JAY
A siren wailed. Flashing lights lit up my rearview mirror, coming from a tinted SUV right on my tail. I glanced at the speedometer—barely five over the limit.
I pulled over, cursing, my body tense. Part of my job was staying off the radar. I didn’t visit Simon at the LVMPD, and I always made myself scarce at crime scenes.
A badge appeared at my window. I rolled it down.
The cop peered inside. “License and registration, please.”
“Is something wrong?” I asked, handing over what he wanted. He didn’t answer, just took my info back to the car parked behind me.
I clenched the steering wheel, then told myself to take a breath. He’d have nothing on me. My record was clean, as far as his database was concerned. The boy I used to be didn’t exist anymore, Simon had made sure of that.
I glanced at the unmarked SUV behind me. Not a regular officer. A detective maybe, or a CAT. But there was no reason for the Criminal Apprehension Team to come after me.
He came back, leaning against the window frame, my license and registration dangling from his hand. “This truck is registered to a Simon Ting. You know him?”
“The registration is under my name.” I took the paper and opened it up, pointing to my name so obviously there.
“Records say otherwise.” He squinted at me. “You steal this car?”
I almost laughed. If I was the kind of guy to steal a car, it wouldn’t be a Ford. “Of course not. I’ve had the truck for four years. Something must be wrong with your computer.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “So, this Ting. You know him or not?”
This guy was wearing a uniform, he had a badge, but no name tag. The SUV behind me was unmarked. Adrenaline flooded my body, my knuckles itched. A quick jab to the chin and he’d be flat on his back. He’d never see it coming.
“Nope. Never heard of him.”
He stared at me for a long moment. My right hand was curling into a fist on my thigh and I loosened it.
He scratched his chin. “I’ll double-check the records. Maybe it was a glitch. Sorry for the inconvenience.” He sauntered back to his car.
My muscles wouldn’t uncoil, even after he drove off. Suspicious. The whole thing didn’t make sense. Simon’s name shouldn’t have been anywhere near my truck registration. He’d given me the cash to buy it, but there wouldn’t be a record of that anywhere. There should be no paper trail that linked Simon and me at all. Whether this guy was a cop, a CAT, or something else entirely, it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d stopped and asked me specifically about Simon.
I headed to the gym. Time alone with the bags would help clear my mind, but I had a class to teach first.
Eastside Boxing was in an old part of Vegas, near the Arts District. The building was a massive square on a street corner, dwarfing everything around it. A faded painting of a shirtless boxer covered one side of the brick, something Conall McCrary, the owner, had painted himself when he bought the building forty-two years ago.
“Barely on time, Thornton,” McCrary said when I pushed through the front door, gym bag over one shoulder. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes before three. The first class of the day came straight from school, arriving between three thirty and four. But to Conall McCrary, on time meant an hour early.
“I got pulled over.”
“What for?”
“No clue.”
McCrary raised an eyebrow. “Bergin cancelled again so you’ll be on your own for the afternoon.” He shuffled through some papers on the front desk and then rammed them in a drawer. I’d tried to convince him to go paperless, but the old man wouldn’t even consider a computer. He was so disorganized, papers shoved here and there, I didn’t know how he could keep track of class payments or tournament dates, or even the names of the kids. But he never missed my salary so I didn’t push it.
“I swear I should can that kid,” he muttered.
Bergin was older than me but smaller, prompting McCrary to call him ‘kid’ all the time. It drove Bergin crazy, but he deserved it. The slacker rarely showed up for work.
“And the toilets need cleaning. Let that janitor know, would you?”
I patted the top of the desk on my way by. “Got it.”
“Thornton.”
I stopped.
McCrary leaned forward, his nose wrinkling. “You smell like a baby’s bum again.”
I took a sniff at my knuckles without thinking, then shrugged. “You know Simon.”
His face clouded over. “Yes, I do know Simon.”
I’d met McCrary five years ago when his brother borrowed from Simon and I had to pressure his family to collect. McCrary had seen my fighting potential then and agreed to train me. I paid him by cleaning the gym, then later, by assisting in his classes. Now, I was the head instructor at Eastside Boxing while he took care of the business side. And I’d become his only family after his moved back to Ireland.
I headed upstairs and banged on the door to Nico’s apartment. “Open up, Higgins. I know you’re in there.” I pounded my fist a few more times for good measure.
Nico opened the door. His eyes were bloodshot but he gave me a sardonic grin. “Jay Thornton, how nice of you to drop by. What can I do for you?”
The thing I liked about Nico Higgins—he wasn’t scared of me, and he didn’t whine or beg. Unfortunately, it was only a matter of time.
Nico glanced at his watch. “You’re not due for a check-in for another…week?”
“Five days.” I leaned against the doorjamb. “That’s not why I’m here. The toilets?”
Nico made a face. “I’d rather it was about the money. Kids do not know how to aim, I swear.”
“Why, you got it?” I couldn’t hold back my surprise. Nico was a janitor and a drunk, not exactly the poster-boy for paying back a large sum of money.
“You’re not allowed to ask yet,” he said.
I crossed my arms. “In five days, I won’t be asking.”
Nico paled, but he didn’t argue.
“Kids will be here soon,” I said. “Get those bathrooms done.”
“What’s the point?” he grumbled. “It’ll be a sprinkler party before we close tonight.”
I went back downstairs and changed into my boxing shorts. When I came out, Nico was already at work scrubbing the sink in the girls’ bathroom. I still had about fifteen minutes before the kids showed up, so I strapped on my boxing gloves. It didn’t take me long to work up a sweat pounding the heavy bag.
“Offer’s still open.”
I grabbed onto the swinging bag, then turned to McCrary. His skinny arms were folded over his chest, his old man’s gut hanging out underneath.
“I know. I need more time.” I cringed. I sounded like a mark.
“Time ain’t exactly on my side.”
McCrary’s hair was snow white, a patch on top completely bald. His face was worn down, a testament to years of struggle and hard work. I knew McCrary was old, but I didn’t want to know it.
“I can’t take over until you let me in on the secrets of your filing system.” I ripped off a glove with my teeth. “Otherwise I’ll be sunk before I start.”
McCrary tapped the side of his head. “It’s all up here, son.”
He was seventy and had a way better memory than me. “You know that won’t work for me.”
He turned away. “Uh-uh. Don’t even try to convince me to buy a computer again. I’m old and set in my ways. Once you take over, you can do what you want, but until then I’ll stick with good ol’ pencil and paper.”
He shuffled back to the front desk, a slight limp in his right leg from a boxing match gone wrong. I was afraid McCrary was right, that he didn’t have much time left, but I wasn’t ready. I had a little money saved, but no experience running a business.
Most of all, I didn’t know how to tell Simon I wanted out. He wouldn’t just say “have a nice life,” and let me go. I owed him. Not money, but for who I was. With a guy like Simon, no mat
ter what I did, I could never pay off that debt. The more I tried to pull away from him, the more he reined me in. With a guy like Simon, you didn’t walk away, not even if he called you “son.”
Especially not then.
McCrary would hold on a few more years, give me time to work it all out. He would’ve given me the gym right then if I let him, but I didn’t want handouts. Both Simon and McCrary had worked hard for what they had, and I would do the same. My way.
A school bus pulled up to the curb out front, a load of noisy boys spilling out. They shoved their way inside; a bunch of them gave me high fives as they headed to the back of the gym to hang up their backpacks and change into their shorts and Eastside Boxing t-shirts.
“Alright, let’s go.” I started jogging around the gym, quickly followed by a trail of nine and ten-year-olds. “Hurry up, Moises,” I said to a kid who was still fiddling with his backpack, “we’re starting without you.”
Containing a smile, I slapped the Eastside Boxing logo on the front wall as I jogged by. I’d never felt more at home.
Chapter 7
MAGGIE
I was numb. I couldn’t even remember how I got home. The only thing going through my head was, not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.
Inside my apartment, I sank to the floor, sobbing. I’d left Hillstone behind, and Hank and my parents—my whole life—only to be not good enough. Not good enough for anything but working at a diner. I buried my face in my hands and cried snotty tears into them. I’d come to Vegas with no back-up plan. No other goal than getting into EDT. Right now, that goal seemed impossible.
Something touched my hair and I reared back, my head hitting the door. Bronwyn stood over me.
“What’s wrong?” For once, her voice sounded kind. Not that she’d ever been mean. More brutally honest than anything.
I scrubbed my eyes, wincing at the black streaks mascara left on my fingers. “Nothing.”
Bronwyn snorted. “Really? I’d hate to see you upset then.”
I scrambled off the floor and walked away. “I’m fine.” I didn’t want to talk to Bronwyn about it, or anyone. Failure wasn’t something I wanted to broadcast to the world.
She followed me into my bedroom. “Look, I know I barely know you, but Frasier is my friend and he’d kill me if he knew something happened to you and I did nothing.”
“Thanks for your concern,” I said without turning around. “But there’s nothing you can do.”
I face-planted on my bed. The tears were gone but the sense of defeat lingered. I didn’t even want to think about what came next.
The bed rustled. Bronwyn was still there, another problem I couldn’t get rid of.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” she said. “In fact, I really don’t want to know.” I rolled my eyes. Too bad she couldn’t see. “Come out to dinner with me. It’ll take your mind off whatever.”
I didn’t respond.
“I’ll…pay.”
Those words sounded like they were difficult for her to say, and that in itself made me want to take her up on the offer. But I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to reapply my makeup and pretend life was peachy. I wanted to wallow in my misery. Truth was, I hadn’t had much of it so far. This whole misery feeling was new to me and I clung to it, though I had no idea why.
“Let’s go, Hale,” Bronwyn barked. I turned, trying to give her a dirty look. “Whoa, ugly. Go wash your face. You’re scaring me.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Move it, or I’ll revoke my offer and you’ll have to pay for your own dinner.” She headed for my door. “And put on something sexy, it always helps.”
An hour later, Bronwyn and I were at a small but fancy restaurant. Or at least, fancy to me. The only nice place we had in Hillstone was the Garber B & B, and the only thing that made it nice was their overpriced steak, red wine, and the candles they lit at night.
Bronwyn raised her wine glass to me. She had on a very short purple dress, tight around her hips, and stiletto heels. Her lips were colored purple to match her dress and a light dusting of glitter made her dark skin glow under the dim lights. And here I’d figured her for a tomboy. Her muscles, spandex outfits, and racing bike were very misleading. I was tall, but she had an inch or so on me. She would have been extremely intimidating if I hadn’t known she’d made out with my brother once.
Who was I kidding? She was still intimidating as heck.
“I asked Nico to come,” she said, “but he’s not feeling great.” I nodded like it meant something to me. “You’ll have to meet him another time.”
“Have you been dating long?”
“Over a year.” She skimmed the menu. “Nothing over twenty bucks, got it? I’m not made of money.”
I stared at the menu. The prices were decent, and I settled on a seventeen-dollar chicken and vegetables meal.
“How is Fraze, anyway?” she asked after we’d ordered.
“He’s good,” I replied, adjusting my top. I didn’t have a whole lot of sexy to wear—my dad wouldn’t allow it—so I’d settled on skinny jeans, heels, and a dark blouse. Bronwyn had been vocally disappointed. I refrained from snapping that I’d get a new wardrobe when I got a new life.
“I haven’t seen him in a few years,” I said. “But he’s good. Traveling all over, you know, being Fraze.”
She laughed like she knew exactly what I meant.
“Did you two make out, or not?” I asked. “It’s hard to believe everything Fraze says. Gotta set the record straight here.”
Her lips twitched. “If I told you the truth, it would ruin my reputation.”
“What reputation is that?”
She waved at herself. “Fraze isn’t exactly my type.”
“But you’re his?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Every girl is Frasier Hale’s type.”
It was true, he wasn’t picky. He liked them tall, short, dark, light, big, small, mean, nice, smart, dumb, and every weird combination in between. Frasier couldn’t settle on a type any more than he could settle on a job or a place to live.
I stared Bronwyn down, waiting for a confession. After a few long minutes, not that she was intimidated by me I’m sure, she finally gave it up. “Fine, yes. We made out. I was fourteen and stupid.”
“You could do worse.” She could do better too, but I would never speak out against my brother. Even in my head it sounded like treason.
She swirled her wine around in her glass. “We’ve been friends ever since. That’s what’s really great about it, you know? Not the kissing. The friendship that came after. He still sends me these random postcards from whatever city he’s in, with lipstick kisses pressed into them. I can totally imagine him putting on sample lipstick in the drugstore, just so he can kiss the stupid things.”
I smiled.
“Are you going to tell me what happened now?”
I looked down at my plate. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”
“I don’t. But I have a feeling you need to spit it out.”
So I did. I told her about running away from Hank and his proposal, then my dream of dancing with Essence Dance Theater being crushed.
“Seriously?” she said. “That’s what you were all sobby about?”
I glared.
“So you didn’t get in this time. You’re what, eighteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“Whatever.” She leaned toward me. “You don’t give up after one try. How pathetic would that be? Take classes like that chick said. Practice. Get better. Audition again. And again and again if you have to.”
“I know, but—”
“Shut up,” she said, but there was no sting. “Do you really want to dance there? Or do you want to pretend like you do and whine about it while working at a diner for the rest of your life? Maybe you wanna go back and marry that hick after all because you have nothing better to do?” She leaned back, resting one arm beside her plate. “Yeah, you should do t
hat. Forget all this. Vegas isn’t for you anyway. Go back and marry your cowboy and have a million babies.”
I bristled. “Just because I told you a little bit about myself, doesn’t mean you know me.”
“Run back home and you’ll be doing exactly what I expect.”
I hated that she was right. It would be easy to go back to the life I knew. To give up. I’d failed the first time, I didn’t know if I could handle it again. But I’d never get the life I was looking for if I slunk back home.
Bronwyn drummed her fingers on the table but didn’t say anything.
“Are you being a jerk to get me fired up?” I asked.
“If that’s what you want to think.”
“I hate you.” The words surprised me, I’d never said them to anyone before. But she laughed.
“I know. But stick around, you’ll grow to love me.”
To: Frasier Hale, [email protected]
* * *
From: Margaret Hale, [email protected]
* * *
I’ve got good news and bad news, which do you want to hear first?
I guess you have no choice since it’s my email and I’m God here, so there. (Don’t tell Dad I said that.)
The good news: Bronwyn and I are friends. Sort of. She took me out to dinner and reamed me out and was generally nice in a mean sort of way. I’m starting to see it—why you like her. We’ve hung out a few more times since and she wants me to meet her boyfriend, Nico, which I’ll be doing on Thursday because I finally get a night off from the diner.
Did I tell you I got a diner job? That’s not good or bad news, just a reality and I don’t really want to talk about it.
The bad news: I auditioned for EDT (Essence Dance Theater but that’s a pain to spell out all the time) but I didn’t get in. Miss Hugo, AKA Miss Brooke, told me I wasn’t good enough. Yep, those were her exact words and yep, they hurt like a you-know-what. But I’ve decided to take some classes and try again in the spring. A teacher at the audition told me I should, she was rooting for me, so at least there’s that.
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