by Jo Raven
Swallowing bile, I nod again, and he finally lets go.
No matter how hard I try to go slow, I end up bolting out the door, running down the stairs and spilling out to the street—as if I can escape.
Finding my feet, I keep running, past our building, the row of shops, the great oak and old man Johnny’s house. Running away, running alone. Pulling my hood over my head, I sprint as if I have devils at my heels, snickering and laughing.
Hands grabbing at me, holding me still.
No, no, no.
Don’t think. Just run. Just fucking run, Nate.
I just need to save some more money before I make it out of here. Before I run away for good and don’t come back.
“Nate! Nate, hey!”
I’ve been tearing down dim streets, sprinting between the pools of light cast from the street lamps, fighting off buzzing insects and trailed by stray dogs hoping for a bone, delaying my return home.
But here I am—and here she is.
“Syd.” I stop and bend over, bracing my hands on my knees. Fuck, my blood is pounding in my ears. I feel sick.
Real sick. Fuck. My stomach cramps, and I take a few stumbling steps before I puke my guts out into the gutter.
“Nate.” She touches my arm lightly, and I straighten with a groan, wiping a hand over my mouth. “How long have you been running?”
“I dunno.” Long. Too long maybe. My body certainly isn’t happy with me.
“Did you drink water? Have you eaten today?”
I shake my head. Skipping lunch probably wasn’t my best idea.
“Come on. I was about to have dinner.” Her slim fingers dig into my wrist as she tugs me determinedly away from the pool of my vomit and the black spots dancing in my eyes.
“Syd…” No word about her being upset enough with me to leave the brunch table and not speak to me since then, same as West. Even in class she’s been avoiding my gaze, answering in monosyllables, and now…
Now she’s dragging me into our building and up the stairs. I resist weakly, refusing to go back home when dad is there, but she leads me to her door. She pushes it open and leads me inside.
I’ve only been in here once, briefly, a few months back when she’d been sick and I brought her my notes.
Her tight grip on my wrist is such a fucking relief. Proof she gives a damn, she’s here, and that I haven’t fucked up so badly I’ll lose her completely.
Not sure I’d survive that right now, to be honest. Not at this point.
The apartment is cool and quiet, a fine layer of dust covering the low table and the two sofas. Like the first time I entered, I find the place way too empty. No pictures on the walls. No knick-knacks and random objects like you’d find in any house—a stray newspaper, a magazine, a pack of cigarettes, a remote left on the table.
In fact, there isn’t even a TV or stereo.
Before I can even formulate a question about something that’s none of my business—again—we’re moving into the kitchen, and here it’s a different world. There are definite signs of life, dirty pots in the sink and a glass of cold lemonade sitting on the table covered in condensation. A tattered paperback is lying face down on the frayed checkered tablecloth, and there are colorful rugs on the floor.
A framed picture is propped up on the kitchen counter—a woman and a little girl.
She drags me to a chair before I get a better look and grabs a plate. “Pasta okay?”
“Sure.” When she opens the pot, the aroma that hits my nose is mouthwatering. My stomach grumbles. “Did your mom make it?”
“Why would my mom…?” Her cheeks color. “Know what, forget it. I cooked it. It’s not bad, I swear. I even ate some, if you’re worried, and hey, I’m still breathing.”
“Whoa.” I lift my hands in surrender. I seem to be putting my foot in my mouth all the goddamn time these days. “Sorry. Give it here.”
Wordlessly, she hands me the plate and a fork and I dig in. Dimly I’m aware she plunks a tall glass of water in front of me, too, but the pasta is good, and I’m famished. Hadn’t realized how much until now.
Same with her, I think randomly. I hadn’t realized how used I was to having her around, how good it was, until she stopped talking to me.
This isn’t lust. It’s more than that. It’s fucking with my head.
Forcing the thought out of my head, I let my fork drop in my now empty plate and lean back with a heartfelt groan. “Damn, you sure know how to cook, Shortcake. This was excellent.”
Her green eyes sparkle, and she has that small gap between her front teeth that turns her smile pixie-cute.
And sexy.
I grab the glass and gulp down the water, desperately hoping it can cool down other parts of me.
“Now,” she says, sliding into the chair next to mine, “tell me why you were running like that.”
But I can’t. “No reason.”
She twines her fingers together, weaves them into a fabric of flesh and bone. “Did you and West have another fight?”
Glancing sideways at the kitchen door, I rub my chin and consider the distance I’d have to bolt. No way, though. My leg muscles are trembling with fatigue. “West hates my guts.”
“Nonsense. West is your best friend.”
“Did he tell you he kicked me out of the apartment after you left?”
“You deserved it. You were an ass that day. Admit it.”
I shrug, relaxing again because this is familiar ground and I know where I stand. “I admit it. As long as you didn’t kiss Kash…”
“Oh. My. God.” She mock-punches my arm, pretending outrage, but smiling. “Will you stop with that? I barely know the guy, and besides, you and me, we’re friends, right?”
“Right,” I mutter, my throat closing up.
“So I know you’re looking out for me, like a brother would, but I’m fine. Been looking out for myself for a long time.”
My brows draw together, and I feel my shoulders tense. “What do you mean, Syd? Your mom—”
“Don’t change the topic. I’m saying you don’t need to go all big protective brother on me, all right? Not over this.”
There’s nothing brotherly about the way I feel about her, but I grit my teeth and nod. “Sure. You got it.”
“Good.” Her eyes brighten again, and she claps her hands together. “Now we need to get West to unwind a bit and clear up this misunderstanding between you.”
The fact Weston hasn’t spoken to me in so long isn’t promising, but God, I hope she’s right. I need my best friends, even if they have no clue about the forces that control my fucked-up life.
Chapter Eight
Kash
“Hurry up, boy, I need to close up.” George, the short, potbellied owner of Greek Delights is rubbing his balding head. “We’re late again. The wife won’t give me the time of day tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” I mutter, scrubbing a particularly greasy pan in the sink, up to my elbows in dirty soap water and suds.
I mean, it’s the middle of the week, and I’m so tired already my brain has been going in weird circles, round and round.
Nate, and his bruises, and his dad that I only met briefly in passing the other day.
Sydney with her freckles and bright hair, her sexy curves and soothing voice, her interest and her warmth, her freedom to come and go as she pleases, the sadness in her eyes when she thinks no one is looking.
West, his quiet intensity and strength, the brunch he made for us and the strange discussion that followed, the tension, the release afterward and that playfulness and trust they have for each other.
It gutted me. It fucking killed me. I’ve avoided them all since then.
And then there’s more—more loops, more dead-ends.
Family.
Home.
The future.
“Tomorrow is another busy day, that’s what it is. You done? I’m shutting everything down!” George mutters something in Greek that sounds like a curse. “I swea
r you’re slower than a ninja turtle today.”
“You mean slower than a turtle in peanut butter,” I prop the pan against the tiled wall to let it dry, and jump a mile when George pokes his head inside the kitchen and tsks. “My mom used to say that.”
“Peanut butter? Whatever.” His gaze turns thoughtful. “You look tired, boy. You okay?”
I nod, warmth sparking in my chest. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I dunno, you tell me. I don’t know anything about you. Are your folks around?”
I suck in a sharp breath and force it out. I shake my head, dry my hands on my apron and reach back to untie it.
“Okay.” George rubs his head again, and sighs. “You know it’s none of my business, but when I was your age, when I was twenty, I still lived with my parents. Couldn’t give up my mom’s cooking, see.”
He winks at me.
I swallow hard. Dunno what he expects me to say. Dunno what to think, how to hide.
“But I’m Greek. We Greeks are different. Big families. Big meals.” He opens his arms as if to embrace the world. “This country is so alien to me. Anyway.” He tries to pat me on the back, and I step out of his reach. “As long as you’re okay.”
He keeps trying that pat. I keep evading him. This country indeed. As if I don’t feel a size too big for my skin. Wandering in circles, never knowing where my path will land me. I’m different. Everything’s different. I don’t belong here, or anywhere.
Maybe I never will.
One day my luck will run out, and I’ll be done for. It’s a matter of time.
My mind is a black hole of depression when I unlock the apartment door, thoughts chasing one another, running through deep ruts, paranoia warring with sadness.
I stop in my tracks.
The living room isn’t dark and empty like it is every night when I come back from work. A lamp is on in a corner, casting yellow light on Nate’s dad sitting on the sofa together with two other guys.
And there’s Nate, a glass with amber liquid in his hand, his eyes going round when he sees me. A flush steals into his ashen cheeks, and his brows pull together under his floppy dark hair.
“What have we here?” one of the guys says, his voice slick like oil. His black shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a golden chain glinting around his thick neck. “Who is this?”
My voice is stuck in my throat. Holy fuck, I know this kind of man. I recognize the style, the arrogance, the entitlement, the danger.
Of all things to expect, this was the last on my list.
Not that I know what’s going on here, but still, the feeling of wrongness is so thick it coats the back of my tongue and makes breathing hard.
Nate’s dad puts down his whiskey glass on the low table and eyes me. He looks a lot like Nate, same eyes, same dark hair. “Good evening, Kash. It’s Kash, right? Our new tenant. Wanna come sit with us? We’re just having a late-night drink among friends.”
The other two guys stare at me, sipping their whiskey, saying nothing.
What the fuck is going on?
Nate is suddenly on his feet, glass clutched in bloodless fingers. “Kash can’t stay. And he can’t drink. He has a… a heart condition, just like West’s granddad. His meds… it could kill him. Any excitement could.”
I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a surprised grunt.
What the what? What is he doing?
“Heart condition?” His dad scowls at me. “Why didn’t you say so when you answered the ad, Mr. Graham?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me. “I forgot.”
“You don’t forget that sort of thing. I need to know about such… complications.”
What the fuck do I say to him? “I’m fine. Really. But I shouldn’t drink, so…” I’m slinking toward my room, my heart pounding hard behind my ribs. “Look, sorry I interrupted you. Good night.”
Yanking the door open, I flick the light switch on and close and lock behind me, then barely avoid falling over my feet as I back away from it.
Heart condition. What in the actual fuck? Damn if Nate’s lie won’t cost me a place to stay, an affordable room.
Though tonight was weird, I admit. I mean, he was drinking whiskey with his dad and those guys. Why? How could his own father let him? Nate’s not even eighteen. And why would he wanna be there in the first place, with those older creeps?
Plopping my ass on the narrow bed, letting my backpack drop to the floor, I stare up at the cracks in the ceiling as if it holds all the answers.
Why did he lie about me? I honestly don’t get it. I mean, it was dead obvious I didn’t wanna stay for a drink with his dad and his creepy friends, but—excitement could kill me? The hell.
Though it sure seemed to annoy his dad.
I snicker to myself.
Maybe Nate just did me a favor. I should be on the move again anyway. Normally I’d stay longer, and damn, I like George and his restaurant, but something about this place, the friendships, tonight’s weirdness, pushes me to skip town.
Move on. Keep moving.
It’s the only way.
I start awake in the middle of the night. A distant cry echoes in my ears, and I roll upright, trying to remember where I am, my heart in my throat.
A bad dream, I tell myself, just a bad dream, waiting for the cold sweat to dry on my skin and my stomach to settle.
My window is open, letting in a cool night breeze. I can’t remember opening it. From the faint gray light, it has to be almost dawn.
I reach for my tobacco pouch, but don’t open it. Instead, I grab my journal and turn to my last entry. I swallow hard as I trace the words with my forefinger, as I trace my past. I hate writing on these white pages, pressing my pen in so hard the letters are imprinted in the following pages, grinding my teeth as I put to words the images and emotions, the memories that haunt me.
The fears that plague me.
Shrinks and their bright ideas. I never felt it helped me, keeping a journal. It’s not even as if I write down what happens to me every day. All that comes out is poison from infested wounds, and the acid of anger and fear.
But still I write in it, especially on the mornings when I wake up disoriented and the little black book feels like my only anchor to reality. Or sometimes late at night when I can’t sleep and my mind goes into those crazy obsessive loops that leave me scrambling for my cigarettes and the need to run.
Always this need to run, though there are things you can’t escape that way. I found that out the hard way.
“You know me,” I whisper to the next blank page, gripping the pen so tightly my knuckles turn white. “You know me better than anyone. And what good is that? No matter how much I fucking bleed out on your pages, I’m still me, and you still have no answers.”
I’m still me, goddammit, and not much has changed. Not enough. I need to turn into someone else, someone sane and normal. Someone without my baggage and my default panic setting. Someone who’s free to live and stop running.
Fighting it, I put down the words, cutting my chest open and letting it all flow. I want to believe it will help this time. That this time it will be different. That I will look at what I wrote tomorrow and think, yes, this is it.
This is what you have to do to save yourself. A hidden clue in my recounting of my living nightmares, a key to the lock keeping me prisoner.
But I can’t feel it, not tonight. My head is throbbing, my chest feeling more crushed by the minute.
Giving in, I throw the journal to the nightstand, grab my faithful pouch—my only faithful friend—and head out.
Quietly I open my door and step out. The living room is dark and silent. A small crash from one of the rooms reaches my ears, then nothing.
I stalk past the sofa and dining table and open the balcony door, step out into the cool night air.
Half-closing the balcony door behind me, I walk to the rail and look down at the alley below. The only light comes from Sydney’s apartment, may
be from her kitchen, but it’s faint, and I’m glad for the relative darkness here.
Rolling a joint, I light up and suck in the sweet-smelling smoke. It’s always a risk, but this is the only thing that calms me when a panic attack threatens.
I suck in more smoke, hold it in my lungs until the familiar lethargy seeps through me, relaxing my trembling muscles and calming my heartbeat.
The sky is full of stars, but the air is heavy. I bet the clouds are rolling closer. A storm is on its way.
Lead weighs my limbs. I lean against the rail to finish my joint. I’ll have to find a new dealer before my stash grows too low, I think fuzzily, and smile.
Not sure why I’m smiling. There’s nothing good about my need for weed to get by day to day, or the need to find a dealer. All of this is bound to get me into trouble sooner or later, one way or another, and trouble is the last thing I need. I’m just floating on a cloud of happy chemicals right now, on artificial happiness.
And that’s all I have, so I’ll take it, dammit.
The embers flare red and gold as I suck on the last bit of the joint, my gaze flicking back to Sydney’s balcony. It’s so close I could probably jump over.
The light is still on. Could it be her? Her parents don’t seem to mind her staying up late at night, if our encounter out front all those nights ago is any indication. I think of her eyes, her smiling mouth, the golden freckles on her shoulders and over her slender collarbone, and groan softly.
I haven’t had time to think of girls during the past year, or the energy to want them, but Sydney… she somehow found a way under my skin, and into my dreams. Not tonight, sadly, but I often wake up with her face in my thoughts, her voice in my ears, and an uncomfortable hard-on under the sheets.
Of all the girls I could have wanted, of course I’d go for the one desired by two other guys—Nate and the brooding guy downstairs, for both of whom she seems to have feelings.
Fucking awesome.
So it makes no sense that I put away the filter in my pouch and swing my legs over the rail, then jump the small distance to her balcony and climb in.