I survey the crowd. Maybe if I find him a girl, we can all leave. I’m not a fan of clubs in general. I don’t like being around unfriendlies without my piece. And I haven’t spent any time with Bitsy today. I worked all day at Marjory’s sorting shit with Beefer, and then I had to come back out to ride herd over Cesaro’s dumb, horny ass.
“So you want to dance?”
“She’s talking to you.” Beefer nudges me.
“Huh?” There’s a table of six girls about twenty feet away. Odds are that there’s one shy girl in the group willing to get down with Cesaro’s cheap brand of seduction.
“She wants to know if you want to dance?” Beefer leans in front of me. “Don’t be offended by clueless Joe here. He doesn’t get out much. Leka, the girl’s talking to you.”
I twist to face the girl, who’s drawn back, one hand on her hip, looking at me like my elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor. What we were talking about? Oh, right. The temp in this shithole. “Yeah, it’s hot in here,” I say, ignoring the dancing shit.
“She asked if you wanted to dance,” Beefer unhelpfully points out.
“No. How shy are you?”
“Shy?” Her confusion deepens at the same rate as my irritation.
“Yeah, you see that guy over there between the two blondes? That’s Cesaro. He’s got a shit ton of money and wants to get laid tonight. How about it?”
“Jesus. Are you a pimp or something?” She grabs her drink. “Your friend is fucking weird.”
That last bit is directed toward Beefer before she stomps off.
He looks at me with suspicion. “Did you just do that on purpose?”
I pick up my water and take a long draw, letting my silence talk for me.
“Fuck you, you stupid bastard.” He laughs as he says it, but I get the sense that part of him believes it. “You coulda banged that chick. She was eye fucking you so hard I was getting a woody.”
“Then you should’ve dived in.” I catch an ice cube in between my back teeth and set my plastic cup down.
“She didn’t want me.”
“She wanted to get chased and then laid. I didn’t feel like doing either.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself, playing possum like you are.”
“It’s my choice.” I shake the cup and watch the ice cubes clink against the side of the cup.
“But why? Give me one good reason why you’re not out there on the dance floor, rubbing your dick against some girl’s pussy. Why you’re not taking her to the bathroom and having her suck you dry. Why you’re not in pound town every night when quality snatch is always trying to ride your dick!” Beefer slams his fist on the table.
He’s worked up about something and it’s not my lack of fucking around.
“Well?” he asks. There’s sweat on his forehead. He’s feeling stress from Arturo, I guess. And babysitting Cesaro is a shit job.
For all of those reasons and because Beefer saved me, I give him an explanation he isn’t owed. “One time you told me to find an anchor. I did, and I’m not going to cut that chain for a quick lay with some random woman.”
I stay in my lane because Bitsy would know. She's insightful like that. She can read every mood of mine. And if I did any of those things that Beefer suggested, Bitsy would see that something had changed. And there is no one, not a casual encounter that lasts five minutes, ten minutes or even a full day, that would be worth marring the perfect oasis that is my home with Bitsy.
Beefer’s jaw flaps open, wanting to argue with me, but Cesaro struts up to the table. It’s the first time since I laid eyes on the asshole that I’m even marginally glad to see him.
“These two ladies have a hankering for a little VIP action.” He squeezes the two girls tight against him.
“Best take them to Oak Street,” I say, and for once Beefer agrees with me.
“Yeah, let’s roll.”
* * *
It’s five in the morning when I let myself in. Mrs. M is asleep on the sofa.
Since she likes to make breakfast for her husband, I give her a small shake on the shoulder.
“That you, Leka?”
“Yes.” It wouldn’t be anyone else. “I got you a car. It’s downstairs. How’s Bitsy?”
“She was a doll as always. Such a sweet girl.” She rubs her eyes and then rolls to her feet. “And you’re a good brother, Leka.”
I give her a nod and help gather up her things. I can’t walk her downstairs because I’m not going to leave Bitsy alone, but I do stand in the doorway and watch until the elevator doors open.
She gives me a wave. I go to my laptop and fire up the building security cameras I’ve tapped into. Mrs. M makes an uninterrupted trip down the elevator to the lobby. The doorman waves to her and makes a note in his book. The outside camera shows her getting into the car I called for her.
Once she is safely away, I go check on my girl.
I give a passing glance to her bedroom, noting that her bed is empty. I’m not worried, though, and as I stop in the doorway of my room, my suspicions are confirmed by the small lump on the left side.
Lightly, I cross the room. She’s lying on her side, her hands tucked under her face. In the circle of her arms is her bunny that I bought so many years ago at Macy’s. I’ve given her others since, but this is the one she loves the most.
I grab my sleep clothes off the top of the dresser and walk to the bathroom. In the shower, I realize that I ran out of bar soap this morning. I’m stuck with Bitsy’s stuff. I unscrew the strawberry-shaped cap and give the contents a whiff. Shrugging, I squirt pink stuff onto my palm. So I smell like strawberries. There are worse things. After the shower, I towel off and throw on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.
I make my way back to my room and lower myself onto the other side of the mattress. Cesaro is going to be a problem if he sticks around. One of the girls balked when it came to taking off her clothes and Cesaro punched her. It took a shit ton of money and a well-worded threat to buy her silence.
What bothered me the most was that Cesaro wasn’t high or drunk. He got off on being cruel. He liked it when the girl resisted and liked it even more when she cried.
Beefer drove the girl and her friend home while I watched Cesaro grow angrier and angrier as he struck out with the girls at his uncle’s club. When the club began to close, he called his uncle demanding a fresh whore. Mary showed up fifteen minutes later. Cesaro wasn’t pleased at first. He called her every name in the book and asked her why she thought he’d wanted to fuck her loose meat sandwich again.
Mary didn’t even flinch. She closed the door and a half hour later, Cesaro came out, somewhat subdued. Mary followed behind. Her hair was fucked up. Her red lipstick was smeared all over her face, and there was a cut on her cheek she didn’t have when she arrived. But she wore a satisfied expression.
Maybe she liked the force. Some girls did. Whatever the case, she didn’t complain.
“Need a ride?” I asked her. “Beefer’ll be back soon.”
She shook her head and tucked her hand into the crook of Cesaro’s arm. “No. I’m going with Cesaro.”
“You sure? I could run you home.” I’d never offered that before, but giving her over to Cesaro didn’t feel right.
“She told you she’s coming home with me. Get your own bitch, Priest.” He said the word with a sneer.
I dismissed him. “Let me give Arturo a call so he knows where you both are.”
“He knows and approves. He’s happy that I’m with a man who can please me.” Mary turned her face into Cesaro’s biceps and laid a kiss against it.
I had no choice but to let them go.
I waited in the darkened restaurant until Beefer came back. I debated not telling him, but if it were me, I’d want to know.
In the end, I didn’t have to say a word. He’d walked into the restaurant, saw me sitting alone at the table in the stockroom and knew immediately.
“Mary came, didn’t she?”
&
nbsp; I nodded.
He cursed. “I can smell her. She still wears that damn Gucci perfume I gave her all those fucking years ago.”
I didn’t know if I should apologize or sympathize or what, so I kept my mouth shut. Beefer closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose between two fingers, and let out a string of curse words. When his outburst was over, he gave me a sheepish look and asked me to drink a beer with him.
I tried not to look impatiently at the clock, but it wasn’t easy. He finally called it a day when the morning staff showed up to do the food prep. I ran home. Literally sprinted all the way home.
Next to me, Bitsy tenses and mumbles something in her sleep. Something like, “I’m not fuzzy” followed by “yours sticks up.”
“Shh, shh,” I whisper, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She feels fragile under my palm.
She rolls toward me, her small fingers curving around my forearm. The tension of the night fades with her light touch. No, not for anyone would I trade my life with Bitsy. I place a hand over the top of her head and fall asleep.
17
Bitsy
Three years later
“Isn’t school in twenty minutes?” Leka yells.
I stare at my reflection and dab a little more concealer over the zits on my forehead. I hate zits. Sister Ruth at St. Vincent’s Academy for Girls tells me that it’s just hormones and I’ll grow out of it. I pointed out that most of the other girls in my grade have perfectly clear complexions and Sister Ruth’s suggestion was to pray about it. Given that half of my classmates spend more time on their knees blowing boys than praying, I highly doubt that a few Hail Marys are going to clear up my face.
This is not a tidbit that I share with Leka. He’d have an absolute cow. No, he’d have a herd of them.
After applying the makeup, I give myself another once-over. Blech. Now my bumps look like they have a tan. I toss the concealer into my drawer and head for the kitchen.
It doesn’t matter what I look like. Today, I’m going to mete out the first prong of my revenge. Mrs. M’s advice to be creative in my problem-solving sprouted an idea. I might be smaller than rat-faced Felix, but I could be craftier.
He is going to regret ever harassing me. I reach under the sink and find the plastic baggy I put together last night while Mrs. M was taking a bathroom break. Carefully, I open one end of it. Tears sting my eyes. The combined stink of the day-old fish and egg nearly knocks me over. Quickly, I zip the bag shut.
I tuck it into the side of my backpack. I’m in the process of swinging the pack onto my shoulder when a voice behind me says, “Hold up there.”
I yelp and jump straight up. A big hand reaches out to steady me.
“Jesus Chri—stopherson,” I exclaim, revising the swear words at the last second. “You scared the stuffing out of me.”
Leka’s free hand comes up to cover a huge yawn. “Sorry. What time is it?”
I give him a once-over, taking in his rumpled hair and the hooded lids. “You look like you got an hour’s sleep after a night at a rave.”
Or bonking some girl’s brains out. He did come home super late last night and took a shower before he collapsed on the bed. You only shower when you don’t want people to smell your sins. That’s what Sister Ruth says, at least. Which, if you think about it, is a total contradiction to the whole “cleanliness is next to Godliness” thing they all preach.
“What do you know about raves?” He glowers.
“Not as much as you,” I counter and push the strap of the backpack higher up my shoulder. “I’ll see you after school. Try to get some sleep.”
“Wait a sec. I’ll walk you to school.” He starts toward his bedroom.
“What?” I balk. He can’t come with. It’ll mess with all my plans. “No. I can walk three blocks by myself.”
“I know you can.” He calls over his shoulder. “But today you don’t have to. I’m gonna grab a jacket.”
He won’t admit it to me, but I know, also from past experience, that it’s because he always carries a gun.
I think I was eight or nine before I realized that wasn’t normal. I thought everyone just carried them around. Everyone associated with Leka does, but at Catholic school, the biggest weapons are a nun’s rulers and a girl’s words.
I briefly entertain the image of Leka knocking Felix over with the butt of the gun. Felix would probably piss his pants at the sight of a gun. He’d also report both of us, and since Felix’s dad is a lawyer, that wouldn’t go well for Leka and me.
At least, that’s the threat Felix threw in my face a few weeks ago when I told him that if he threw one more apple core at my face, I was going to call the cops on him.
Do it, pizza face. My dad’s a lawyer. You’re the one who’d end up in jail for being a health hazard.
We’ll see who’s the health hazard after this. I smile evilly to myself. All of this is contingent on getting rid of Leka, though.
I eye the front door of our apartment and then the bedroom door that Leka just disappeared through. How mad would he be if I just left?
Pretty mad.
I sigh.
Walking to school with Leka is both wonderful and awful. It’s wonderful because I get to spend more time with him, and lately, it feels like Marjory’s is sucking up all his time. It’s awful because the older girls at St. Vincent are in love with him.
After the last time, I had to listen to a week’s worth of “Is that your brother?” “Holy park”—(crap backwards)—“he’s so hot” and “Which saint do I say thanks to for having an ass like that?” and “I’m ready to sacrifice myself on his altar.”
But I’d still suffer through all that to have his company—only not today.
He re-appears. A baseball cap covers his bedhead. There’s scruff around his chin, which I know from past experience is pleasantly scratchy. His feet are shoved into one of his three pairs of black boots. Jeans, a navy T-shirt and a bomber coat make up the rest of his outfit.
“Ready?” he asks, lifting the backpack strap away from my shoulder.
I pull back. “I really need to walk by myself. Sister Katherine says that independence is the sign of an elevated mind, and girls that don’t get to school by themselves have to meditate on the concept of individualism.”
The lie rolls off easily. Leka looks skeptical at first, but when I stare back unflinchingly, he backs off.
“I don’t want to be responsible for you having to meditate more,” he says. There’s a slightly wounded tone to his voice, which makes me feel bad.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, ducking my head.
He pats me on the shoulder. “No. Don’t be. You were right the first time. I’m tired.” He flips off his ball cap. “I’ll rest up on the couch, and when you’re out of school, we’ll go do something.”
Chin up, I beam at him. “Awesome.” I give him a brief hug and then race out the door.
Felix is stationed three blocks away from the apartment, waiting for the bus to pick him up. He’s always there early, as if he can’t wait to get out of the house and be in position to torment me.
“Pizza face. I was hoping you’d died so I didn’t have to see your ugly face again.”
“Fuck you, Felix,” I give him the finger.
He glowers. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you paid me. Bet you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
“I’m thirteen, dickhole. Of course, I’m a virgin. Just like you.”
His friend Will snorts. This makes Felix only angrier. He steps toward me, a hand down on his crotch. “Wanna bet? Girls are begging to get on my jock.”
“The only girl who begs you is the one in your dreams, loser.”
Will’s snickers grow louder. Felix turns toward his friend. “Shut up, asshole.” He twists back to me. “And in your dreams, you beg for someone to love you, but they only vomit when they lay eyes on you. No one wants you, bitch.”
The thing about Felix is that he knows exactly where to punch you to make it hurt
the most.
“Come on, Felix. The bus is almost here,” Will tugs at Felix’s sleeve. Felix shrugs out of his friend’s grasp.
“Good. I have time to teach this bitch a lesson.” He lunges for me.
What I lack in size, I make up for in quickness. I sidestep him and then pretend to trip. I pitch forward, grabbing onto his backpack for stability. I slip the baggy inside the outer pocket. Felix shoves me.
“Get off me, you fucking hag.” He shoves me hard.
I fall to the ground, catching myself on the pavement. The cement digs into my hands. I push myself up, but before I can get to my feet, a kick in my side catches me unaware. I bend forward, gasping for breath.
“Come on, dude. Not cool,” Will says above me.
I curl into a ball and wait for another kick, but nothing comes. The sound of a bus stopping and the door opening fills the space. I struggle to my feet, still holding my midsection.
I manage to gather up the strength to flip Felix off and yell, “Smell you later, loser.”
He leans out the window and is about to shout something when his face pales and he drops down into his seat.
A long shadow appears, superimposing itself over my shorter one. Slowly, I twist around to see Leka’s face, which is focused on the retreating bus. A thunderous expression colors his features.
“You forgot your phone.” He lifts up my mobile.
“Whoops,” I murmur and reach for it. I twist to tuck it into my backpack, but the motion hurts and I let out an involuntary squeak of pain.
Leka’s face grows even darker, his eyes still fixed in the direction of the bus. “I’m going to kill that punk.”
“No.” I grab Leka’s arm. “You can’t. His dad’s a lawyer. We’ll get in trouble.”
“His dad could be the motherfucking pope, and I’d still carve up that little pencil dick’s face and deliver it to his dad during mass.”
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