Of course not. Why would I think I could get off so easy?
“Mr. Tucker.” My landlord is standing at the still wide-open door, waving a piece of paper at me. “If you’re done rolling on the floor, I suggest you pack your things and go.”
What? I squint at him and the fucking paper. “What’s that?”
“That’s your eviction notice. I posted a copy on your door two weeks ago. You still owe me half of last month’s rent, and this month’s, too. Unless of course you have the money.”
I don’t. Of course I don’t. And I can’t remember a damn notice.
What the fuck.
“Can’t move out today,” I breathe, hissing when I sit up. “You have to give me more time.”
“I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Tucker. I have a couple who are ready to move in and gave me a deposit.”
“Damn you.” My thoughts are scattered. I do my best to make sense of it. “This is illegal.”
“And what? You’ll take me to court? Think you’ll win this?” He straightens his shirt, squares his narrow shoulders. “Think I didn’t hear what your friend here said? You got a rap sheet.”
Fucking hell.
“If you don’t get out within the hour, so help me God,” he towers over me where I’m sitting on his floor trying hard not to puke from the pain, “I’ll call your employer and let them know you’ve living here illegally, without paying your rent. That tattoo parlor, isn’t it? Damage Control, downtown.”
Jesus Christ. “Don’t. Okay? Don’t.”
“You need to move out the—”
“I’ll leave. I’m leaving.” I brace my good arm on the coffee table and drag myself up. “Christ.”
My brain’s smothered in fog, but I know Zane and Rafe can’t find out about this. They can’t. A vague idea stirs at the back of my mind, saying it doesn’t matter anymore whether they know or not, but that’s bullshit. Has to be. I can’t take the risk.
Lost too much. Can’t afford this.
I’m supposed to pack, right? Only I can’t. My arm is hanging uselessly at my side, my shoulder on fire. Sweat trickles down my face, stinging my eyes.
Not like I own much. Some clothes. Some shoes. Never really settled down, never put photos or my drawings on the walls. Never really believed it.
And where would I go? Shane hates my guts right now. Manon, too. The guys think I’m a drug dealer in disguise.
A chuckle comes unbidden, dark and bitter, and I clutch at my arm as another wave of blinding pain hits.
Fuck.
I stumble into my bedroom, grab an extra sweater and a rolled-up quilt I have for winter. It’s in a bag, and I sling it over my good shoulder.
More sweat runs down my temples as I carry my things to the living room one-handed, letting my bad arm hang limp and vibrating with pain.
The crumpled up photo of my mom with her sister, myself and Shane is on the table. I reach for it, tuck it into my pocket.
Where I’m going, I won’t need more. Wish I’d kept my sleeping bag. Didn’t think I’d be returning to hell so soon.
My mom always said that’s where I belonged, where I’d end up. On the street. Guess she was right.
***
The day is gray and cold. Wind is whistling, slicing through my jacket. I wrap my scarf around my neck and weave on my feet, because, fuck, the pain. I was warned repeated shoulder dislocation would be a problem after the first time, and this is the third. It’s nothing life-threatening. But somehow it feels worse than the other times.
Somehow everything feels worse. Like having a home and losing it. Having a job, a family, and losing them. Having… God, almost having Manon and losing her, too. I guess I never realized that this was the one thing that would break me: finally getting what I wanted and watching it go up in smoke.
Dammit.
I always assumed I’d shack up with Shane if things went south. Not that I’d be going back where I started, and this time alone.
Standing on the sidewalk, watching the cars drive by, I try to gather my scattered wits. I just need somewhere to hole up, lick my wounds, wait for the howling pain to lessen so I can think.
In the end, I work on instinct alone. I limp down some streets, across a boulevard, turn into a narrow alley with the smell of Chinese cooking and fried meat from the restaurant kitchens.
The spot where Shane and I used to sleep. Not far from the apartment. Maybe that’s why I hesitated to move away. The place’s more familiar to me than my mom’s house.
I slide down the wall and curl up, holding my arm folded over my stomach.
My shoulder’s killing me. I know that eventually I should head to an emergency room, but pain isn’t helping my brain think, and besides, now it’s too late.
Too damn late. Can’t get up again. The mere thought makes me break out in cold sweat.
Need a minute. Just a little longer, to catch my breath. Then I’ll get up and make myself go, get checked out.
It’s not that cold back here, in the alley. The warm air from the kitchens wafts out, and the smells would have made my stomach growl if not for the goddamn pain. Fuck, it’s bad. Like slivers of glass slicing into my flesh, into my joints. Cutting me up. Pouring burning sand into marrow of my bones.
The pressure is back in my chest, the deadening weight of a misery that’s suffocating me. My eyes burn, but no tears fall.
What’s the use, anyway? Won’t help. Never has.
Something creaks in my back pocket. With an effort, I pull it out. My cell. It’s cracked, falling to pieces. I stare at it, not sure I can find it in myself to care.
I let it fall. See the pieces scatter, glittering dust.
Reminds me of the shining flecks of gold in Manon’s eyes. The brightness of her smile.
I lean back. So fucking tired. Time lurches, jumps. I open my eyes and it’s afternoon. I open them again, and it’s dark all around me, the lights from the restaurant kitchens and the boulevard spinning in circles.
Manon…
Fuck, the last days with her were beautiful. I won’t have the chance to hold her in my arms again. The happiness I felt then has to last a lifetime.
Chapter Twenty
Manon
That night I can’t sleep, and the next morning I wander in a daze. Yesterday I was angry, angrier than I’ve ever been. Angrier than I was with Fred for cheating on me.
Because my feelings for Seth are deeper, stronger. What he did, hiding the truth from me, hurts much more than anything Fred could ever do.
Drug dealing. Jesus. An ex-convict. How didn’t I know? How do I reconcile Seth with this? He has the tattooed bad boy image going for him, that’s for sure, but he’s quiet. Gentle. Intense sometimes, but wouldn’t I have noticed if he took drugs?
Or if he dealt them?
But today I don’t know how I feel. Doubt sets in. What am I missing? Something doesn’t make sense. So I skip classes and stay home, thinking.
Wrapped up in a long sweater and in my old Ugg boots, I curl up on the couch and Google the crap out of drug use. Try to find the missing clues.
Is Seth a user? Then maybe I should have noticed needle marks on his elbows, on his thighs, on his hands, in his feet.
But I didn’t see any.
He should experience intense mood swings.
Haven’t noticed that. Not if you take account of the context—like the things he told me at the zoo. Not unless you count swinging from sad to horny and then to happy.
Oh God. I rub a hand over my eyes. Not going to cry again for him. I’ll get to the bottom of this, though. Need to know.
Is the person careless with personal hygiene and grooming?
No. Never noticed that.
Bloodshot eyes? Weight loss? Sleep loss? Change in behavior?
I push away from the screen with a sigh. How should I know? It’s not like I was with him long. Not like I’ve known him well.
Though I know what books he likes reading, and what his childhood dreams were. I know what his mom did to him and to his cousin, I know…