haven’t paid the landlord what I owe him, and I sure as hell don’t have money for the next rent. What the fuck was I thinking?
I sink in one of the new red leather armchairs inside the entrance to the shop and rub my hands over my face.
Can’t afford to be reckless. Things are bad enough as they are.
But then what, shall I go empty-handed? Fuck.
I could explain this to her. She may understand. Not what I want for her, though. Not how a boyfriend should treat her, pretend or not.
Shane sits down across in the other chair, scaring the crap out of me. “What’s up, man?” He nods, rolls a cigarette. “Good to see you back.”
“Yeah. Good to be back, cuz.”
“Leg okay?”
“Peachy. Never better.”
“You shitting me, Seffers?”
I lean back. “Leg’s better. But I’m out of job and can’t seem to be able to land any. Got any ideas?”
He scowls at me. “What happened to your bartender job?”
“I got fired.”
“Why?”
I know what he’s asking. “I honestly don’t know, man. Something about policies and sick leave.”
“You think they saw your fucking record.”
I nod.
“Fuck.” Shane bends his head until his long hair hides his face. “Christ, don’t you ever worry that Zane will chuck us back out onto the street when he knows?”
“Yeah.” All the damn time.
“He can’t ever find out, Seth.”
I know.
Like I said before—this isn’t only about me. I’d never drag Shane down with me again. That once fucked him up so bad I don’t know if he’ll ever recover.
Dammit.
“You screwing Cassie’s friend? Manon?”
“And what if I am?” I shove my lean wallet back into my pocket.
“Does Jesse know?”
“None of his goddamn business.”
Shane glares at me and I swallow a curse.
Shit. I should come clean with J, but Manon isn’t Cassie, and anyway, that’s in the past, right? What happened with her? Now he’s with Amber, and they’re disgustingly happy together. I’m seriously glad for the guy—but he knows I’ve wanted Manon for months now. He never objected to it, and even if he did…
Even if he did, it doesn’t fucking matter, because I can’t be with her, not like I want. Not like he is with Amber.
He’s good for her. She’s awesome for him.
I’m the opposite of what Manon needs, even if she’s the world to me.
Fuck this.
“Heading home.” I push to my feet, grab my walking stick. “See you around, man. Let me know if you hear anything about a job.”
He nods, and I step outside, my mind returning to the flowers I can’t afford and everything Manon deserves, not knowing these will soon prove to be the least of my worries.
***
I stand outside her door, clutching the handle of my walking stick so hard it creaks. No bottle of wine. No flowers. Hell.
No choice, though. Need to save every penny. I’ll have to make it up to her later, one way or another.
Doesn’t stop me from feeling like an asshole, though. This is exactly what I was afraid of—that I’d never be what she needs.
I forget my thoughts of doom when she opens the door and gives me a bright smile, her brilliant eyes locking with mine.
Christ, she’s so pretty. It hits me every single time I look at her. No idea what the hell she’s doing with a loser like me, but I refuse to dwell on that right now. Fuck it, I’ll take what she gives, save it for the cold, lonely days ahead.
She goes on tiptoe to kiss me, and I grab her around the waist, crush our lips together. God, I can’t get enough of her. I lick her mouth, drunk on her taste, and her arms go around my neck, smooth and easy, like they belong there.
Like she belongs here, with me.
She drags me to her kitchen, seats me at her table. She’s cooked thick onion soup with toast and cheese, and despite my awkwardness at my lack of contribution, I inhale everything. It’s damn good, and I’m starving. Meanwhile, she tells me about her day at college, the new classes, the new professors, and I listen avidly.
She lives in a different world from mine.
It’s later, sprawled on her couch with her settled between my legs and the TV playing, the volume set low, that I make my apologies.
“Sorry for not bringing you flowers.” I brush the silky hair from her nape, kiss her there, make her shiver. “As soon as I get a job, I will.”
“I don’t need flowers.” She twists around, reaches for me. “Didn’t expect any.”
“You should. A boyfriend would’ve brought you red roses, a bottle of expensive wine, a gift. You shouldn’t settle for less.”
“I’ll settle for a boyfriend who wants me,” she whispers, stroking my cheek. “Who spends time with me, who listens and tries to make me feel better when I’m down. Who cares for me. Who desires me. I think I’d be lucky if I found a guy like that.”
Don’t know what to say. My throat closes up, because it sounds as if she’s saying...
Fuck no, Seffers, don’t go imagining stuff. If she finds someone, she says. Not that she’s already found anyone.
But I need her closer, so I kiss her again, and again, until we end up tangled up on the sofa. I roll her underneath me, pressing my hardening dick between her legs. Her nipples tighten under the thin fabric of her blouse, the lace of her bra.
Could I be enough for her? Could I fix my life and be with her? Would she accept me as I am, if she knew everything?
Desperate for her, I push her skirt up, tear her panties off, bury my face between her legs. She yips when I lick her seam, part her folds with my tongue. She’s sweet everywhere, and the sounds she makes… Fuck, I can barely hold on to my control as she writhes under my mouth and hands.
She reaches for me, tugs on my head. “Seth,” she whispers. “Inside me. Please.”
I groan, pulling back, taking out the last condom I have from my wallet. Feels symbolic somehow. It’s as if my time with her is ending.
Not yet, dammit.
As I push into her, as she wraps her long legs around my waist and rolls up to meet my thrusts, as the pressure builds behind my balls and inside my chest, inside my head, I fight the bad feeling, the despair. Let it roll through me, over me, chased away by the pleasure bursting through me, the feel of her body clamping around mine, milking my cock as it pulses again. And again. And again, taking away the last of my breath.
Holy shit.
Collapsing, I twist on my side and roll her in my arms, tucking her head under my chin, her arm over my ribs, breathing her in. Feeling her heart beat against mine.
I know, as I’ve known from the first time I saw her, that this is right where I wanna be. If only I fucking could.
***
It’s morning time, and Manon is brushing her long dark hair, seated on her bed. Like a movie star, in her black lacy underwear, the silver brush in her hand, she glows in the morning light.
I’m leaning against the headboard, watching her in a kind of daze, itching to touch the shiny, loose curls.
And why not? What’s stopping me? This is what a boyfriend would do, right?
Scooting closer, I brush the back of my hand over the rough silk, and she smiles at me over her shoulder. If not for the pounding behind my eyes and the damn exhaustion hounding me this morning, I’d have dragged her back under the covers and climbed back inside her.
We didn’t get much sleep last night, and it wasn’t all fun. Sure, after the sofa, we moved to the bed, and I found out she had two condoms in her bedside table drawer. You can bet we used them. She also went down on me again, and fuck, that was also amazing.
Then we fell asleep—passed out, more like—and I had the mother of all nightmares.
Can’t remember details. There was a long dim passage,
and I crawled on my hands, dragging my useless legs behind me. I had to reach Shane. Shane was held somewhere in the darkness of this place, and I had to free him before the monsters got to him. But as I crawled, the passage grew longer, and the air grew thinner. No oxygen. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t call out his name. Couldn’t go further.
Then they slithered out of the shadows—faceless at first, holding baseball bats and iron bars, wearing metal boots and metal rings on their hands, to hit me harder, cut me deeper with their blows, and kicks, and punches.
Like usual, I last a long time, writhing in pain, taking it all—stuff from my memories, my body remembering, too—until their faces are revealed.
My mom. Her boyfriends. The prison guard. The thugs from the cell across from mine.
Then Zane, Tyler, Rafe, Shane, Ocean.
“Liar!” they hiss as they kick me and slam their fists into me. “Goddamn liar. Goddamn convict. You get what you deserve.”
Almost fell off the bed before I fully woke up, my stomach churning, my heart hammering. I slipped off and made it to the bathroom just in time to puke my dinner. Managed to close the bathroom door, too, and not to wake her up.
Thank fuck for small mercies. Figures this would happen the one fucking night I spend in her apartment, in her bed.
“So you don’t really want to be a tattoo artist?” she asks, bringing me back to the present.
I blink, my fingers tangled in the shiny strands of her hair. “What?”
“You said you wanted to become a herpetologist when you were little. And you seemed sad.”
Oh shit. Must have been on her mind since Sunday. I guess I was sad, recalling my dreams, but that’s not how it is.
“Dreams change,” I tell her. “I like snakes. But I also like inking.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Really?”
I grab my wallet from behind me and pull out a small sketchbook Zane gave me. “Got a pen or pencil?”
Her brows go up. Then she hops off the bed and pulls a pencil from a box on her dresser. “Here. What are you going to do?”
I grin and wink at her as I open my sketchbook. “Give you what I didn’t bring with me last night.”
The question lingers in her gaze as I start sketching. Her face among roses, her smile behind curved glass, the thorns wrapping around the bottle of wine, the stars in her eyes.
She gasps before I’m done and throws herself into my arms. “Oh my God! It’s beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you are,” I tell her honestly. “Never.”
She smiles. “Can I keep it? Can you sign it?”
“You got it.” Her excitement eases the throbbing in my head, relaxes the grip of the nightmare. I sign with a flourish and rip the small page out of the sketchbook.
She places it in her lap. “You’re so talented. Wow.”
Heat is rising up my neck. “You think?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s perfect.” She smiles again, a faint, secret smile that goes through me like a rip of warm wind. “You could do anything you wanted. You’re gifted, and bright.”
“Um. Thanks?” I duck my head, because the heat is scorching my cheeks and ears. Christ. It’s fucking stupid how much I hunger for her kind words. Apart from Zane, can’t remember the last time anyone told me I was worth anything.
“You’re welcome. And now I have to run. New class starting today.”
That’s right. She’s moving into her new life, her new path with her studies. Soon she’ll also get fucking Fred back, do to him the things I taught her to do to me, and they’ll…
Fucking hell. I don’t want to imagine her doing anything with him—being with him, kissing him, going down on him. She shouldn’t be with him.
She should be with me, and I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything else in my crappy, fucked-up life, even as I know it will never happen.
I’m not easy to love, Mom always said. Too contrary, stubborn, unhelpful. I’m just too damn worthless to be with anyone, and this just goes to prove it.
***
After car washing and spending a few dollars on a burger at a street corner joint, after counting and recounting what’s left, summing it up, I curse long and loud.
No way am I making enough to pay the rent this month, even with Rafe paying half. Rafe Vestri, owner of the tattoo Damage Control where I’m training, one of the two guys who give a damn about my life, who together with Zane took me and Shane off the streets and who is still looking out for me.
Need to call him, tell him I’ll need more help this month, and that I’m moving out, to a cheaper, smaller place. Need to find a room somewhere out of town. Commute will be shit, but at least I’ll have money to buy food and have a roof over my head. Winter is closing in, and I have no desire to be on the street when the temperature at night drops below zero.
The memory of my life before Zane found me makes me shudder so hard I almost drop my cell. I clutch it more tightly.
Just need a job. Like the one Shane has, at a construction site. Pays well. Only problem is my body, made fragile after too many breaks. Bones fracturing easily. Shoulders dislocating with a simple fall.
Shit.
It’s why I looked for easier gigs—bartending, cashier, cleaner. They were okay while they lasted—before I got the shit beaten out of me once, then again, landing me in hospital and then at home long enough to lose the jobs. And fuck, finding new ones is a bitch when you have a rap sheet.
Hadn’t realized when I got out of prison, but it soon sank in. Not that I could get any legal jobs without a permanent address, but still.
That’s why I can’t tell Zane or Rafe, or anyone. Why I can’t give up this one chance to a life.
My thoughts keep circling back to my mom and the call from her lawyer. I had a missed call from him the other day. Never called back.
Now I scroll back to the number, hesitate. When I told Manon my mom’s still dead to me… Okay, not true. I’m pissed off. Hate her guts for setting me up, leaving me to get captured and rot in prison.
I want to know why she did it. What she did afterward. If she has an excuse for it all. Pathetic, I know. Not wanting to believe she’s just selfish. That she just doesn’t care about me. Never has.
I’m pressing the number to call before I even know what I’m doing. It rings and rings, and then a male voice answers.
“Hello.”
I swallow hard. “John Adams?”
“Speaking.”
I get up, limp a few steps away from the bench. “This is Seth Tucker. We talked a while back. About my mother.”
Silence. Then, “Ah Mr. Tucker. Good to hear from you.”
“You called me. A few days ago.”
“Yes, I did. Your mother would like to speak with you.”
A buzzing starts in my ears. “Yeah? What about?”
“She didn’t say. I think it’s a good idea, since you apparently haven’t met in years.”
“Ask her whose fault that is.”
“You were in prison, Mr. Tucker.”
“Ask her whose fault that is, too.”
“What are you saying?”
“Fuck.” I pull the cell from my ear, resist the urge to throw it against the wall. “Why do you care, anyway, if she wants to talk to me or not?”
There’s a long pause at the other end of the line.
“She’s in jail, waiting for her trial, isn’t she?” Sweat trickles down my back. “Nobody bailed her out.”
“She’s in jail, yes. Mr. Tucker… Seth. She has talked to me about you. How she misses you. She’s depressed. I thought it might be good if you talked to her. This isn’t my job. I’m only doing it because I want to help.”
“Good for who?” I whisper, choking on my anger and sadness. “Is she… is she there? I mean, are you with her right now?”
“No, but I’m heading there. I could call you when I see her.” Cautious. “Would you like that?”
Yes.
No.
“Don’t take too long,” I growl, “or I might change my goddamn mind.”
I hang up before he has a chance to reply.
***
The call comes as I climb off the bus, heading to Damage for my training. I debate ignoring it and never returning this guy’s calls again—but as I said: it’s pathetic how much I want to believe she didn’t mean to hurt me—or Shane. That she’s capable of love. Or loving me.
Because—my brain tells me—if my own mom can’t love me, then what chance do I stand with anyone else? With Manon.
Yeah, I’m seriously fucked-up. Knowing it doesn’t help.
And fuck, then I hear her voice.
“Seth? That you?” she asks.
For the first time in years, the first time since that fateful evening.
I stop, lean against the wall of a random building and close my eyes. Fuck, this is killing me. “Mom.”
“Oh God, it is you. Missed you, baby.” Her voice cracks, and it only pisses me off more.
“You’re fucking kidding me.” I can’t help a snort of disgust. “What the fuck?”
“Why, Seth?” Goddammit, she sounds confused. I wonder if she’s acting for John Adams, or any other corrections officer there. “What happened to you?”
That startles a bark of laughter out of me. It’s raw and bitter and it burns my throat.
“What happened to me? Jesus, you’ve got balls to ask me that after you and you asshole of a husband set us up to take the fall for you, while you ran away with the cash you made. Did you stop to think what it would fucking do to me? To Shane?”
“Shane? Why to Shane?”
Jesus. I press my thumb between my eyes, to relieve the pressure. “Like you don’t know. Shane came to find me, tried to help me. Remember how you left me, with my knee blown, my leg broken, my arm smashed?” Remembered pain shudders through me. “He got arrested, too, taken in as accessory when the narcs rolled in. Less time than I got, but it was enough.”
“Enough for what?” Her fake sadness and confusion has bled away into pure curiosity.
“What do you think, mom? You’ve been in prison, too. Don’t you know what happens to pretty, young, exotic boys like Shane?”