Sharp Edges
An Urban Gay Romance
Lenore Moreau
Copyright © 2019 by Salem Moretti
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Also by Lenore Moreau
About the Author
1
Lina barges into my room with her eyes blazing and mouth running a million miles an hour.
"What the fuck did you do this time, G? Ashlynn just left fucking crying. You know she's the only dealer that actually has good weed on this street you don't have to fuck for, and now you got her heart-broken and probably hating the rest of us."
"Calm your tits, Lina," I say, taking a long drag of my cigarette. "I didn't do anything but fuck her. She wanted it and flipped when I told her to fuck off after."
"Are you fucking serious, Caruso?" I wince. It's never a good sign when she calls me Caruso. She picks up a sock from the floor and hucks it at me, moving toward the bed like she means business. "You can't go around fucking everything with a pretty ass. She's the first friend I've had in months that wasn't a total cunt."
"Alright, alright," I say, scooting off the bed and holding onto the blanket to cover my junk. I should've gotten dressed before sending Ashlynn out. Lina only goes for a nut punch when she's really pissed, but when I'm naked and vulnerable, I don't want to risk it. "Don't get your panties in a twist-"
"Oh, I'll fucking show you in a twist. I told you not to stick it to her last week."
"I was bored, alright? Jesus, she'll get over it. You two will be back picking daisies and licking each other's twats-" A pillow smacks down across my head with surprising strength. "What the fuck, Lin?" The pillow lands again, and this time the edge of her palm smacks across my forehead with it.
"There are three-"
"Ow!" I yelp as she punctuates with a smack.
"People-" Her knee lands on my stomach. "I told you-" She pushes me back hard onto the bed.
"Christ!"
"Not. To. Fuck." She punctuates each word with another hit with the pillow. "Three fucking people, G. That's all. Off limits. Livvy, Ashlynn, and Chantelle." She finally steps back, glaring at me, her face red with exertion. Sometimes I wish I could hit her back, but it wouldn't be fair. She's five foot nothing and a hundred pounds soaking wet. "And you've now fucked two of them."
"Whatshisface, the new boy, needs to chain your ass to the wall," I say, rubbing my head. "I won't fuck Livvy."
"You better have an eighth of decent shit by the time I'm home or I'll kick your ass." She storms out, slamming the door behind her. I fume on the bed. She's the only person who can get away with talking to me like that, with no respect. Anyone else, I'd kick their ass three ways to Sunday. But she gets away with it cuz she's the only girl in a family of eight guys if you count my asshole dad. And because we get each other. Besides Lydia, Lina's the best friend I've got.
I'm not the kind of guy you want to take home to your parents. Fuck, I'm not the kind of guy you want to take home at all unless you want your shit stolen and your night wrecked. I know it. I've known it all my life. And I've made my peace with it. Some people are too fucked up for the sort of love that lasts more than a night, and to be honest, I don't mind fucked-up. The sex is great. And life is easier. I rub my head again, wondering how the hell something so small can pack a punch that would have made Foreman proud. I pull on my pants to my knees, nearly tumbling over as the door flies open again.
"Jesus, does no one in this house knock?" I yelp. Marco flips me off and falls back onto his bed, his mop of brown hair falling out behind him. He's the oldest of us, and sometimes he's a dick just to prove it.
"My room, dickwad. Pull up your pants. Smells like a Bellucci wedding in here. Ashlynn?”
"Not worth it," I scowl, fumbling with the clothes on the floor to try to find a shirt that doesn't smell. Finally, I find one and pull it over my head, grimacing as I brush the sore spot on my forehead once more. "Lina's on the warpath. Don't piss her off."
"Shoulda learned that lesson a long time ago," Marco says, propping himself up on an elbow. "I did."
"Got any weed?"
"You can have what's in my grinder, but there's not much. Ask Leon?"
"Dude, I just fucked his sister," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Get me some?"
"Got cash?" There's maybe twenty bucks spread out between all my pants, but I'm not in the mood to go rifling.
"I'm good for it."
"I'm broke as shit. Carla gets half my paycheck."
"Shouldn't have knocked her up."
"Eat me." I sigh, glancing around the room. It's a shit show of the highest proportions. Dirty clothes from all four of us cover the carpet, and empty beer cans huddle together in the corners. Sometimes looking for shit in here is worse than dumpster diving. Still, I brave it, managing to come up with eighteen. "I get half of it."
"Shit, fine," I grumble. "Just as long as I get Lina a joint or two I think I'm safe. Hey, uh. Is dad home tonight?"
"Who knows? Fucker wasn't at work again. Probably on another bender." Marco and my dad both work, if you can call it that, at a shitty low-budget brothel. They say they're security, that they like protecting women, but we all know they're just there for the discounted snatch. It's the one job my old man's ever hung on to, which just goes to show you.
"Fuck, of course he is. What about you? You still up for the job, then?"
"Yeah, Christian and Manny are in too."
"Fuck no, not Christian. He's too young for that shit." Christian's fifteen, the youngest of the Carusos that still lives here. Marco thinks he's old enough to join the old family business, but he's still a kid. I was hard at twelve, but when you got four older brothers and a crazy bitch of a sister to protect you, you don't develop as thick a skin. Marco rolls over and looks at the ceiling.
"Well, we need numbers. He doesn't have to be packing, man, he's just got to be there."
"Fine," I mumble. "Go get the fucking weed, man." Marco groans as he pulls himself to his feet, all six feet five inches of his solid wall of muscle. If tanks were human, they'd all look like Marco. I don't know how the lazy asshole does it. Absolutely no movement from eight a.m. to midnight and the fucker's built like a god. Not me. Most of the time I don't mind too much. Being smaller makes you work harder down here. It gives you something to prove. I'm not the oldest or the biggest, but my brothers look to me for shit like tonight- why? Because I'm stronger than the rest of 'em mentally. I've taken so much shit that there's no more for me to take, only to give. And when you're small, you make yourself scrappy.
We take a shot of vodka together before we go. Just one. More than one, your reflexes are slow and you can fuck up, make bad choices out there. Less than one and your nerves hold you back. So just one, the four of us together. Christian takes it like a pro, dumping it down his throat like it was lemonade.
I smack his shoulder and grin before glancing over at Manny.
"You prettied yourself up, Man," I tease. "You wanna scare this guy or suck his dick?"
"Fuck off," he growls, clearly not in the mood. We strap up, and Christian gingerly holds a pistol, looking at it like it's a snake.
"Not you, little man," I say, pulling the gun out of his hands. Marco rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. "You're the muscle, alright? Stand behind with me and look tough while Manny bends over." Manny shoves me, harder than usual, as the others laugh. I don't laugh. Manny's eyes are wild and bright tonight. That's good, we need that, but I don't want it aimed at me. I shove him back lightly, trying to give him a disarming grin. "Aw, you know I'm just saying that to get you riled up. I need you with me, right?"
"Right," he says reluctantly. We walk out together, past Lina and one of her boy toys. She glares at me. I'll make it up to her later.
I like walking the streets armed at night. It's like this feeling you're unbeatable, like no one in the world would dare challenge you. With the four of us walking together, even little Christian, we're a fucking wolf pack. And you don't fuck with a wolf pack. Manny knocks on the door and we wait, tension flowing between us. The door slides open a crack, then immediately tries to slam shut. But I've got my foot in the door and Manny and I shoulder it open. The dude backs up, his hands out in front of him. His wife and kids aren't here. We planned that too. I won't fuck with people's families. That's across the line for me. My old man does it, but he's a sick son-of-a-bitch, mixed up in way worse shit than the rest of us are.
"Well Mister Garcia," I say, dragging out the mister. "I was hoping I'd run into you here."
"Please- you have to give me more time. My kid's sick-"
"I gave you almost another month," I say. Manny and Marco step forward to grab him. He struggles, his eyes wide and terrified. Do enough of this shit, you get to know that look. That's the look you want. Means nobody's gonna get too hurt. There's not too much desperation, just that bone-deep fear of pain every animal knows. The desperate ones surprise ya every time. That's how Manny almost lost an eye. That's how dudes who owe money end up accidentally dead instead. But a hint of desperation mixed with fear... that's the perfect cocktail. "Look, Garcia, I didn't want to have to do this to you. But a man has to pay his fucking debts. Aight?"
"Please- I'll pay-"
"When you gonna have my money by?" Garcia looks rapidly between me, Manny and Marco. I sigh dramatically, letting my knees bend and my arms fall to my sides. It's a natural human instinct, I think, to do what the guys around us are doing. As I expected, he relaxes too, just a fraction but enough to be sure he won't try something stupid. "How much you got right now?"
"There-there's five hundred in my sock drawer," he whispers. I nod my head at Christian who hustles off, looking glad to have something to do. He returns with an envelope, pulling it open to reveal a handful of bills. I smile at Garcia, then lurch forward, hitting him hard twice in the stomach and sending a knee into his nuts. Two more punches to his face and he's practically collapsed, held up by my brothers. They drop him and he lays still, his arms covering his head. I kick him once more.
"Next week. Have the rest. C'mon." We leave him there and walk back into the night. Marco and Manny walk fast, talking loudly, almost whooping. Christian tags along behind them, practically skipping. I don't blame them. It's a rush to have that kind of power over somebody. Maybe it's fucked up to say, but it's the truth. Having someone on their knees in front of you, someone afraid and knowing you could make em do anything you wanted in that moment. It's like being a god. Maybe later you feel bad about it, but in that fucking moment, there's nothing but joy and savagery.
Most of the time, like tonight, things go easy. Nobody gets hurt, nobody's around who's not supposed to be. I've only had a dozen shakedowns go bad and only felt like I've really needed my gun in half of em. Two of em ended with bodies. Only one of those bodies was my responsibility, and I figure that time it had to happen. Sometimes it's you or somebody else, and I'll pick me every fucking time. Like I said before, I'm not exactly marriage material.
2
The morning comes too fast, bright ugly sunshine pouring through the window like sewage. Fuck mornings. I pull my pillow over my head and groan as loudly as I can, trying to scare the light away.
"Shut up," Marco mumbles, still half-asleep. Groggily, I rise, grabbing half-clean clothes from the floor and throwing them on. I kick Christian's bed.
"Fuck off," he mumbles sleepily, rolling away from me.
"School, assface, unless you want social services crawling back here." Christian groans, but sits up. Good. None of us so far but Lina have graduated high school. If we can push him through it, I'll be psyched. I leave, calling it a win, and head to the bar.
The Concord is a shitty hole-in-the-wall dump, even for my part of town. It opens at nine and stays open until three in the morning, sometimes later if paying customers are still around. It's a shitty job, but it comes with cheap liquor, and it's a five-minute walk from my house. Harry nods at me as I come in. I nod back.
"Got another job for you and your brothers if you want it," he says, throwing me a rag dirty enough to violate every health code in the state. I take it and start wiping down the bar. It's probably adding a shit-load more dirt than it's removing, but it's my job, so I suck it up, trying not to breathe too close to it.
"Same kind as last night? What's the pay?"
"Twenty percent of what you scare up. Owes almost six grand." I pull out a cigarette and take a long drag, blowing my smoke toward the ceiling.
"Where?"
"Edmonton street. Marty St. Claire. Know him?" I raise an eyebrow and blow a cloud of smoke into his face.
"Marty St. fucking Claire. No way. Guy's the size of a skyscraper and lives with a bunch of other skyscrapers. Get someone with a death wish to do it." Harry nods in his typical slow way.
"Figured it was worth a shot."
"I'm not stupid, Harry." Harry raises an eyebrow. I scowl. "Not that stupid anyway. Look, keep the tough jobs for the pros. Me and my brothers'll do the neighborhood shit."
"Low risk, low reward. You could make a lotta cash if you're willing to use a little more force." He gestures to the pistol at his waist. I shake my head.
"Nah man, that shit's too heavy for me. Like I said, we'll do the lighter stuff. I don't mind shaking down assholes who ain't paid their debts, but I don't want to kill anybody." Else. Harry nods again and pours us each a shot of tequila. It's well liquor, probably watered down to save cash, knowing Harry, but I couldn't give less of a fuck.
The day passes slowly, lazily, the way clouds gather together on the horizon before a storm. The bar fills up by noon, full of the regulars and the semi-regulars and the becoming-regulars. I usually let Harry handle most of the people shit. I can pour drinks and manage the books well, but I don't like most people and I get the feeling they don't like me right back. There are a few here though that I do like. Sam's one of em. He's a regular who comes in with dog-eared paperbacks and sips on one beer for a full hour. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it's always something useful. Then there's Steph. She's a whore with a whore's mouth and a hell of a sense of humor. She's got good stories, too. Even the fall-over deadbeats listen to her when she's telling a client story. My favorite, though, is a guy whose name I barely know. Oliver Kelly.
He's this taller young guy with jet-black hair and the greenest eyes. His clothes are ratty and he doesn't come in more than once a month. Sits in the back and drinks shitty beer by himself. He's got a military ID, which means a discount, but he never brings it up unless I do. Guess he doesn't like to talk about it. When people try to talk to him, he's polite, but he never chats long. I don't know what it is about him that gets me so fascinated. If I was a girl, I'd say it's the way he looks, the way he holds himself. Like he knows exactly who he is and what the fuck he's doing here. The way he moves... shit, I guess it reminds me of one of those old-fashioned mo
vies with the big-shots in carriages with the one-eyed glasses. Maybe that's why I like him. He seems like he's from another time, another place even though he's just as dirty as the rest of us. Every time he comes in, I can't seem to keep my eyes off him. And it's not in some fucked-up queer way, either. He's just... something.
He's here today, sitting at his usual table in the back, drinking his beer and staring down at the wood like it owes him money. The bar's busy, or maybe I'd ask him if he wants another one. By the time my shift's over, it's well past dark and he's gone. I walk home, vaguely disappointed. Lina's still up when I get back, sitting on our ratchet-ass couch with her back to the door. She's alone, and sitting there she looks so small and sad it breaks my heart. I sit beside her and give her a smile I hope is convincing. It's wasted. She doesn't see it.
"Come on, Lina, you're not still mad about earlier are you? Since when have you stayed mad at me for fucking somebody?" Lina sighs then turns full-on to look at me. My blood runs cold and I hear a ringing in my ears. The whole right side of her face is swelled up, and her nose is red with dried blood. The room spins around her and I'm caught on the edge. "Who did it."
"Gion-"
"The kid that was here earlier? That Kelly kid?" She hesitates for a beat. That's all I need. It was him.
"No, it wasn't him. G, it wasn't, okay?" I don't hear her. I'm already grabbing my gun from beside my bed and out the door. My vision is strange and focused. The edges blur with red. The gun hangs heavy in my pocket.
I don't remember getting to the bar, but all of a sudden I'm standing in front of it and every patron in the place is focused on me. My blood buzzes.
Sharp Edges: An Urban Gay Romance Page 1