by Demi Vice
“Damn, so I guess I can't call you baby girl anymore.” I laughed, but Ahri retorted with a slap on my abs which were still sore.
You little fucking tease.
I bit my lip and smiled at her.
“You’re one to talk. You’re thirty-three,” Ahri snarled.
“Eh, give or take.” I sucked on my tooth.
Ahri tilted her head.
I shrugged. “I don’t know my actual birthday. I could be turning thirty-three next week or a month for now.”
“How do you not know your birthday?”
“I was a year, maybe a year and a half-year-old when I was dropped off at a fire station in Whole Park. I had no birth certificate or name or any note I was delivered to a hospital. To put more icing on the cake, I had a heroin addiction.”
“A-a heroin addiction?” Ahri’s voice was sympathetic and tiny as she dropped her eyes.
“Yep, so at one-ish-years-old, I went into rehab where I stayed for six months until I went to Mama Baronski: foster home number one.”
Ahri nodded, taking in all the facts before she made a realization. “Is that why you don’t do drugs?”
“Exactly. I like to stay semi-healthy…minus the cigarettes, a few drinks, and the kush I occasionally enjoy.” I reminded her.
Ahri hummed. “So, when is your ‘birthday?’”
“April 3rd. But since I don’t know my birthday. I celebrate the whole fucking month of April as my birthday month, making up for my sob story about a toddler who was born without a name, a date, and a drug problem.” I grinned.
Ahri let out a dry laugh and went back to picking out her outfit.
Before laying on her lumpy bed, I took off the dirty sex sheets and tossed them in the corner. I sat down, arms back and ankle crossed over my knee to take in the view of Ahri picking her clothes, with my camera still around my neck. She was going to change soon; I wondered if she’d let me take her picture.
“What is it with you and cleaning?” She mumbled into her shoulder while her brown eyes took a toll on me.
“‘Just because you are poor, does not mean you have to live or look like you are poor.’” I quoted Mama Baronski. “The only foster mom I could even call a mom, Nadia Baronski, was a maid. She told me that stupid quote every time the other kids or I left a mess, and from a young age, it was carved into my skull. I kept my things clean, organized, and where I left them, which benefited me when I got older.”
“Ha. The only useful thing my mother has said to me was ‘don’t be a bitch,’” Ahri scoffed with anger.
She picked out a simple jean skirt with a frayed. I turned my camera on, pointed it at Ahri and took a photo with the flash on. She paused, like a deer caught in headlights, but Ahri didn’t look back at me like I was hoping she would.
“And what’s with you and the cameras?” she gritted, a little annoyed with me.
“Since I was six, cameras have always fascinated me. The fact that they turned light into images. The way the brown film in disposable cameras looked. And even when I was broke, I could always see the tiny version of the photo if I held it to the light. The way Polaroid images are instant—expensive as fuck—but instant and imperfectly perfect. The way a dark room is all red and peaceful. It’s just you and the negatives in a room that smells of developing chemicals. I just love it all.” I waited for Ahri to look over her shoulder, but she didn’t.
Ahri picked out the rest of her clothes. A yellow and white baseball tee shirt that looked large, maybe Fidget’s, a pair of white cotton panties, and a pair of blue and pink tie-dye knee high socks. So, fucking colorful for such a stubborn pissed off little thing.
“Are you just gonna stay here and take pictures of me?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Ahri dropped her towel and pulled her panties up. She wasn't ashamed of her body, but she hid her face at all costs. She pulled up her jean skirt that hugged her waist and hips nicely, and lucky for me it was not too short to have my overprotective side come out and guard her if any guy tried to make a pass. I took my photos, Ahri getting dressed like I wasn't even around, but remained cautious to hide her face.
“You’re not shy about your body, but you’re shy about your face? How does that work?”
“Nothing to be ashamed of my body. This is what I have to work with,” she muttered.
“But you’re ashamed of your face?” I asked, taking another picture. One where Ahri was tucking in her shirt inside her jean skirt with her blonde wavy hair hiding the side of her face, but the top of her ear poking out.
She didn’t say anything.
“If I were to ask you about your scars and burns, would you tell me what happened?”
“Depends.” Ahri rolled up the yellow sleeves of her shirt while I got it on camera.
“On?”
“Depends if I want to share my stories. Some are personal or depressing, and others are just plain stupid?”
“Got a few stupid ones myself.”
She snorted in response.
“Is that Luke’s shirt?”
She nodded.
“Do you wear his clothes often?”
“We used to share clothes. Now, I mostly wear them when I miss him. Sometimes I wear my sister’s old clothes, but I end up looking too much like her and I have to take them off.”
“You have a sister?” I tilted my head, setting my camera on my lap. “What’s her name?”
She sighed and spoke calmly. “Aurora Nora Lore.”
Aurora? As in the letter?
I swallowed thinking of the letter.
I know what he did to Aurora.
Ahri sighed heavily, sat down on her floor and began to roll up her tie-dyed socks over her calves. She looked up at me, bit the inside of her cheek and studied my face. Almost as if she was trying to see if I was worthy of what she was going to say next.
“Aurora was my twin.” Ahri’s voice was weak.
My jaw dropped a little, and I cleared my throat, hiding my reaction.
“Was? As in the all-season kind of camp?” I asked, but I knew deep down what Ahri meant.
“No. Was…as in dead.” Ahri bit her bottom lip and put on her gray timbs, making sure each lace was as tight as could be.
“How did she die?” I pried for answers.
Ahri scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“I have to get to work.” She grunted, standing up on her feet and grabbed her bag I put on the table. She checked it to make sure all her things were there and grabbed her cell phone off the counter. Ahri went into the bathroom, and I followed, leaning on the door again and watching her put a little bit of makeup on. She didn’t hide my hickey.
Good girl.
Ahri sprayed a small tester bottle of perfume on her wrist getting that last remaining drop. She rubbed her wrists together then rubbed under her ears. She quickly blow dried her hair to damp level, then fixed a few wild strands in her bangs.
“You want a drink tonight? It’s on me,” she muttered under her breath.
I tapped my camera. Even though I wanted to, I had to be at The Bayne for my early meeting tomorrow with Emilio.
“Can’t.”
Ahri shrugged.
She played with her hair a few more times and added some water. I moved backward in the kitchen and took a sneaky picture, one that didn’t involve the flash. I stole few more photos until I stopped and watched Ahri let out a loud huff, ruffled her bangs, and gave up.
Ahri didn’t say much after that. She went into her fridge, drank the rest of the Red Bull and got ready. We talked a little bit about her schedule and when we had another time to fuck, but I let her know that I was going to stay with a friend for a few days. Ahri didn’t ask any follow-up questions, which I was thankful for. Then again, she was still half asleep, and curiosity didn’t seem to eat her up as it did with me.
We said goodbye, and she left.
I sat on her small countertop, next to her never-used-been-touched oven when I felt my stomach ta
lk to me. It told me to make sure she got to Diablo’s, safe and sound, and I listened. I went over to my apartment, changed the lens to my camera, and turned it into binoculars, reminding me of my favorite jobs. I zoomed in on Ahri crossing the street and walking down the block. I snapped a few images until I saw Ahri make it into Diablo's without a scratch.
I took a few mental notes.
Aurora Nora Lore.
Relation: Twin.
Status: Deceased.
Reason: Unknown.
JACK
I let out a muffled scream as I slammed the door shut.
“Are you okay?” the Uber driver asked.
I ignored him and waved my hand so that we could get going. Rubbing my tired eyes, I laid on the whole backseat of the car. I’d overslept, and I was pissed at myself. I’d been at my penthouse for the past three nights, four nights if I didn't wake up just half an hour ago, and I felt like I wasted my time. Oversleeping wasn’t the only reason I was pissed. I couldn't find jack shit about Link, my long-lost foster brother, or Aurora online.
One of the most important things I’d learned since I’d been locked away was that the internet and social media ruled the fucking world. If you didn’t have the internet, you might as well live under a rock or in your own form of a prison. Although to be honest, everyone’s obsession with social media was fucking creepy. I mean, you could practically stalk a baby from the day they were born all the way to their adult lives because their parents posted everything and anything online.
To that, I say: Are you a fucking idiot?
I thought it was easy finding people seven years ago, but now? Oh my God, it’s a private investigator’s dream come true. Orgasms-at-your-fingertips type of situation, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find shit on Link or Aurora.
I figured I wasn't going to find much about Aurora since neither Ahri or Fidget were online.
But nothing on Link?
How was that fucking possible?
The whole reason for leaving Chicago at fifteen after my odd job was to leave it untainted of my major crimes…and because I was told to get out if I wanted to make some real money. Still, I wanted Chicago to have my name and face unrecognized. To leave it pure-ish and Jack-free for when I came back and lived the life I’d dreamt of. A life that included Link and reuniting with him.
Shit, I wonder if he even remembers me, I thought of the worst. Link was four years younger than me, but when we’d been younger, we were joined at the hip.
So, he should remember me.
I hope.
I let out a heavy sigh, and the Uber driver looked back at me to make sure I was okay. I was decent. I buried my face into my elbow but made sure I didn’t sleep.
Link had been adopted by a wealthy young couple who were also the oddest couple I’d ever seen. He was a tall skinny mixed black man with blue eyes, wearing round Harry Potter-like glasses, and she was an Asian woman with freckles and plum purple hair. Sadly, I never found out their names. Two days ago, I tried to call the adoption agency for Link’s records, but they were private.
I saw the odd couple once, and their faces were still imprinted in my brain. When I first met them, I tried to talk to them, but they instantly labeled me as a punk, a delinquent, a piece of shit. I fucking hated them for that. All they saw was a scrawny, lengthy, fifteen-year-old with a tattoo on his neck who smelled of cigarettes. Not to mention I had a limp from one of my most brutal and potentially fatal injuries to date. Immediately, they pinned me as a horrible influence on Link, but in fact, I was the complete opposite.
FUCK! THEM!
When I tried to ask the odd couple questions about themselves, they stayed mute or straight up lied to my face. I’ll be honest, it fucking hurt. They were avoiding me on purpose, so I wouldn’t see Link ever again even though I’d been his brother for nine years. I was the one taking care of him, not his shitty-ass foster parents. But because I didn’t look a certain way, I was labeled a troublemaker, invisible in their eyes.
Sadly, when they talked to Link, they never mention their names. I didn't have too much of a lead aside from seeing their faces eighteen years ago. Trying to find them was almost impossible, but that wasn’t going to stop me. Even if I had to bribe the adoption agency for their last names, I will. I’d find them. And I’d find Link.
I let out another throaty growl and checked my phone.
Ahri still hadn’t texted me back. I texted her, ‘where are you,’ but she, one, was too busy working herself to the bone, and two, she was saving her paid minutes. Ahri was always working, drowning, which happened to be my schedule the past few days.
I wasted my last three days waiting for Emilio Bayne, the filthy rich old geezer that owned The Bayne Hotels with his family.
The first day Emilio canceled, which wasn’t too bad since I’d been busy getting all the adult things that needed doing done. I got insurance for both my life and car, picked out a doctor and dentist, paid and signed some documents saying that I was who I was, and blah, blah-fucking-blah. All that fun shit and more.
The second day Emilio accidentally overslept our early meeting which pissed me off. Although, I couldn't do anything about it. I had to be on my best behavior and raging at Emilio would send me out on the street with a snap of a finger.
I cooled off by going to the Nike store where I bought a shit ton of workout clothes and shoes so that I could work out in the private Bayne gym. It was a nice stress-reliever and a well-needed workout I haven’t had since I’d been released. When I was done breaking a sweat, I went to Whole Park to see if what I’d buried years, and years, and fucking years ago was still there. And it was. That lifted my mood up to getting-outta-prison happiness levels until I saw my poor car. I thought I was going to shit bricks and chuck them at the fuckers who smashed my baby.
My car looked like the Wolverine, and the Hulk had their way with her. All scratched up and dented, although, I had no one person to blame but my fucking self. I shouldn't have brought such a work of art in such a shitty neighborhood. I should’ve known better.
Dumbass.
I brought her to the mechanics where she still was. That why I was in an Uber. It was better this way. Getting her fixed and polished, and driving her only when I was permanently located at Golden Ridge. It was also easier for my lie too.
After my car was violated, I was back where I started. Pissed. So, I decided to abuse my credit card. I crossed the street from The Bayne Hotel, where all the stores I’d ever dreamt of shopping at one day were spread out in front of me. I’d always had expensive taste even when I was in my teens and twenties. I would steal clothes from Armani, Prada, and Diesel, my top three favorite Italian victims. I was a sucker for Italian-made clothes.
Now, when I went into the stores, it felt different. I was different. I was finally going to pay for my clothes like a civilized human. I still got the skeptical looks and the occasional employee who followed me around to make sure I didn't roll up a t-shirt and shove it in my crotch.
Not this time, motherfuckers! I thought while letting out an evil laugh in my head.
I stayed at the stores until they happily kicked me out because I’d spent thousands. I got home, put away my clothes, and spent a hefty part of my night rearranging my buried treasure inside my safe. Afterward, I tried to pull an all-nighter, researching all the rich fuckers in Golden Ridge to find Link, but I passed out.
The third day, yesterday, I got up around three in the afternoon to a firm knock on my front door. It was Emilio Bayne. This time, I’d overslept our meeting—FUCK!—however, he wasn't mad.
Emilio had a peaceful and surprisingly mellow demeanor, even though he looked like a sixty-year-old bastard you didn’t want to mess with. He kind of looked like an older version of Clooney and DiCaprio with pure white hair and mint green eyes. His gray suit fit his long, lean athletic body like a glove and when I saw a tattoo poking under his sleeve, I knew that there was more to this old bastard than he was letting on.
I’d s
een Emilio in Forbes and newspapers, but it’s different than being in the same room as him. I figured he wanted to meet me since I’d be living under the three private floors where he lived with his family. One thing I knew about him was that he was a huge family man, keeping his only child, Seth, and grandchildren close to him.
When Emilio came into my penthouse, he held the hands of two toddlers that I could only assume were his grandkids, twins, a boy and girl. All I kept thinking about when I opened the door was, ‘Thank God you put on your fucking robe, Jack.’ The kids were cute as fuck. Mixed race, caramel skin, and wild curly hair that ate them up. The twins immediately made me think of Ahri and Aurora.
I shook Emilio’s hand, and we moved our conversation to my living room. We talked for a few minutes while his grandson, Sebastian, poked at the rose tattoo on my neck and his granddaughter, Savannah, watched me like a hawk and walked around my black leather couch. Savannah had the same eye condition as Link, heterochromia; it’s when you have two different colored eyes. I joked with Savannah and called her Lickety Split which made her snort a laugh. After that she warmed up to me and followed her brother, poking at my body art.
I didn't mind kids; in fact, I loved kids. Sure, sometimes they didn’t like me because I looked ‘scary,’ but that wasn’t the case for the Bayne twins. Over the years, I’d babysat more times than I could remember. I enjoyed it for the most part. Usually, when you spent as many years as I did around kids, you go two of which ways. The path that makes you want to have kids or the path that makes you want to get the snip. Needless to say, no one had ever been near my balls with a knife. Thank the fucking Lord.
After Sebastian petted all the tattoos on my arms, calves, and neck, tilting his head more times than I could count while letting out soft ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s. And after Savannah did the same but tried to ask me more questions than Emilio did in her one-and-a-half-year-old baby language. Emilio pulled me aside for a private conversation.
“Listen, Jack. I’m going to come out and say it. I know about your past…all of it.”
