by Jo Raven
My mind’s still reeling from his revelation. I’m oddly proud of him for having the courage to tell me about it—can’t have been easy—even though I’m still angry that he tested his theory on other random girls.
But above all, for the first time since I saw him with that blonde and my world imploded, I’m really happy to see him.
***
I park in a street behind Damage Control and check my hair in the rearview mirror before I get out of the car.
Ridiculous, I know. The thought of seeing Seth gets me all excited and bouncy. I miss him, and it’s only been a few hours since seeing him this morning. I think of his mouth, his eyes, his chest, his hands, every part of him, and a thrill skates down my spine.
As I walk toward the shop, I see him standing outside, leaning against the façade, smoking, and my heart stops.
Oh my God. The weak sunshine gilds his face, catches on his thick lashes, turns his dark hair to polished mahogany. He turns his head to the side to blow a cloud of smoke and I can’t help but stare at the way his sweater stretches across his broad chest and those muscular shoulders.
How is this possible? He’s more handsome every time I see him. Not fair.
He looks up as I approach and that devil-may-care grin spreads over his face, making me so hot I think I’ll just melt at his feet.
“Hey, you,” he rasps, and I realize I stopped in my tracks, mouth hanging open.
“Hey, I…” I stop again when a couple approaches from the street, his hair a dazzling gold, hers a dark counterpoint.
Seth lifts a hand in greeting. “Micah, my man. Ev.”
I recognize them now, too.
“Saw you with Fred at Steep and Brew,” Ev says, nodding at me. “I was waving at you, but you didn’t see us.”
I open my mouth, close it.
“With Fred?” Seth’s voice is flat, kind of breathless. “Today?”
“Looked cozy together,” Micah rumbles, drawing Ev to his side. “He’s your boyfriend, right?”
“Dammit,” Seth mutters, throws his cigarette away and stalks into the shop.
Leaving me to stare at the spot he occupied two seconds ago.
What. The. Hell.
“What’s gotten up his ass?” Micah frowns at the closed door. “That was fucking weird.”
Ev is looking at me, eyes narrowed. “Didn’t know there was something going on between you two.”
Oh God. Seth thinks I’m back together with Fred.
“What you need to know is that there’s nothing going on between me and Fred,” I snap. “We’re just friends.”
She nods at the shop. “Better tell him that, then.”
Yeah. Drawing a long, steadying breath, I march into Damage Control to tell Seth what happened between me and Fred, and how I feel about him.
I expect him to be at the reception desk or in one of the booths, sullenly silent as I explain everything.
What I don’t expect is to find him cornered, with Zane in his face hissing something about a rap sheet and drugs.
Drugs? Oh holy crap.
The blood leaves my head, and I sway a little as I approach them, needing to hear it all, even if I don’t really want to. Even if I’m not sure I’ll be able to hear anything over the deafening sound of my heart breaking to a thousand pieces.
Chapter Nineteen
Seth
“When were you gonna tell me, fucker? About your rap sheet? About the drug charges?” Zane’s voice is a low growl that has my hackles up. “Possession, and possibly trafficking. What the fuck, Seth?”
He’s crowding me in, pushing me into the wall, and I don’t even fucking care because all I can think is that he found out.
How the hell? Why?
“You.” Zane jabs a hard finger into my chest. His teeth are bared. “I let you and Shane into my family. My gang. Let you hang around the clients. Around Tyler and Asher’s kids, dammit. Are you still using? Are you dealing drugs, fucker?”
“Fuck, no. I don’t deal drugs, never—”
He shoves me into the wall, and something in my bad shoulder twists painfully. “Why should I believe you? Once a liar, always a fucking liar.”
“Z-man.” Ocean is tugging on Zane’s hoodie. “Whatcha doing? There are customers.”
“Fuck.” Zane doesn’t move, still in my face. “You should have told me,” he hisses and steps back.
“You wouldn’t have believed me if I had, any more than you do now,” I snarl back.
That’s when I notice them. Micah, Ev, Jesse.
And Christ, Manon. She’s right there, next to Tyler, her mouth pressed thin.
“You should have told me,” she whispers, her eyes welling up. “God, you should have told me.”
She claps a hand over her mouth, spins on her heel and runs out.
“Fuck.” I knock my head back on the wall, barely feeling it. “Christ.”
“What’s going on here?” Tyler looms behind Zane, his dark eyes fixed on me. “Believe what?”
I swallow hard. “That Shane and I had nothing to do with it. That we were innocent.”
“The judge thought differently,” Zane says grimly.
I shift against the wall, my shoulder weirdly numb, like my head. “We were set up.”
“Yeah? By who?”
“My mother and her new husband. They were the ones dealing the fucking drugs.”
“Why would she do that to you?”
“Because she’s a selfish bitch, that’s why!” I don’t know why I’m still fighting, after all this time, after nobody has believed me, ever. Who would believe my own mother set me up? Probably wouldn’t believe it myself if I heard it from someone else. “She watched as her man broke my bones, then they grabbed their bags and left, calling the police to come pick me up.”
“Why would she do such a thing?” Tyler asks, leaning in over Zane’s shoulder.
“Because I was stupid.” I have to swallow again, the lump in my throat not going away. “I threatened to call in the cops if she didn’t stop. If she didn’t keep spending all the money she got from social services on heroin and crack and her boyfriend’s booze. If she didn’t run a goddamn drug cartel from our house. Shit.”
Can’t breathe. Don’t know what this is. It’s not fear or panic. It’s an overwhelming sadness that crushes my chest and won’t let my lungs work.
“Rafe was trying to get you a job,” Zane is saying, his voice a distant buzz. “To help you out, fucker. That’s how he found out.”
“Sorry,” I wheeze, wondering what this is—if I’m having a heart attack or something. Aren’t I too young? “For everything.”
“Fuck.” Zane stomps away from me, and I look into Tyler’s hard face.
“Go home,” he tells me. “Stay put. Zane’s pissed, but he’s a fair guy. He’ll look into this.”
Yeah, right. Whatever. Why the hell would he? My rap sheet says it all. I’m guilty. I’m an ex-con. Manon’s gone. Damage Control is gone. All I hoped for is gone up in smoke.
It’s all over for me. Didn’t know the end would come so soon, but like they say—when it rains, it pours.
Story of my life.
***
Gathering my jacket, I limp across Damage, heading to the exit.
The walk of shame. Everyone heard what Zane said, what I said. Tyler, Jesse, Micah, Ev, Ocean.
Didn’t think I’d feel ashamed for something I didn’t do. Something that was beyond my control, but Zane’s words cut deep.
I lied to him. Yeah, I did. To protect Shane. To protect myself. But I get where Zane is coming from. He said it to my face. This is his family, people he swore to protect, and my covering up of the truth put them—and his shop—at risk.
What the hell am I gonna do now? My mind’s numb as I step outside and a shiver wracks me. My shoulder aches dully, but it’s nothing serious, I can tell. The pain matches the ache in my head.
Work, that’s all I can fucking do. Try to save up enough for the rent, and look
into a cheaper place, like I’ve been meaning to do. It’s time to move on, try to salvage what I have: a roof over my head, food in my mouth.
Shit, Manon… The look on her face, the disbelief, the horror. That shouldn’t hurt so much, not as much as losing Damage and the family I had there—because goddammit, it was my family, too—but it does. Twists inside me like a knife, scrapes against my heart.
Can’t think about her now, or I’ll break down right here, in the middle of the fucking street.
I board the bus, walk back to my apartment, hands in the pockets of my jacket. At least I can walk, I think, despite the limp, and almost cackle out loud at my pathetic attempt to keep my sanity.
What good is walking when I have to crawl?
I climb the stairs to my apartment, one slow step after another, massaging my shoulder. Pulling my key out, I unlock the door, step into my apartment.
My apartment.
A year ago, those two words wouldn’t have fit together. I lived in an alley, and my belongings consisted of a filthy sleeping bag and a Thermos someone gave me. Can’t lose this. It was easier when I had no hope.
I take a leak, stare at my scowling expression in the mirror, look into my bedroom, at the stacks of sci-fi and romances. Happy endings. Maybe that’s the problem. I read so many of those books while in bed I thought I’d get a happy ending, too, but I guess that’s for fictional characters, not for the likes of me.
This shit’s real. Real fucking life.
Someone’s pounding on my door. Shit. I hobble through the living room and check the peep hole. Not taking any chances.
A guy’s looming outside, darkening my doorway.
Shane.
Heaving a sigh of relief, I open the door and step back to let him in. “Hey, man.”
With a blast of cold air, he follows me inside, draws his fist back and drives it into my gut. “Fuck you, Seth.”
I stumble back, try to get my footing—and miss. I tumble to the floor, land weird, right on my bad shoulder. Something cracks. I wonder if it’s a bone.
A moment of stillness, then the blinding pain hits. I struggle to draw breath, bile rising in my throat as the fire shoots from my shoulder down my arm and my back, reaching into my stomach and twisting it.
Shane’s talking. Something about betraying his trust, about being an asshole who dragged him into all of this.
He’s right. I did this to him. He got into prison for me, and now he may lose everything, again because of me.
“They sent me home,” Shane says. “It wasn’t your goddamn place to tell them about me, Seth.”
I try to explain, try to draw enough breath and force it past my gritting teeth to form words. “Rafe. Didn’t tell.”
“What the fuck ever,” Shane mutters and turns to go. “Stay away from me.”
“Shane.” It comes out as a wheeze, barely audible. “Wait.”
But he’s already out and gone.
Fuck. Me.
I’m so fucking ready for this day to be over. Clutching my arm, I roll to get up, the pain making me dizzy, sending pretty black spots dancing in my vision.
Would this be all for today, life? Are we done?
Of course not. Why would I think I could get off so easy?
“Mr. Tucker.” My landlord is standing at the still wide-open door, waving a piece of paper at me. “If you’re done rolling on the floor, I suggest you pack your things and go.”
What? I squint at him and the fucking paper. “What’s that?”
“That’s your eviction notice. I posted a copy on your door two weeks ago. You still owe me half of last month’s rent, and this month’s, too. Unless of course you have the money.”
I don’t. Of course I don’t. And I can’t remember a damn notice.
What the fuck.
“Can’t move out today,” I breathe, hissing when I sit up. “You have to give me more time.”
“I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Tucker. I have a couple who are ready to move in and gave me a deposit.”
“Damn you.” My thoughts are scattered. I do my best to make sense of it. “This is illegal.”
“And what? You’ll take me to court? Think you’ll win this?” He straightens his shirt, squares his narrow shoulders. “Think I didn’t hear what your friend here said? You got a rap sheet.”
Fucking hell.
“If you don’t get out within the hour, so help me God,” he towers over me where I’m sitting on his floor trying hard not to puke from the pain, “I’ll call your employer and let them know you’ve living here illegally, without paying your rent. That tattoo parlor, isn’t it? Damage Control, downtown.”
Jesus Christ. “Don’t. Okay? Don’t.”
“You need to move out the—”
“I’ll leave. I’m leaving.” I brace my good arm on the coffee table and drag myself up. “Christ.”
My brain’s smothered in fog, but I know Zane and Rafe can’t find out about this. They can’t. A vague idea stirs at the back of my mind, saying it doesn’t matter anymore whether they know or not, but that’s bullshit. Has to be. I can’t take the risk.
Lost too much. Can’t afford this.
I’m supposed to pack, right? Only I can’t. My arm is hanging uselessly at my side, my shoulder on fire. Sweat trickles down my face, stinging my eyes.
Not like I own much. Some clothes. Some shoes. Never really settled down, never put photos or my drawings on the walls. Never really believed it.
And where would I go? Shane hates my guts right now. Manon, too. The guys think I’m a drug dealer in disguise.
A chuckle comes unbidden, dark and bitter, and I clutch at my arm as another wave of blinding pain hits.
Fuck.
I stumble into my bedroom, grab an extra sweater and a rolled-up quilt I have for winter. It’s in a bag, and I sling it over my good shoulder.
More sweat runs down my temples as I carry my things to the living room one-handed, letting my bad arm hang limp and vibrating with pain.
The crumpled up photo of my mom with her sister, myself and Shane is on the table. I reach for it, tuck it into my pocket.
Where I’m going, I won’t need more. Wish I’d kept my sleeping bag. Didn’t think I’d be returning to hell so soon.
My mom always said that’s where I belonged, where I’d end up. On the street. Guess she was right.
***
The day is gray and cold. Wind is whistling, slicing through my jacket. I wrap my scarf around my neck and weave on my feet, because, fuck, the pain. I was warned repeated shoulder dislocation would be a problem after the first time, and this is the third. It’s nothing life-threatening. But somehow it feels worse than the other times.
Somehow everything feels worse. Like having a home and losing it. Having a job, a family, and losing them. Having… God, almost having Manon and losing her, too. I guess I never realized that this was the one thing that would break me: finally getting what I wanted and watching it go up in smoke.
Dammit.
I always assumed I’d shack up with Shane if things went south. Not that I’d be going back where I started, and this time alone.
Standing on the sidewalk, watching the cars drive by, I try to gather my scattered wits. I just need somewhere to hole up, lick my wounds, wait for the howling pain to lessen so I can think.
In the end, I work on instinct alone. I limp down some streets, across a boulevard, turn into a narrow alley with the smell of Chinese cooking and fried meat from the restaurant kitchens.
The spot where Shane and I used to sleep. Not far from the apartment. Maybe that’s why I hesitated to move away. The place’s more familiar to me than my mom’s house.
I slide down the wall and curl up, holding my arm folded over my stomach.
My shoulder’s killing me. I know that eventually I should head to an emergency room, but pain isn’t helping my brain think, and besides, now it’s too late.
Too damn late. Can’t get up again. The mere thought make
s me break out in cold sweat.
Need a minute. Just a little longer, to catch my breath. Then I’ll get up and make myself go, get checked out.
It’s not that cold back here, in the alley. The warm air from the kitchens wafts out, and the smells would have made my stomach growl if not for the goddamn pain. Fuck, it’s bad. Like slivers of glass slicing into my flesh, into my joints. Cutting me up. Pouring burning sand into marrow of my bones.
The pressure is back in my chest, the deadening weight of a misery that’s suffocating me. My eyes burn, but no tears fall.
What’s the use, anyway? Won’t help. Never has.
Something creaks in my back pocket. With an effort, I pull it out. My cell. It’s cracked, falling to pieces. I stare at it, not sure I can find it in myself to care.
I let it fall. See the pieces scatter, glittering dust.
Reminds me of the shining flecks of gold in Manon’s eyes. The brightness of her smile.
I lean back. So fucking tired. Time lurches, jumps. I open my eyes and it’s afternoon. I open them again, and it’s dark all around me, the lights from the restaurant kitchens and the boulevard spinning in circles.
Manon…
Fuck, the last days with her were beautiful. I won’t have the chance to hold her in my arms again. The happiness I felt then has to last a lifetime.
Chapter Twenty
Manon
That night I can’t sleep, and the next morning I wander in a daze. Yesterday I was angry, angrier than I’ve ever been. Angrier than I was with Fred for cheating on me.
Because my feelings for Seth are deeper, stronger. What he did, hiding the truth from me, hurts much more than anything Fred could ever do.
Drug dealing. Jesus. An ex-convict. How didn’t I know? How do I reconcile Seth with this? He has the tattooed bad boy image going for him, that’s for sure, but he’s quiet. Gentle. Intense sometimes, but wouldn’t I have noticed if he took drugs?
Or if he dealt them?
But today I don’t know how I feel. Doubt sets in. What am I missing? Something doesn’t make sense. So I skip classes and stay home, thinking.
Wrapped up in a long sweater and in my old Ugg boots, I curl up on the couch and Google the crap out of drug use. Try to find the missing clues.