As a receptionist at a doctors’ office, mom didn’t earn a lot. We weren’t scraping by like some of my friends’ families were, but we weren’t rolling in it either. At the end of the month, there was enough left over after covering the rent, bills, and food for me to play football, and my brother, Patrick to play baseball and that was about it.
Throwing the door open, I yell,
“Mom, where are you? You were supposed to come pick me up.” I’d finished football practice over an hour ago, and had to walk home from school because for the first time ever, mom wasn’t there to meet me.
Wednesday’s and Sunday’s are mom’s days off, so because most other days we’re left to fend for ourselves until she gets home at six, mom makes a big deal out of always showing up to catch the end of my practice before we head over to pick up Patrick half an hour later.
“Mom?” I shout, dropping my bag by the front door. “Pat will be waiting for us. We should have been there to get him forty-five minutes ago.” Knowing my brother, he’ll be on his way home already. There’s no way Patrick will hang around with the dicks from his team if he doesn’t have to.
Mom doesn’t answer, though. She’s not in the living or dining room, and I can’t hear any sounds from the kitchen. Stomping upstairs, I figure she must be in her room; maybe she’s taking a nap and forgot to set an alarm because I know she’s here. Her car keys are on the hook by the front door, the car is in the drive, and her purse is on the table in the hall.
My sneakers squeak on the hardwood floors as I make my way to her bedroom at the end of the hall, the only sound in the otherwise eerily silent house. Knocking twice, I turn the door handle and freeze at the sight of her.
On her back on top of the covers, Mom is dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt she was wearing when Pat and I left for school this morning, her shoes and socks still on her feet. Mom’s long sandy-blonde hair, so like my own is loose and spread out around her like a halo, making her appear angelic. And if it weren’t for the sickly gray pallor of her skin and the fucking needle sticking out of her arm, I would think she was only sleeping.
My heart races as bone-deep fear sets in because something is very fucking wrong here. Skidding to a halt beside the bed, I take a closer look at her, and note the blue tingeing her lips, the rigid set of her arms and legs, and I know I’m too late. She’s gone, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t try.
Climbing onto the bed beside her, I turn mom’s head to the side to make sure her airway is clear and start chest compressions. One, two, three, four, five, I count out loud before pinching her nose and blowing a breath into her semi-closed mouth. After repeating my mantra over and over again, I place my ear over mom’s heart and listen, praying I’ll hear something, anything.
My hand automatically reaches for the phone on her bedside table, and I dial 911, all the while continuing CPR. The operator tells me they have dispatched paramedics and police and that they will be here shortly. However, I still don’t stop. I can’t. I won’t.
I have no idea how much time passes before I hear the shrill sound of sirens in the distance, but my wrists are aching, and chest is heaving from exertion and even though I feel relief know help is almost here, my mind is screaming at me that it won’t make a lick of difference.
“Marsh,” Pat’s voice whispers from the doorway. Fuck. Just fuck.
I don’t want my fourteen-year-old brother to see our mom like this. I don’t want his last memories of her tainted by whatever the hell caused her to take her own life.
“Wait downstairs, Pat. Now,” I command, not leaving any room for argument in my tone.
“Wh-what’s wrong with mom?” He murmurs.
“I said, downstairs. Do me a favor and let the paramedics in and then stay down there, little bro,” I repeat, trying to remain calm although all I want to do is cry.
Sensing my mood, I hear Pat’s footsteps retreat as he rushes down the stairs to open the door. Seconds later, two paramedics and three police officers fill my mom’s small bedroom, and I’m being asked to move back and give them space to work.
All I can remember clearly during the time they worked on her before placing the call for the county coroner was me begging them to save her. I didn’t care whether she was the same woman we knew anymore – if she suffered brain damage from oxygen deprivation like they were saying she would – as long as I had my mom back nothing else mattered.
“I’m sorry, kid,” one of the police officers who had been standing at the end of the bed consoles, “but she’s gone.” Placing one large comforting hand on my shoulder, he asks, “Have you got family nearby we can call to come take care of you?”
And therein lays just one of mine and Pat’s many issues in the months and years to come. We don’t have any family.
My mom’s parents kicked her out when she told them she was three months pregnant with me. Mom wasn’t married and her boyfriend at the time, my and Pat’s father, was a leather wearing, motorcycle riding, twenty-year-old who’d never held down a steady job.
As an only child there were no aunts or uncles on my mom’s side, and seeing as my dad skipped out on us as soon as he knocked mom up with, Pat there was no one from his side to turn to either. Or not that we know of anyway.
My grandparents died within three months of each other about four years ago before reconciling with their daughter. I can barely even remember what they looked like, having only seen them once or twice in passing on the street and my grandpa at grandma’s funeral.
So with that in mind, I shake my head and lie. It would be the first of many, but by no means the worst I’d ever tell. It would, however, be the most important.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll call them when I’ve had a chance to tell my brother. He deserves to know first.”
With a kind smile, the officer hands me his card replying,
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call this number, kid. If I’m not available, dispatch will put you through to my portable.”
“Yeah, alright,” I nod. Never having any intention of using it, I take the card from his hand and ask, “Can I go be with my brother now?”
“Sure,” he encourages. “We’ll take care of everything up here, you just go sit with him. Get one of your family members to give me a call so I can discuss what happens from here with them.”
I don’t say anything else because there is nothing to say. My world was just ripped apart. Everything I knew, our safety, security, the house we called home has just been torn out from under us, and I have no fucking clue what to do next. There is one thing I do know, though. My brother is all I have left, and I will do anything to protect him. Anything.
CHAPTER ONE
~ Cash ~
“A cop stopped me and said, “papers,” I said “scissors, I win!” And ran off.”
– Pinterest quote
“I’m hungry, Marsh,” Pat mumbles quietly between coughs. And with every shudder of his too small for his age frame, my heart dies a little more.
It’s been six months since our mom died, and things have only gone from bad to worse. Where at first I thought I could do this – keep Pat safe and take care of him – I’m learning quickly that I’m not only unequipped to do so but failing miserably at every turn.
Pat’s been getting sicker with every inch of snow that falls. The cough I thought was improving last week has gotten significantly worse in the last few days. And with no money for medicine, no insurance, and nowhere warm to let him rest and recover, I don’t see it getting any better any time soon.
“I know, buddy,” I groan, feeling utterly useless. “Do you think you’ll be okay if I leave you alone for a few minutes to get you some food?” I ask hating I have to leave him here.
We’ve been hiding out on the second floor of a derelict office building in the shadier area of downtown Billings, Montana since the night we left home to evade the inevitable visit from Children’s Services. It didn’t take
a genius to figure out that once the police didn’t get a call from anyone regarding our mom, that they’d send someone out to investigate, so there was no way we could risk staying any longer than we had to.
I told Pat to pack two backpacks; one with clothes, shoes, a jacket, and a few toiletries, and the other with anything he couldn’t bear to part with. I did the same but added a third bag filled with non-perishable food and water. My keepsakes were few, so I used the rest of the space to collect anything that was portable and of any value, intending to sell it so that we had enough cash to keep us going until I could find work.
Like I said, we weren’t wealthy by any standards, so there wasn’t much for me to take. Aside from a small pair of diamond earrings, mom’s watch that her parents gave her for her eighteenth birthday which she never wore, and a gold necklace our dad gave her for her twenty-first there were three silver photo frames, a silver candlestick holder and nothing else.
The last of the money I got from pawning those items was used up weeks ago on food for Pat and over the counter cough medicine. As expected, I didn’t get much for it, but I had made it stretch, just not far enough.
Work isn’t easy to find in Billings. The economy is shit, and all of the jobs that pay decent wages are snatched up by skilled workers sometimes before they are advertised.
I’ve managed to pick up odd jobs here and there, getting paid cash under the table, but they are few and far between. The last steady job I had was unloading carcasses off the back of trucks for a meat packing company. It was hard work and long days starting at five am, which meant leaving Pat alone for hours at a time, but the money was okay. Unfortunately, the company had cutbacks and seeing as I was the last person they employed and not technically on their payroll, I was the first to be let go. That was four weeks ago, and I still haven’t been able to find something more permanent than the few hours a week I work in the back at a clothing boutique, helping to box stock and whatever else needs to be done.
“Marsh?” Pat rasps. “What are we gonna do?” My thoughts exactly. What the fuck are we going to do?
To make matters even worse, if that’s even fucking possible, Pat was diagnosed with Aortic Stenosis when he was seven. A narrowing of his aorta below the valve makes it hard for Pat’s heart to pump blood throughout his body; a condition that can’t be corrected without surgery due to its severity.
Mom used to take Pat for checkups every six months, with echocardiograms every twelve, but obviously, because of our lack of resources, Pat hadn't seen a doctor since two months before mom OD’d. And unless our situation improves dramatically soon, I think it’s going to be a hell of a lot longer before he does.
Placing my hand gently on Pat’s forehead to check his temperature, I sigh and stroke his overly long, damp hair back from his face.
“What do you feel like eating? Caviar? Lobster? Snails?” I joke, wanting desperately to see my little brother smile.
Another harsh cough is ripped from his lungs as he slumps listlessly against the cold, brick wall he’s leaning against.
“That shit sucks,” he rasps.
“Language,” I reprimand, not disagreeing with him. “How about soup? Do you think you’ll be able to manage that?”
At almost fifteen, Pat should be built like an ox. He’s over six-foot-tall with broad shoulders, capable of carrying around a good two hundred pounds if he was getting the nutrition he needs. But instead, Pat is withering away right in front of my eyes.
Gone are his muscles and the small amount of body fat he used to have, now he looks more like a bag of bones covered by pale skin with deep, purple bags under his eyes.
I’ve asked myself a million times whether my brother would have been better off going into foster care – maybe he’d be lucky and get placed with a family who actually gives a shit – but then I imagine life without him and my innate selfishness kicks in.
It’s been hard enough knowing that my mom took the cowardly way out of a situation I didn’t even know she had and having to live without her, let alone considering the possibility that I might lose Pat too. Calling child services isn’t an option. I won’t lose him. I can’t. And truthfully, I don’t think Pat would either.
“Marsh,” Pat rasps, drawing my attention. “Soup’s good. I’ll be good here. You go do what you need to do, and I’ll just hang till you get back.”
Chuckling at him, I shake my head ruefully. I mean, really, where’s he going to go? For a run? I think not.
“Have you still got that mace I got you?”
“Yeah,” he nods weakly.
“Good. I’ll only be gone fifteen minutes, max,” I inform him, stripping off my thick jacket to cover his shivering form. “Rest, but don’t fall asleep, buddy. I need you awake and alert.”
“Go, Marsh. I’ll be fine,” Pat reassures me.
Spinning on my heel, I duck under the low overhang and crawl out of the break in the boarded up doorway we made when we began squatting here. Honestly, we’re fucking lucky no one has discovered us yet, seeing as this area is patrolled by cops 24/7.
As I trudge through two feet of snow, my mind wanders to the offer I was made yesterday. It would definitely solve all of our problems, at least money wise, but I’m not naïve enough not to know it will create a whole host of new ones.
*****
I met Josephine Ward three weeks ago, not long after I was laid off from my meat packing job. I was at a local sandwich shop getting Pat dinner when she approached me out of the blue and handed me her business card.
At first, I didn’t know what to make of her. She’s a good twenty years older than me, stunningly beautiful, and apparently makes a shit ton of money; her high-end clothing and haircut are a testament to that. What the hell could she want with a kid like me, wearing threadbare jeans who hasn’t seen the inside of a barber for months? I didn’t have to wait long for my question to be answered, however.
Josephine told me to drop by her boutique in the morning, and she’d see what work she could swing my way. I was grateful, don’t get me wrong, but something about her offer made me feel immediately uncomfortable.
It wasn’t the way her manicured hand stroked my own as she spoke. And it wasn’t her lingering perusal of my body that concerned me. It was the way her eyes flared with lust even after I told her my age. That should have been warning enough, but I overlooked it in favor of the money working for her would bring in. I needed it for Pat. We needed it to survive. So stupidly, I confirmed I’d be at her shop at nine before we went our separate ways.
Until yesterday, everything had been fine. Great actually. Josephine paid well, didn’t take her interest in me any further than staring at my ass or my crotch when she didn’t think I was looking and understood I had to be home before dark to take care of my brother.
She gave me three hours a day, working from ten till one unpacking boxes of stock, shelving, and organizing her cluttered storage area. It wasn’t particularly difficult work – it’s a fuck load better than what I’d been doing before – but I knew it wasn’t going to long since I was already on the hunt for more secure employment.
I was stacking several large boxes when Josephine approached me yesterday, scaring the shit out of me. Her cold, delicate hand at the base of my spine gave me shivers and not the good kind.
“Marshall, I want you to meet someone,” she purred, way too close to my ear for comfort.
Turning around to face her, I took a step backward, focusing on the other woman in the room.
Short dark hair, framed a classically beautiful face. The harsh slash of her cheekbones, surgically sculpted nose, and Botox enhanced lips did nothing for me, but I could imagine men panting after her, willing to give her anything and everything for only a minute of her time.
The sharp lines of her black pencil skirt and fitted jacket hinted at her professionalism, but the lacy camisole and red fuck me heels she was wearing told a very different story.
“This is, Francesca,” Josephine said, i
ntroducing her friend. “She is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Francesca has a proposition for you. One I think you will be most interested in.”
Francesca stepped around Josephine until she was standing less than a foot away from me. The heavy scent of her perfume was cloying, making my head ache and my legs beg to run. I knew instantly that Josephine wasn’t the predator I initially thought her to be. This woman, Francesca, was going to be far more dangerous than her friend.
Extending her hand, Francesca spoke.
“Marshall, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I have heard wonderful things about you from Josephine. Now all that remains to be seen is if they are true.”
I was unsure of how to reply, so I stuck with a mumbled,
“Nice to meet you too.”
Her laugh was rusty; I could tell she didn’t do it often.
“Like my dear friend said, I have a proposition for you. I would like for you to hear me out before you decide, and if necessary, I will give you twenty-four hours to contact me with your answer. What you need to know before I begin is that this offer expires at five p.m. tomorrow. If I haven’t heard from you by then, I will assume you aren’t interested.”
Vengeance MC Box Set - Volume 2: Gage ~ Cash ~ Knight (Vengeance MC series Book 8) Page 29