Little Black Box Set (The Black Trilogy)

by Tabatha Vargo

“Mike’s?” I asked as I read the fading sign above the door.

  “Yep. It was my dad’s name. He was a real asshole, so I named the place after him out of spite.”

  I snorted, enjoying his reasoning.

  It sounded like something I would do if I had an asshole for a dad. Hell, if I had any kind of dad.

  “I’m assuming since you broke into my place that you don’t have a home? No family or friends you can stay with?”

  It was embarrassing to admit, but since the loss of Deloris followed by the bullshit Jane pulled and basically running away from Vick’s crazy, I literally had nothing and no one.

  “Nope. No family. No friends. No home.”

  Fuck it.

  I was sure it was more than obvious to him I was a piece of shit no one wanted to claim. A nothing that no one wanted to house.

  He stared at me, making my skin feel itchy from the attention before he screwed the lid back on his bottle and stashed it back under the bar.

  “Okay. Well, come on, then,” he said, leaving the bar and heading to a set of stairs I hadn’t noticed before.

  I frowned. “Excuse me? Where are we going?”

  He stopped, again scratching at his frizzy beard. “Upstairs.”

  A sick feeling moved into the pit of my stomach. The old man had the wrong idea about me.

  “Look, old man, I appreciate the drink and all, but if I had to choose between going upstairs with you and going to jail, I’d choose jail. I’ll even call the cops myself if you want.”

  He stared at me with a weird look on his face before his deep, gritty laughter filled the entire space. When he finally calmed down long enough to wipe away his laughter tears, he shook his head and patted at his pot belly.

  “I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time, kid. Thanks.”

  Anger struck me deep.

  I was tired.

  Hungry.

  Pissed off at the world.

  I had survived some of the worst shit I could think of—things no child should ever have to endure—and he had the audacity to call me a kid.

  Fuck that.

  I lost my childhood before I was even able to become a child.

  “I’m not a kid,” I snapped.

  He ignored my fit, starting toward the stairs once more.

  “Hey,” I called out, stopping him. “Where are you going?”

  “Upstairs. To sleep. In my own bed. By myself.” He emphasized each word. “If you want to crash on my couch, then come on. If not, you can leave the same way you came in.”

  He disappeared up the stairwell, leaving me to debate my options.

  I could trust that the old man wasn’t going to molest me in my sleep, or I could climb out the window and try to find another place to crash.

  I looked out the window at the cold night. I was running out of moonlight. Soon the sun would be up, and the streets would be bustling. That would mean yet another sleepless night.

  I didn’t have it in me to go another night without sleep. My body would fold, and I would end up passed out somewhere.

  Sliding from the stool, I slugged my way toward the stairwell, feeling dead on my feet. My body dragged as I started to climb them step by step.

  When I reached the top, I knocked lightly on the door, making it creak open the rest of the way. He had left the door cracked for me, knowing I would choose to crash on his couch.

  Once the door opened, I was surprised to find an entire apartment above the bar. It was open; the kitchen and living space all one room with a short hall on the side that probably went to his bedroom and a bathroom.

  It was small.

  Quiet.

  Warm.

  I stepped into the apartment just as he was coming down the short hall with his arms full of blankets. He said nothing as he dumped them on a couch that looked as if it had survived World War I.

  He knew I would stay.

  He knew I didn’t have any other choice.

  And as tired as I was, I didn’t care what he thought about me, but I did wonder why he would choose to help a total stranger, much less one who had broken a window and slipped into his bar uninvited.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice cracking with exhaustion. “I broke into your place, and instead of calling the police, you’re going to let me sleep on your couch?”

  He stood and tossed a pillow onto the couch.

  “You seem like a decent kid to me. The way I see it, you owe me for that broken window downstairs. You can work it off tomorrow night when we open.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “You’re giving me a job?”

  I had never had a job before. I didn’t think anyone in the world would hire me, so I never tried.

  He shrugged. “We could try it out. See how you work out. You can pay off that window, and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, you can crash on my couch.”

  I was getting more out of the deal than he was, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  He moved back into the short hall, a light from above the kitchen sink slicing across his aged face.

  “Hey, kid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you’re hungry, there’s food in the fridge. Don’t drink my beer, though,” he said firmly, pointing a finger in my direction.

  “I won’t.”

  After the liquor downstairs, beer was the last thing on my mind. Food, on the other hand … just the thought of it made my stomach rumble painfully.

  “The bathroom’s right here,” he said, pointing at a door beside him. “And if you get cold, there are more blankets in the closet in the bathroom.”

  I nodded, hugging myself, ready to raid his refrigerator.

  “The name’s Clive,” he said. “Yours?”

  “Sebastian.”

  He stood a minute longer, his eyes taking me in before he backed away. “Okay. Well, get some sleep, Sebastian.”

  And then he was gone, disappearing into his room and shutting the door behind him.

  Sleep was calling my name, but hunger was clawing at the insides of my stomach.

  I moved into the kitchen area and slung open refrigerator door. There wasn’t much, but I was starving and far from being picky.

  I made a sandwich and washed it down with a Coke. My stomach growled its thanks, and I felt satisfied for the first time in days.

  Peeling off my coat, I laid it on the back of the couch before I slipped off my shoes. The couch creaked beneath me as I stretched out and melted into the cushions.

  As I stared at the faded wood ceiling, sleep slowly claimed me. And for the first time in a year, I slept peacefully without fear of what the streets could do to me when I wasn’t watching my back.

  TWENTY-ONE

  TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE LIVING AN ACTUAL LIFE and going to work every day, and the day almost a year before when I had broken into Clive’s place was a distant memory. One that Clive and I laughed about regularly.

  I’d learned a lot in that time. A lot of things about myself became clear in the months I lived with Clive. The most important thing I learned at that time was I loved to work.

  All day.

  All night.

  Anytime Clive wanted me to work, I was there.

  It wasn’t even about the pay, which wasn’t great but it was enough. It was about staying busy. It was about starting a project and seeing it through. Even something as simple as stocking bottles in the back, cleaning up after last call, or locking the door before going up to bed. It gave me so much pleasure to get a task and complete it.

  There was no doubt about it. I was a workaholic.

  Life was going okay. I didn’t want to think too hard on that since I knew things could change at the drop of a dime, but until then, I decided to enjoy my good fortune and take in everything Clive wanted to teach me.

  He was a wise man. One who had traveled the world and lived one hell of a life wit
h the pictures to prove it. And he was an honest man, which was something I wasn’t used to after growing up with dealers and crooks.

  But I liked that about him.

  I liked that I could trust him, and I really loved knowing that he trusted me. Earning his trust only made me strive to be more trustworthy. It was strange how that worked. When someone gave you respect, you became respectful.

  He made me a better man. Although you would never hear me tell him that.

  He became like a father in a lot of ways, showing me the ways of being an adult with a firm hand. And while that sometimes scared the living shit out of me, I couldn’t deny the fact that I loved feeling wanted and cared about by someone in the world who meant it.

  Clive didn’t have to take me in that night, and he sure as hell didn’t have to give me a job and a place to stay, but something in the back of my mind told me that he was giving me a second chance at a real life. I wasn’t entirely sure I deserved that second chance after the shit I had done and the people I had hurt, but I couldn’t turn it down.

  Just thinking about the night that gave me nightmares—the night that made me undeserving—made my stomach twist with nausea. No matter how hard I tried to be happy with my new circumstances, remembering the look on the faces of those I murdered kept me from being completely content.

  How could I ever be happy when two kids out there were without parents because of me?

  I’d screwed their life up.

  I didn’t deserve happiness.

  It didn’t matter who was there that night. It didn’t matter who pulled the trigger. I blamed myself for the death of the husband and wife—of the mother and father of those poor kids—and of the death of the last remaining remnants of Sebastian Stephens.

  I wanted to let it go.

  I didn’t want that life anymore, and with the help of Clive, I knew I was becoming a new man. I was seeing things different and becoming an honest and respectable person—a person Deloris could be proud of.

  But that didn’t mean the weight of death and murder wasn’t heavy on my heart.

  “Hey, Jerry,” I greeted the liquor delivery guy as he came around the corner of his truck and opened the back.

  I wasn’t technically supposed to serve the alcohol. I did some nights, but only when the regulars were around. I wasn’t allowed to serve it, but that didn’t mean Clive didn’t make me stock it. So when Jerry brought the merchandise, I made sure it was stored properly. The boxes were heavy, but I was never one to shy away from hard work.

  “Sebastian, my man,” he said, straining to pick up the first box load of bottles. “You ready for the weekend rush?”

  I reached out, taking the box from his arms with a grin. “Always.”

  “Yeah, I bet. I wish I had a job working in a bar full of good-looking women.”

  He laughed, and I did, too, because he wasn’t wrong. There were nights when Mike’s would get so packed full of beautiful women I’d find myself walking around with a stiff dick all night.

  It didn’t matter that Clive’s bar looked like a hole-in-the-wall establishment; on the weekends, the place stayed busy because everyone loved the comfortable, laid-back atmosphere.

  It also helped that every patron who walked in the door was treated like family. Clive had a way about him that made people love him. He was everyone’s favorite thing about the bar. He was my favorite thing, too.

  After Jerry had unloaded Clive’s favorite whiskey, I signed the invoice and started carrying the cases into the supply room.

  That was my job.

  I stocked the supply room, kept stock of the alcohol, and cleaned up after last call. I also went down an hour before Clive to get things ready for open. It wasn’t the best job in the world, but I loved it, and I was good at it.

  Numbers were my thing.

  Who knew?

  “Everything here?” Clive asked, coming into the supply room.

  “Yep,” I said, checking off the final tally. “Eight cases of your expensive shit.”

  “Language, kid.” He tapped me on my shoulder, reminding me of Deloris and making me smile.

  Almost a year.

  That was how long I had been with Clive.

  And it didn’t matter how many times I bitched about him calling me a kid, he never stopped. Eventually, I gave up and accepted his nickname. I even grew to like it a bit.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I griped.

  I didn’t hate it when Clive scolded me.

  As a kid who grew up with next to no structure, it was more than welcomed. Deloris had tried, but it was different when you lived with the person who was trying to mold you into a decent human being.

  Clive was the first person since Deloris who had the balls to tell me what was right and wrong. He was the first person since her who cared how I presented myself to others.

  When I had first started working for Clive, I knew the difference between right and wrong. I understood I was a rude and sarcastic little fuck, but after living on the cold streets, I had become numb to it all.

  It was different with Clive. Seeing how people responded to him and the respect he earned from others both personal and business—I wanted that someday. It was my goal.

  Respect.

  Power.

  I wanted it all and more.

  People would one day look at me like I was a king, and if I had to follow the rules that Clive laid down for me to get to that point in my life, so be it.

  He spoke.

  I listened.

  Period.

  The rules weren’t bad.

  Keep your language clean.

  No getting stupid drunk.

  No drugs.

  No exceptions.

  But the biggest rule of all was I had to get my GED.

  I wasn’t too happy about that one since school had been my least favorite place in the world, but I wanted to give something back to Clive after all he had given me. So I sucked it up and took the damn test, passing it with a higher score than either of us had expected.

  “When you’re done here, I was thinking of cleaning out these boxes here,” he said, motioning toward a large pile of boxes that occupied most of the supply room.

  “You mean the boxes I’ve been telling you to get rid of for the past six months?”

  He laughed.

  “This is sentimental junk. You don’t just toss out sentimental junk, kid.”

  I smirked. “Whatever you say, old man.”

  I picked up a box and strained under its weight. “What do you want me to do with them? The dumpster out back work for you?” I joked.

  “Don’t even talk about throwing these babies out.” He patted the box in my arms. “Just move them upstairs so I can go through them. We need the room in here.”

  Setting the box back down, I returned to the stocking. “Okay, I’ll get started on them as soon I bring in the last few cases.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He turned to leave but stopped. Tapping his fingers against the trim on the door, he scratched at his beard with his free hand.

  “Maybe next week I’ll start showing you how to run this place.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Did he know something I didn’t know?

  Was something wrong?

  Paranoia moved in.

  I had known good things didn’t last, but I wasn’t sure what I would do if something happened to yet another person I was starting to care about.

  He shrugged.

  “I was just thinking it’s time to start showing you the ropes. I could really use your math skills on the books. There’s no sense in you wasting all that good brain power on stocking shelves.”

  He laughed and turned and left, leaving me beaming from ear to ear.

  No one had ever told me I was good at something—with the exception of Jane who enjoyed my fingers and cock in her twat. Clive basically called me smart, and his praise somehow made my heart lighter.

  I had asked Clive many time
s before to show me all the steps to running Mike’s, but he had always refused. I was curious what had changed his mind, but I didn’t follow to ask.

  An hour later, I had only managed to move half of the boxes upstairs. Clive had way too many “sentimental boxes.” I couldn’t understand what the hell was so important that he had to hoard it.

  A few times, I peeked inside the box as I took it up the staircase to the apartment, but nothing inside looked of any importance to me. I mean, seriously, who needed a beer hat?

  The way the boxes were stacked originally sucked, making my work even harder. I had to be strategic when moving them to keep the others from crashing down on top of me. But I screwed up once when I slid a box from under another, making the top box fall and spill all over the supply room floor.

  Setting down the box in my hand, I bent over to pick up the worthless crap that covered the floor. An endless supply of papers covered postcards and old keychains. I picked the stuff up by the handfuls, hoping to make quick work of the cleanup.

  Sliding some papers to the side so I could stack them, I revealed a little black book sitting on the floor at the bottom of the pile.

  It was leather, the edges rough and worn down smooth. The pages inside looked yellowed with time, and the binding cracked from overuse.

  I picked it up, curiosity getting the best of me, and flipped through the pages. Clive’s slanted handwriting covered the pages, but I couldn’t make sense of what he’d written.

  Mustang. Bucks from behind. Hell of a lube job.

  Then a phone number.

  The rest of the pages followed. Cars and notes next to cars. Things like long legs, strong mouth, and wildcat.

  Camaro.

  Charger.

  Corvette.

  The names went on and on as my eyes moved over the pages.

  Clive’s chuckle startled me, and I closed the book quickly as if I hadn’t just been reading his personal stuff.

  “Looks like you found my little black book,” he said, moving into the supply room.

  “Little black book?”

  He laughed.

  “Damn, you make me feel old, kid. Let me see it.”

  He held his hand out for the book, and I handed it over to him.

  He opened it and began flipping through the pages. His grin grew as he read over page after page.