“Yeah, yeah.” I struggle to pull myself together. “And again, who the hell are you?”
“John Adams. Her lawyer. I’m calling on her behalf.”
Her lawyer. Troubles with the law. Probably why she vanished. But it’s been fucking years…
“How did you get this number?” I bite out. “I sure as fuck didn’t give it to her.”
“That’s my business, Mr. Tucker. Your mother—”
“She can go to hell, for all I care.” Yet curiosity flares. “What did she do?”
“Mr. Tucker…” The guy sounds more tired than annoyed. “Ms. Cynthia Tucker was arrested for drug possession and trafficking.”
“Really.” Shocker. God, all I can think of is that she’s not dead. “Where is she?”
A short pause, during which the lawyer probably wonders how big an asshole a son can be, not caring about his mom, and not even knowing where she lives. “Indiana.”
“Indiana, huh? Has she been arrested before? Was she in prison?”
“Can we focus on the matter at hand, Mr. Tucker?”
“I don’t fucking care about the fucking matter at hand.” Fuck you, Mr. Lawyer. “Have yourself a good day.”
“Mr. Tucker, wait. Yes, your mother has been arrested before.” He pauses. “Look, the courts around here are backlogged. If she doesn’t make bail, she’s probably looking at sitting in jail for six months before her trial. She says you are her only living relative.”
My hands are shaking. He doesn’t know her, I remind myself. Doesn’t know me, either, doesn’t know us, our past, our history.
Otherwise he wouldn’t have called. Wouldn’t have expected yes for an answer—even if I had that kinda money, which I don’t.
“No,” I say into the phone, surprised at how calm my voice sounds. “Tell her no.”
Then I throw the cell against the wall and slide down to the glass-covered floor, trying to catch my breath.
***
That’s where Shane finds me when he comes later with some sandwiches and soda. He has a key to the apartment, though he comes by less often than Jesse or Micah, or even Ocean. He’s family, real blood and flesh. Our mothers are sisters.
Or rather were, until his died on the day that changed his life. Fucking nightmare. Hard to believe, knowing him now, that he wasn’t always so silent and lost inside his head. Funny thing is, he used to be the optimist of us both. The open-hearted, happy-go-lucky kid. The one who always cracked jokes and laughed.
Hard to believe these days.
He stands in the kitchen doorway and stares down at me. Barely blinks, the paper bag from the deli down the street and the sodas clutched in his hands. Dark hair has escaped his ponytail and is falling in his eyes.
“What the fuck happened here?” he says eventually. “Seffers. Why’re you sitting in this mess?”
“Because I can’t fucking get back up.” Didn’t even try. Kept thinking about my mom in jail. About the fine. About the past.
God, my head throbs fit to burst.
I wouldn’t pay for her even if I could. Not in a million years. She deserves to be behind bars. She deserves all the bad in the world. She’s at the root of my bad luck. She started it.
She had me and then threw me away. So I shouldn’t feel guilty.
I don’t, goddammit.
Shane puts the food on the table and gives me a hand up. “Easy now.”
My knee creaks and burns but locks and holds, allowing me to get on my own two feet. My boots crunch on the shards.
“Fuck, need to clean up.”
“Shouldn’t you be in PT?”
“If you knew that, then what the hell are you doing here?”
“What the fuck’s your problem today? I was going to leave you a sandwich and a soda and be on my way. Zane’s waiting for me to practice on a guy.” Shane shoots me a quick grin. “Frigging huge eagle tat, man, with an awesome feather design. You should drop by and see it.”
I grab my walking stick and take a tentative step toward the table. Ow. Christ. “Go on, then. Go before Zane chews your ass out.”
Doesn’t bother me that I’ll be the last apprentice left at Damage Control, that Jesse already graduated, and Shane is about it. Nah. I’m cool with that.
Okay, not really. Fuck me raw, man. Bad luck is one thing, but my life? It’s a goddamn joke. And okay, I’m still tangled up in the web of the past and getting free of it is kinda difficult with Shane here.
He’s tied into that past. He’s part of it, the threads of our lives woven together, and I can’t even talk to him about it, tell him about my mom, do anything to remind him.
’Cuz he’s still caught in it, in the dark web. Still dangling from the spider’s legs. And I don’t know how to help him.
Can’t help my mom, either. Can’t help anyone.
Not even myself. Missed the hospital appointment, need money and goddam painkillers before I saw my own leg off, and hell—the thought of going back down the stairs makes it hard to breathe.
You’ll be fine, Seffers. Things are better now, never you forget that. Never you fucking forget.
***
That’s a bit hard to remember an hour later as I puke my guts out in the toilet. Don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s the sandwich Shane brought me.
Just the thought of it makes me gag, and I puke again, clutching at the porcelain bowl. My head is pounding, and my throat burns with acid.
Kill me now.
Did I mention this is a fucked-up day? Just in case I neglected to make it clear. Maybe it’s because last night wasn’t that bad.
It was nice. Real nice.
So this is payback.
Fuck you, life.
I manage a bark of laughter at the irony before I’m bent over again, throwing up bile. Shit, this is exhausting. Depressing.
When will things take a turn for the better? The roommate I was supposed to get changed his mind at the last minute. I still owe the landlord money for last month’s rent, next installment is coming up soon, too, and I’m broke. A broken leg and bartender job don’t go well together, it seems, or so my boss decided as I sat at home with my leg in a cast and pumped full of painkillers.
Customers don’t like it.
Or maybe he got ahold of my record. I assumed he doesn’t know about it, but I’m not so sure anymore. Texas Road House is a big chain. He might know. My past just keeps coming back to bite me in the ass.
So I’ve been out of job, and I only managed to go to Damage Control once after almost two months—this week. Zane is patient, but I know he’s wondering why I’m being such a pussy.
Broken leg, pah. Not the first time one of the guys got one.
Not my first encounter, either, with broken bones. Sometimes I wonder if there’s any bone in my body that has never been broken.
I wasn’t joking about my bad luck. Thing is, it often takes the form of people and their fists, their boots, the bats and sticks in their hands. And I fought back and played along for a time. Did my time.
For others, bad luck is burning your toast, missing your bus, locking yourself out of your apartment.
For me, it’s a matter of making it through the day alive.
But if I tell Zane and the others about my past injuries, the ones aggravated by my recent ones, it’ll all come to the light. One story leads to the next, and before you know it, you’ve puked out your whole sordid past to the people who are supposed to believe in you.
And I doubt I’ll be staying at Damage Control and under their protection once they know.
Fuck. I scoot back and lean my back against the wall of the bathroom, my eyes closing. So tired. And of course my knee is blaring in pain from kneeling on the hard tiles for so long.
Fuck you, knee. Fuck you, bones.
I think I’m gonna crash here tonight. Not the first time I’ve slept on the bathroom floor. Can’t move. Can’t get up. Don’t think I would even if I could remember where I left my walking stick. Must have dropped it at the door, racing to reach the toilet before I tossed my cookies all over the fucking floor.