On the Streets of New Orleans

by Lynn Lorenz

  Devon now knew Charlie’s problems ran deep, and he had no idea how to beat them and their hold on the man. Or even if he should try.

  A murderer? No, not even high on coke, Charlie wouldn’t kill on purpose. Devon knew the legal system and, at best, Charlie got negligent homicide. The light sentence and short probation proved that much.

  Still, in Charlie’s head, it was as if he’d pulled the trigger of a gun.

  He’d killed his kid brother.

  Fuck. That was hard.

  Devon didn’t know if he could have handled it any better than Charlie had. The man had such strength to have kicked his coke habit and moved forward, let alone to be helping others. Devon admired him for it, and he had a suspicion Charlie didn’t see his own abilities at all.

  Just the fact he hadn’t relapsed back into the drugs proved how strong he was. That he’d devoted his life to helping the men at the shelter—men just like him, addicts and recovering addicts—spoke volumes to Devon.

  Charlie was someone any man would be proud to call his lover. Charlie just couldn’t see it, and might never see it, Devon feared. But was it his job to open Charlie’s eyes?

  In the distance, Charlie faded into the darkness of the night.

  Charlie needed Devon way more than Devon needed Charlie. But was Devon up to the task? Could he show Charlie he was worth the effort? That life was worth living to its fullest?

  That maybe his brother would want him to be more than just a ghost walking through his life, never loving anyone or even himself?

  Devon needed to decide if this was something he should do—interfere in Charlie’s life. Because that’s what he’d be doing if they got involved, even occasionally. But for what purpose? Just to fuck him?

  His own life was no picnic or uncomplicated by any means. Originally he’d thought Charlie would be an easy distraction, something casual, convenient. No emotions and no entanglements.

  Yet here he was, thinking about getting more than entangled. This would be getting involved. With a recovering addict. A convicted felon. A man so deep in pain he couldn’t forgive himself enough to ease even some of that pain.

  He’d lost his fucking mind.

  If he was smart, he’d get in his car, drive off, chalk it up to wrong place, wrong time, and forget about Charlie McAfee and his problems.

  Devon turned away and walked to his car, parked around the corner.

  As soon as he sat down and closed the door, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a pack of smokes. He lit one, inhaled deeply, and held it in, letting the nicotine work its way through his system. He hadn’t had a cigarette in hours… not that he chain smoked, but he’d gotten into the habit during the long nights, just to have something to do to kill the time, help him think things through.

  He smoked in the dark, then tossed the butt out the window, started the car, and pulled away from the restaurant. He circled the block and headed down Tulane. Slowing down, he cruised past the shelter.

  Charlie stood on the steps, smoking, as the light over the shelter door cast his dark shadow on the cement.

  Shit. Devon hunkered down and drove past, hoping Charlie didn’t spot him. Once he could see Charlie in the side mirror, he sped up a bit and continued home.

  Something told Devon it wouldn’t be the last time he’d see Charlie.

  And he wasn’t sure at all if that was good or bad.

  CHARLIE WATCHED the car drive past. He squinted in the dark as he tried to make out the driver. Damn, was that Devon?

  If it was, was he checking up on Charlie?

  His heart sped up at the thought of the man he shouldn’t become involved with. It obviously wasn’t listening to a damn thing his brain was telling it. Then again, hearts never do.

  He blew out the last lungful of smoke, dropped the butt to the cement, and ground it out with the heel of his boot. Smashed cigarettes littered the steps. Without Charlie there to herd them tonight, the men hadn’t bothered to clean up their mess.

  Charlie sighed, unlocked the door, and went in. He went to the storeroom and got out the broom and the dust pan. He might as well get it done tonight, while he was unable to go to sleep.

  He paused, listening to the sounds of the old building. Other than the usual creaking, the place was quiet. Upstairs, where everyone slept, the snoring could wake the dead, but down here, the thick walls and floors of the place muffled most of the sounds.

  Charlie propped the front door open with a beat-up wedge of wood and started sweeping. He cleaned off the wide porch, then worked his way down each step, his head down, trying to be as thorough and as quick as possible.

  “Hey! You got any money?” a surly voice shot out of the dark.

  Charlie spun around, his heart tripping, looking in the direction of the voice. A man stood just out of the light from the front door lamp.

  “Who’s there?” Charlie peered into the darkness.

  “Don’t worry about that. Got any money?” Now the voice sounded angrier, and the hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck stood on end.

  “No. But I can get you something to eat and a place to stay if you want it.” Charlie tried not to let the fear in his voice show. Just stay calm and collected. No sudden moves.

  The man stepped closer, and Charlie’s blood went frigid. He had a gun.

  “I don’t need no food, mister.”

  Charlie didn’t know the guy, but he’d seen his type many times before—a junkie looking for money for his next hit. If Charlie wasn’t careful, this could turn deadly.

  “This is a men’s shelter. We don’t have money.” Charlie gave him a friendly smile and held his arms open in welcome. “We’re run by the Catholic church. We have beds and food, but that’s all.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he processed the information. He had the telltale signs of a meth addict—bad skin, bad teeth, and stringy hair.

  “What about you?” He shoved the gun toward Charlie. “You got money?”

  Charlie leaned the broom against the stair rail. “Yes, a few dollars.” He dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out the few dollars of change left over from paying for his meal.

  “Give it to me!” He motioned with the gun.

  Charlie put the cash on the top of the cement balustrade and backed off. “There.”

  The man darted forward, snatching it up. He fumbled through the bills, lowering the gun as he did so. Charlie thought about jumping him but wasn’t sure he could overpower a junkie high on meth or be fast enough to avoid getting shot. The money just wasn’t worth it.

  “You got more?” He looked up, shoved the money in his pocket, and aimed the gun at Charlie again.

  “No. That’s all.” Charlie measured the distance between where he stood and the top of the stairs. He’d never make it without being shot. The only way out of this was to get this guy to leave.

  The man’s gaze traveled up the stairs to the shelter’s door. “What about inside?”

  “Nothing in there but eighty men asleep in bunks. Most of them addicts, winos, and homeless. They don’t have any money, which is why they’re here.” The last thing Charlie wanted was this guy getting inside and ransacking the place for shit to hock or stealing what little cash the men had managed to get.

  And if the men woke up, Charlie would lose control of the situation. Right now only he was in danger. If the thief got inside, a lot of his men could get hurt or killed.

  The junkie took a step forward, as if to go up the stairs.

  “Hey! I said they don’t have any money.” Charlie’s protectiveness leaped like a tiger in his chest, and he moved between the guy and the stairs.

  The man’s face contorted, and he stuck his gun in Charlie’s chest. The cold of the metal barrel shot a bullet of fear straight through Charlie.

  “You got to have money!” He pressed the nose of the gun deeper.

  “No. The priests! They pay for everything. They deliver the food and shit. We don’t keep any money because of the men we have
here. Too much temptation.”

  His attacker seemed to chew that over. Charlie wasn’t lying. They didn’t keep any cash, but he and the other men had a little money. It might add up, but he just had to keep him from figuring that out.

  The gun shook. Charlie knew if the guy pulled the trigger, he’d never survive. In fact, he’d be dead before he hit the ground. For the first time in a very long time, Charlie didn’t want to die.

  The junkie cursed, spittle flying, hitting Charlie in the face, and then he smashed the butt of the gun into the side of Charlie’s head. Charlie staggered back, reaching for the metal handrails to stay upright, but missed and fell onto the concrete steps.

  The impact of his side hitting the sharp edges of the stairs exploded pain through his body. All the air whooshed out of his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the gunshot.

  Nothing. He opened his eyes in time to watch the guy run away, reach darkness, and disappear. Charlie’s head pounded and blood, wet and warm, ran down the side of his head, over his ear to his neck.

  Shit. Fucking druggies. And fucking drug dealers.

  The neighborhood had been bad before, but in the last few months, it had grown worse. Now his shelter was under attack, and he’d been robbed and pistol-whipped.

  Charlie pulled himself up, one hand to his head, and staggered up the stairs, leaving the broom and dust pan behind. He got to the doors and stared out into the darkness up and down Tulane Avenue.

  “Where’s a fucking cop when you need one?” he asked the night.

  He pulled the door closed, locked it, and went to his room to clean up and tend his bleeding cut. No sense in calling the cops. They wouldn’t do anything anyway. Understaffed and overworked, they’d just take a report and move on.

  Charlie went into his bathroom and wet a towel. He wiped at the blood and checked out the wound on his cheek. Not too bad. Head wounds bled like a bitch. He dug into his medicine cabinet and found a box of bandages, tore one off the roll, and put it on with minimal wincing.

  He exhaled with a hard shudder, and his ribs ached. He pulled up his shirt and stared at his side, already bruising. A few presses and he decided he hadn’t cracked any ribs.

  Damn that junkie.

  It was guys like that who ruined a good place to live. Charlie should know. He’d ruined just about everyplace he’d ever been—his parent’s home and his apartment. But he’d blown through all his belongings, selling them for whatever he could get for them. He’d begged money from his parents until they realized he was buying drugs with it and cut him off. He’d even asked Lloyd for money. But he’d never robbed anyone.

  He snorted. Who was he kidding? The only reason he’d never sunk that low was because he’d bypassed that and went straight to hell. Don’t pass go. Don’t collect shit.

  Just kill your brother and wind up in jail.

  But he wasn’t like that anymore. Now he was clean and sober.

  The real enemy was the drugs and the men and women who sold them.

  Men like Devon?

  Fuck. He’d forgotten about his suspicions of Devon and that he thought the man was dealing drugs in this neighborhood.

  Well, now he knew for sure. He’d witnessed it for himself. Been a victim of it.

  If that didn’t just beat all. What irony! He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so damn much.

  Damn it. If he ever saw Devon again, he was going to tell him off and call the fucking cops on him.

  Chapter 6

  DEVON HUNKERED down behind the derelict car with Jingo, keeping in the shadows as he watched the drug dealer across the street. He’d sent the brothers Mo and Mini-Mo out scouting, and they’d found this young woman pushing crack on a corner of Mid-City, just blocks from the shelter.

  It pissed him off that after he’d established a territory here, someone thought she could just waltz in and sell drugs on his turf. He’d have to make an example of this dealer.

  Jingo gave him a sharp head jerk toward the woman. “What now?”

  “We’re gonna let the cops handle this for us.” Devon grinned. He pulled out his burner cell phone and texted the location to the vice squad’s tip line. No one would be able to track him through the phone. “Now, we wait.”

  Jingo grinned and nodded. He shifted to one knee on the ground and kept surveillance. Devon leaned his back against the car, trusting Jingo to let him know if anything happened.

  “Teach her ass to trespass,” Jingo whispered.

  Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, four cars pulled over, their occupants chatting to the dealer. They handed over the money, and she passed them the crack in tiny little baggies.

  Each time, Jingo nudged Devon so he could take photos of the deal and the cars’ license plates. Extra proof, if he needed it.

  When the first patrol car turned the corner, she was leaning into the car at the curb, doing the transaction. She looked up, cursed, and bolted down the street.

  The cops hit the lights and siren and took after her. The guy in the car tried to pull off, but a second unit pulled up and blocked him off.

  Down the block, the cops had the woman on the ground, cuffing her.

  Devon gave Jingo a high five. Another dealer off his turf. One by one, he’d get them all. A small crowd gathered, coming out of houses to see what was going on, and Devon and Jingo slipped into it and then away from the commotion.

  “Tell Mo and Mini-Mo they did good tonight.” Devon stopped around the corner and lit a cigarette. Jingo bummed one from him, and Devon flicked his cheapie lighter open.

  The men stood on the sidewalk, smoking for a few moments, then Devon nodded good-bye and went to his car. Jingo strode off down the block, his cocky I’m badass strut making Devon laugh.

  He started the engine and pulled off, heading back to his place. But when he reached Tulane Avenue, his mind went right to Charlie. Devon hated that he and Charlie had left things so badly. He’d wanted to help the man, make it better for him, but how?

  Without thinking, he turned the car toward the shelter and glanced at his watch. Almost closing time. Would Charlie be outside with the others? Smoking? Should he stop?

  Ahead on the right, the light from the overhead beamed down on the porch and steps of the shelter. Men stood about, hands in pockets, heads down, some smoking, others leaning against the buildings.

  On the top of the porch stood Charlie.

  Devon’s heart thudded, and he groaned. Damn, he was in too deep, and he knew it. He wanted Charlie in the worst way—more than for sex—and for a very long time. He’d be breaking all his rules about staying loose and unattached, but he knew that.

  He pulled the car over about half a block away, parked, and sat there.

  What was he thinking of doing? Charlie had made it clear he wasn’t capable of giving Devon anything, but Devon knew inside, if he could just reach Charlie, the man would be a marvelous lover.

  He wanted to know Charlie that way more than anything he’d wanted in a long time.

  The fact Charlie was a recovering addict? Well, fuck, Devon had demons of his own, didn’t he? How many nights had he lain in bed, the fading memories of bad dreams, of events and things he’d seen, burning into the back of his eyelids?

  Devon shook off his thoughts and got out of the car.

  He knew what he wanted, and it was standing on the steps of the shelter. He strode down the sidewalk with purpose burning in his eyes. Would Charlie see the flare of his desire and bolt? Run inside and lock the door?

  He’d never know if he didn’t try to reach the man.

  CHARLIE LOOKED up at the approaching man bathed in shadow. At five minutes to ten, his first thought was that, whoever he was, he’d better get his ass in gear before Charlie locked him out for the night. His second thought was that the junkie had returned. He dug in his pocket for the keys to the front door.

  “Five minutes,” he called out. Best to get them inside and safe if it was the same guy.

  The men shuffled and
stubbed out cigarettes or lighted up new ones for that last smoke of the night. A few wandered inside, but Charlie sat on the ledge of the porch wall, drumming the heels of his sneakers against the concrete, waiting until they all went in.

  Waiting until he could see who this man was.

  The man stepped into the nearby light, and Charlie’s heart stopped, stuttered, and then pounded in his chest. Devon.

  What the hell?

  He didn’t know what to feel or how to sort out the emotions swimming inside him—relief, anger and fear, desire and lust, all rolled into one huge ball of uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

  He had to force his hands to unclench as he rose. He took the steps down and walked up to Devon, meeting him before he reached the other men.

  “What do you want?” Charlie didn’t bother to hide the anger in his voice. He’d told Devon to forget him because he wasn’t worth the fight, but damned if the man hadn’t ignored him and showed up. The nerve of the cocky bastard.

  Did he think Charlie would just fall into his arms?

  Devon stared at him. His eyes narrowed, and he reached out and caught Charlie’s head in his hands. “What the hell happened to you?” The rumble of anger in Devon’s voice wasn’t lost on Charlie, and he had to brace himself against the urge to lean into Devon’s embrace.

  “You should know.” Charlie pulled away, and Devon let his hands drop to his sides.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “One of your loyal customers did this.” Charlie spun around and headed back to the shelter. He didn’t get far before Devon caught up to him and hauled him around to face him.

  “My customers? What the hell are you talking about?” Devon demanded.

  “Okay. Play stupid. I’ll explain it.” Charlie shook loose. “A junkie jumped me. Right here in front of the shelter. He had a gun. I gave him money, but he hit me anyway.”

  “Fuck. I’m sorry. But he’s not mine. I didn’t have anything to do with that.” Devon followed him up the steps.

  Charlie turned at the door. Most of the men had gone inside. “Come on, Buddy. Let’s get in,” he told the last straggler. He held the door as the old man took his time as he shuffled past.