by Jen Davis
He continued briskly. “I never saw much of either one of them. Mom did the best she could, but we had my grandma to take care of too. She slept on the sofa. I took the floor. Things were hard, but it was all I ever knew, you know?”
She wished she could see his face for this. Hold his hand. Then again, maybe this came easier for him when he didn’t have to look at her.
“When my mom died, there was no money at all. My grandma has diabetes, and while Medicaid helped with her insulin, there had to be decent food in the house. There was no money for rent. There was nothing.”
He cleared his throat. “Sucre was my dad’s dealer. I went to him. I begged him to cut my father off. He said no, but he did offer me a job—doing little shit for him at first. Pushing pot on the corner. Selling it at school. It was enough to keep us off the street, but it wouldn’t feed my grandma. Her legs were bad, so she couldn’t stand up for very long. She had vision problems too, so she couldn’t work. Eventually, I dropped out of school and got a job hauling lumber during the day and working for Sucre at night. It was okay, until Sucre noticed how big I was getting. Decided I’d be more valuable to him as muscle.”
This was far more than she had expected to hear. It wasn’t merely a story about a birthday lunch like she’d shared at the Majestic. This was how he came to be the kind of man her brother had warned her away from. She felt a pang she’d never told him about the cancer; happy memories were a whole lot easier to share.
His words came faster now. “I told him no the first time he asked me. The next day, my dad’s tab ran out. Apparently, Sucre had only been keeping him alive as a ‘favor’ to me. It’s what he told me anyway, and did I think my grandma had the money to pay off my father’s drug debt? If she didn’t, he was sure we could work something out if I started working for him full-time. It wasn’t so much a question this time as an ultimatum.”
Tears filled her eyes, but she kept her voice steady. “You sacrificed yourself for her.”
“Don’t make me into some saint,” he growled. “I’ve done some really bad shit since then. I’ve worked for Sucre half my life now. You don’t want to know what I do.”
He drew a good enough picture she got the idea, but she pushed it down. “And your grandma?”
“She’s in a nursing home now. I pay for it. The problem is, Sucre knows exactly where she is. He likes to remind me he can get to her at any time. Today, he sent me a picture of a bruise on her arm.” He lowered his voice. “But I’m saving. Saving every cent to get her out of there. Some place where he can’t find her, and he can’t touch her.”
“Until then, though,” she whispered.
“Until then, he owns me, and if he ever finds out about you…”
“I’ll be the person he holds over your head.” No wonder he tried to stay away from her.
“I do fights on the side for extra cash. They’re all fixed. Sucre thinks it’s why I do construction too. The truth is, when I’m building houses, it’s the only time I don’t hate myself. Then and when I’m with you.”
Her heart ached for all he’d been through. “I wish I could take it all away.”
“Don’t you understand?” He breathed deeply and gentled his voice. “You do.”
Wow.
“When can I see you?” she choked out.
“Soon…but not tonight. I’ve got to get back out there. No rest for the wicked.”
Her stomach wrenched at the idea he had to go back out into the night. To do God knows what for a man he hated.
“Be safe,” she whispered. But he was already gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brick
Brick didn’t see Tre on the job Friday night, and he didn’t ask where he was. Sucre would’ve told him if the kid was dead, which meant right now, Tre only wished he was dead. Brick wanted no part of it.
The first half of the night, he did simple collections. No one was too far in the hole, so it wasn’t rough work. No doubt Sucre had planned it to work out that way because Brick had a fight at midnight.
Talking to Olivia had been a welcome diversion from slapping Fat Kenny around for the hundred bucks he owed. He considered their call as he stripped down for the match. For the life of him, he had no idea what possessed him to spill his guts over his pathetic history. But no one had ever actually wanted to know him before. He didn’t count the people who thought they could leverage a friendship for drugs or protection.
Olivia was genuinely interested.
And he wanted her to know he wasn’t a bad man by choice. Maybe he could have been someone better if his life had gone a different way.
He breathed in the miasma of sweat, cigar smoke, and beer as he approached the ring.
It was a moot point, anyway. This was his life.
Blood.
Brutality.
Climbing between the ropes, he pushed down thoughts of Olivia, locking them away. He reached for the cold stillness inside himself and faced the poor bastard he was about to destroy. His challenger, Paolo, appeared to be of Puerto Rican descent. A big motherfucker, maybe an inch or two taller than him and at least seventy-five pounds heavier. The man had a lazy eye and a mouth full of crooked, grey teeth.
Sucre wanted Paolo to go down in three and a half minutes. A challenge, but not an impossible one. The man swung wide as the bell rang, and as he expected, Paolo’s size slowed him down. On fast feet, Brick danced out of the way.
The next time the man’s meaty hand flew out, he ducked low and jabbed him in the side. It happened twice. Three times.
Sucre gave him the nod.
He had to speed things up. He faked another jab with his left, luring his opponent to step away, directly into the path of a viscous right hook. Before the guy could shake it off, he cracked into his temple again and again, driving him down to his knees, then slamming his head flat onto the floor.
Paolo didn’t get up.
Sucre would make big bank tonight.
Brick walked out without so much as a scratch on him and a few hundred more dollars to add to his Grandma Fund.
***
Magnolia Green wasn’t the swankiest nursing home around, but the staff kept it clean, and they had become a surrogate family to Brick’s grandma during the years she’d lived there. The nurses waved in greeting as he walked the familiar pale blue halls on Saturday afternoon. He’d brought with him a bouquet of gardenias and his grandma’s favorite sugar-free chocolate muffins from the bakery around the corner, the same place he got the tiramisu he liked so much.
This time, every week, Grandma usually hung out in the music room. She’d never learned to play any instruments, but she loved listening when volunteers came from a local church group to sing and play the piano.
He waited quietly, leaning against the wall at the back of the room as the ladies went through their set-list. He wouldn’t interrupt, not when Grandma had looked forward to the music all week long. The piano player had more skill than the singer, who warbled through “Go Tell It on the Mountain” and a couple other songs he didn’t know, but Grandma never stopped smiling the entire time.
This was why he endured working for Sucre.
He had never been especially close to his grandmother. She didn’t coddle him as a child or protect him when her son got high. She was never cruel, though, and for most of his life, she was the only person who cared if he lived or died.
He waited until the church ladies let themselves out before approaching Grandma’s wheelchair.
“Brick?” She spoke before he even reached her side. “Do I smell gardenias?”
Placing the bouquet in her lap, he tucked the box of muffins under his arm and took the handles of the chair. “Yes, ma’am. Picked them up fresh this morning.”
Her hands shook as she lifted the flowers to her face. “Mighty fine. Smells mighty fine.”
He looked for the bruise on her arm he’d seen in the photograph. He found it, though it had faded to a pale purple now. It wrapped around her slender arm
like someone had squeezed her too hard. He thought about asking her how she had gotten it, but he didn’t want to upset her.
Instead, he asked, “Would you like to go outside for a while? It’s a beautiful day.” He didn’t know how often she felt the sun on her face. Not too much, he imagined, because she eagerly accepted whenever he offered to take her out.
“Yes, but I’d like to put my flowers in my room first. I want to enjoy them after you’re gone.”
He obliged her, and they took a trip down the hall so he could carefully place them in the clear, plastic vase on her nightstand. As always, he’d slip an orderly a few bucks to add water every day to help keep them fresh. Even if she couldn’t see them, she wanted to enjoy the smell as long as she could.
“I brought some of those muffins you like too. Do you want me to leave them here, or do you want to take one outside?”
She sighed softly. “Here’s fine. I haven’t had too much of an appetite lately.”
He studied the old woman as he wheeled her out to the gazebo. She had lost weight, and she had the bruise, but she hadn’t changed much otherwise since he’d visited last month. “Are you feeling okay?”
She waved her hand in the air impatiently. “I’m old. I feel…old. I don’t feel much like talking today.”
Didn’t feel like talking? Usually, he spent his hours here listening to his grandma detail every single thing happening in the facility, from the contents of the dinner menu to which old devils had their sons smuggle them Viagra during their visits.
“You want me to go?”
Her unseeing eyes stared straight ahead as she lifted her chin toward the gentle breeze. “No. Stay a spell. I like it out here.”
They sat together in silence.
It wasn’t until about an hour later, as he wheeled her into her room, she finally spoke. “I don’t know exactly what you have to do to keep me in this place. I imagine it’s nothing pretty. Your daddy’s dealer was already using you when you were a kid. I let it happen. I let you sacrifice to take care of me. That’s my failing, my weakness. And I know you still answer to him. I hear their talk. They make their threats. I know they use me to get to you. They have, all these years.” She shook her head sadly. “But it’s almost over.”
How did she know? The hidden money, the plan to get her to the nice place in Savannah, he had never told anyone, except for the little bit he’d shared with Olivia.
“I’m dying,” she said softly.
What? “No. You’re doing great.” He sat at the foot of her twin bed. He picked up the soft, red, flannel blanket he’d bought her last Christmas and settled it on her lap.
She ran her gnarled fingers over the fabric. “You’ve got your mother’s soft heart.” Her face hardened. “It’s how they’ll break you.”
The air conditioning kicked on with a loud rumble, and the icy breeze skittered down his neck. The chilled air made him shudder, not his grandmother’s words. “No one’s going to break me.”
Grandma pulled the blanket up to her neck, and a shiver wracked her thin frame. “Only time will tell. Just don’t forget the kind of people you’re dealing with.”
He nodded sharply and left her to her cupcakes and gardenias.
The old woman could have saved her breath with her warning. No chance in hell he’d ever forget he was swimming with the sharks. The second he stopped moving, they wouldn’t hesitate to eat him alive.
Only one person in his life offered him a safe haven. Only one who he didn’t have to pretend with, lie to, or posture for.
And in her arms was the only place he wanted to be.
***
Liv
Liv stared out the window of her apartment as lightning lit the dark sky. Rain beat a steady cadence on the rooftop, tempting her to close her eyes and set the papers on her table aside. She wasn’t in the mood to grade final exams, and the last two essays she’d read were downright terrible.
For every standout student, she had two who could barely string words together into a sentence. For them to get this close to graduating, it was even more depressing. The system had failed them and soon they’d be out in the world trying to survive with only a fraction of the skills they should’ve been taught.
She rubbed her forehead, trying to dislodge the melancholy threatening to creep in. What she needed was a distraction.
She flipped on the TV and cycled through the channels. Cooking shows. Home makeovers. Nothing caught her interest, so she turned it off.
Truthfully, there was only one distraction she really wanted. But after all of Brick’s revelations the night before, would he want her to call again so soon? Would he want space, or would he think she was rejecting him over the secrets he’d finally told her?
She picked up the phone, then put it down. Then picked it up again and held it to her chest. She was about to break down and call when a giant clap of thunder shook the walls, and the room went black.
Maybe someone was trying to tell her something. She smiled ruefully and used the light on her phone to dig out two fat candles from the top shelf of the cabinet where she kept her glasses. A matchbook hid under some Post-Its inside the junk drawer.
As she lit the wicks and inhaled the vanilla scent, she let her mind drift away to her fantasies. The candles set the stage for a night of slow seduction. Soft music. Maybe they would dance together.
There would definitely be kissing.
And she’d feel the weight of his body against hers.
Lightning flashed, bathing the room in bright white, and like a specter brought to life, Brick was suddenly visible outside the window. The rain had plastered his short, dark hair to his head. His black t-shirt clung to his body and streams of water poured over his skin.
The electricity flickered back on.
Dropping the matchbook to the table, she lunged for the door and threw it open. The rain came in sideways, soaking her pink pajama shirt and shorts in seconds.
Then Brick stepped inside, closing the door, locking out the elements behind him.
“You’re soaked.” She barely recognized her own voice, deep and breathy, as it came out. She ran to the bathroom, returning with two fluffy white towels in her arms and a pair of sweatpants hanging over her shoulder. Brick hadn’t moved. She couldn’t read his expression.
She stepped forward, her hand hovering over his midsection. “May I?”
He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut as she tugged his wet t-shirt out of his jeans, lifting it up to reveal his ridged abdomen and thick, muscled chest. Dark hair covered his pecs, and she bit back the impulse to run her fingers over them. Brick hunched forward, allowing her to pull the material over his head and away from his body.
It hit the ground with a wet slap.
She dropped to her knees, unlacing his heavy black work boots, then pulling them off one at a time. He grabbed her arm, pulling her gently back to her feet. His touch made her pounding heart beat even faster. Licking her lips, she reached for the button fly of his jeans.
Inch by agonizing inch, she removed his wet pants. His impressive cock strained toward her beneath his boxer briefs. It would be easy to take him in her hand, but he was cold and wet, and he clearly had something on his mind. So, her demanding libido would have to wait.
With care, she towel-dried his hair, then ran the soft terrycloth over his left shoulder and down his arm. She gave the same attention to the right side before dragging the material across his back and leaving it hooked around the back of his neck.
Putting the second towel in his hand, she walked to the window and closed the blinds. She didn’t turn around. “Take the rest of your wet clothes off and get dry.”
Though he didn’t answer, she could hear him moving and more wet clothes hitting the floor. She counted to ten, then chanced a glance back. He had the second towel tied around his waist.
She handed him her brother’s sweats. “Here. You can wear these while your stuff dries.” Gathering his wet clothes off the floor, she checked
all the pockets and placed his wallet, phone, keys, and a wicked-looking knife on top of the washing machine before tossing his clothes in the dryer.
She’d barely taken two steps back into the room when he spoke. “Why do you have a man’s clothes in your apartment?” His eyebrows drew down sharply at her smile.
The idea he might be jealous felt like champagne bubbles in her chest, but she didn’t tease him. He’d looked too worn down when she’d let him in the door. “My brother left them here a few weeks ago. I never got around to giving them back.”
His face relaxed, and she allowed herself the luxury of taking a long look at his chiseled body. His torso reminded her of Henry Cavill’s in the first Superman movie. Tan skin seemed to go on forever over his hard, cut stomach muscles.
And those sweatpants? They hung deliciously low on his hips, showing off a sculpted vee that disappeared beneath the drawstring waist.
She swallowed as her mouth began to water. Venturing forward, she finally allowed her fingers to drift over his broad chest. She wanted to look at him everywhere…touch him everywhere.
He growled deep in his throat, making her wonder if he knew the direction of her thoughts. Did he know how desperately she wanted to kiss him? To have him in her bed?
She tried to meet his gaze, but Brick had eyes for only one thing. Her mouth.
He stared unerringly at her lips for so long, she wondered if he’d ever close the distance between them. Then he was there, his mouth questing, his tongue darting against hers. Heat pooled in her belly as his hands splayed across her back and slid down to rest on her hips.
Finally.
Her nipples hardened as they rubbed against the cold, wet cotton of her shirt. What she really wanted—what she needed—was the connection of skin on skin. She wrenched herself away, long enough to peel her top over her head, then dove back into his arms. For a moment, she registered the heat of him, the abrasion of his chest hair against her tender breasts, but then he put his mouth on her again.