Damn, I need a break.
“Yeah, my mom.” I swallow the rest of my lukewarm beer and slam the bottle on the low table. “And she wanted me to bail her out.”
“Jesus Christ.” Micah comes around the sofa and plants himself in the chair across from me. “She’s got some balls.”
“Yeah.” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, survey the line of bottles. “I think we need more beer.”
“Just… what exactly happened?” Micah is still nursing his beer. “When was the last time you saw her, man? Why did you think she was dead?”
Fuck. He’s going straight into dangerous territory.
“Long story,” I say, “and I’m kinda tired.”
“What, is that code for I’m-not-gonna-talk-about-this-so-fuck-off?”
“More or less.”
Micah laughs. He’s a good guy. The golden boy of Damage Control. Not because of the hair. It’s his heart. One hundred percent, twenty-four carat gold. He’s so kind he’s still beating himself up over not believing Jesse when the shit went down with Cassie at Asher’s wedding—over believing Jesse was cheating on his girl. For Micah, that’s serious.
“You can trust me,” he says, and I know I can.
For most things. Normal things.
Not this, though.
“I’m just unlucky,” I tell him, and hope he drops it.
“Buddy, getting struck by lightning is unlucky. Or by meteorite.”
“Meteorite? You’re making this shit up.”
“I’m not. My point is, whatever happened isn’t bad luck. Just life.”
“Well, life sucks.” And he has no clue what he’s talking about.
“There was also this guy who survived two atomic bombs. In Japan. Heard of him?”
“All right, shut up, okay? Shut up.”
He laughs again, drinks up the rest of his beer and lifts his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep.” He gets up, shakes his head at the forest of bottles. “Man, can’t believe we drank so many.”
“Good thing you’re walking.”
“Yeah, Halo isn’t far. You should come.”
I don’t reply. Don’t wanna see the guys, talk and shit, though I know that, come Monday, I really have to go to the shop, pick up my training. Don’t want them asking questions, like Micah.
Rafe keeps asking how my knee got fucked up, Asher why I picked a fight with that guy the other night at the party, Zane wants to know what’s going on with Manon—which is exactly nothing, nada, zero—and the girls who have a sixth sense keep asking if I’m okay and if I’ve found a job.
I haven’t. Like I said, it’s not like I haven’t looked. I just can’t find one. I’ve tried everything, and got nothing. Yeah, they didn’t come out and say it, but even the freaking burger joints don’t want someone like me, and if I don’t find something… Shit, the thought of returning to the streets terrifies me.
“Bad luck,” Micah says, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door, “afflicts people who believe in it.”
“And your point is?”
“Start believing you’re lucky, and you will be.”
“You serious? Want a fist in your face?”
“Kayla says that. Start believing you’re lucky. You should call her to cleanse your apartment or something. Read your fortune.”
“The only thing she’ll read will be the imprint of my fist on your stupid face.”
He’s still laughing as he lets himself out and closes the door.
But I’m not.
Fuck my life.
***
I’ve rolled myself into an old blanket on the sofa, half-dozing, the picture of my mom beside me. I thought I’d thrown it into the trash, but I found it straightened and flat on the table the other day.
Like a sign—though of what, I have no fucking clue. I can faintly see its shape in the half-dark. Ribbons of light from the street below cut through the slats in the window. I can hear distant music. A street party. Micah mentioned it. They were heading there after a few drinks at Halo.
I used to do that. Used to believe things would finally turn out all right. That I was free of the curse of my past.
What the fuck was I thinking? Now I’m avoiding the only family I’ve ever really had to escape the truth.
The truth, goddammit. A truth that will damn me in their eyes just like it does in the eyes of everyone who knows.
Shane has texted me a few times. He knows something’s up, ’cuz I’m avoiding him, too. We’ve always been tight as brothers. But he’s got his own demons to fight. Bigger, badder demons than mine. Can’t heap mine on top of them.
‘Sides. What can he do? Nothing, that’s what. Talking about the past will only serve to make his nightmares worse. No fucking way am I doing that to him. If push comes to shove, if Zane and Rafe find out about my record, I’ll leave.
Damn. A knot forms in my throat at the thought of leaving, and I pull the blanket over my head.
Chill, Seffers. Nothing happened. It’s just been a bad couple of weeks.
Months.
Years.
Fuck.
I drift, and it’s cold all the way to my fucking bones. I’m in my cell, the steps of the guard approaching. Dread curls in my stomach, burning acid. Can’t do this again. Can’t let it happen.
Can’t stop it.
But the guard’s steps falter. Their rhythm changes. They stop.
Another sound reaches my ears and I blink, taking in my dim living room, the table, the sofa I’m on.
Not the cell.
No danger.
Still my heart is racing a hundred miles an hour as I lower the blanket and sit up. Sounded like a knock.
There it comes again—a knock on the apartment door. Frowning, I throw my legs off the sofa and scratch at my jaw. Who can that be? Jesse, trying to drag me out for drinks? I wouldn’t put it past him, but fuck, I need a shave. And a shower. I’m only dressed in my sweats and a T-shirt.
I wait, but silence spreads. Did I imagine it?
Cursing to myself, I push myself upright and test my knee. It holds, so I limp to the door and open it.
The last person I expect to see tonight is standing right in front of me, her small fist raised to knock again:
Manon.
***
“May I come in?” she says, and I realize I’ve been staring at her like an idiot.
“Sure.”
She steps inside, her heels clicking on my bare floor. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She glances from the blanket on the sofa to me and back. “Did I wake you up?”
“Good thing you did,” I mutter, my brain still short-circuited from dozing, from the snatches of memory-dreams and her unexpected presence at my door.
“Are you all right?” She steps closer, her eyes concerned, and I step back, not sure I can take this show of caring when I know she doesn’t really mean it.
She kissed me back last time and then vanished for a week. Just like she vanished the time before. And I’m pretty sure I know where she’s been: her boyfriend’s arms. I wonder if this time they did it, if everything’s fine now between them.
I don’t wanna know.
“What brings you here?” I wander back into the room, leaving her to close the door, if she’s staying, go if she’s leaving. “Didn’t my lessons help? Want a refund?”
And there I go again, where I shouldn’t. The memory of kissing her burns through me like a wildfire.
“I was at this street party. It’s close by. Thought to ask if you’d like to come.”
“You did?” I try to rub the sleep from my eyes, clear my head. “Nah, I’ll pass. Thanks anyway.”
Her face falls. “You’re probably still tired from the concussion and all that. And that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I sure as hell am not.”
“You’re not? I almost killed you, and even though I didn’t, you got a good hit to the head.”
I sigh, because my mouth’s still not connected to my conscious brain. “Yeah, there’s that. But it was still nice meeting you.”
She snorts, and I smile. Hey, it’s the truth. She probably thinks I’m teasing. I’m not. She’ll never know how much I mean it.
“Wanna stay a while? Order some takeout or something?” I mentally count the money I’ve got left. Fuck, it’s not much.