It’s a sad commentary on modern society that someone can go their entire life without ever learning whether they’re a coward or not. I forget who said that, but it’s true. And while I might not be a good man, at least I know I’m not a coward.
Going to the edge of the outcropping, I look down, seeing that the fifty-foot drop is definitely worse at this angle than from the bottom. There are all sorts of jagged-looking rocks and outcroppings that would kill anyone unfortunate enough to slip off this cliff face.
But I didn’t fall. Not this time. I made it to the top, cheated Death once more in the poker game I’m not sure he knows we’re playing.
I shake my head and take a deep breath, banishing the idea and looking around. The walking path continues off to my right, and I decide to follow it, stunned a moment later when the trail curves around the mountain and I’m treated to a view of the valley.
It’s beautiful, rugged and untouched, pure forest that reminds me that no matter my struggles, my pain, or my promises . . . the world doesn’t really care. It’s not sad. It’s almost liberating.
I can see, though, where I can make a difference. Because the forest thins out, a power line here, a fire road there, a stream that diverts and slows, forming a lazy river, and slowly, Mother Nature gives way to man, and Roseboro emerges to dominate the middle distance, a small idyllic city that looks postcard-worthy from this vantage point.
Of course it’s not idyllic. Even from up here, I can see some of the older areas of town, and my eyes are drawn to where I think I can pick out Isabella’s neighborhood, close to the railroad tracks that run north and south through town.
Every town’s got that wrong side of the tracks. Even ones without railroads.
Still, the scene stretched out below me is iconic, beautiful, and as I sit down on a rock to watch, I marvel at the twin towers that dwarf the city.
Closer to me, there’s the Blackwell Building, dark and foreboding, looking like a spear that’s been shoved into the ground, piercing and penetrating the city, plundering. Ironically, it’s the older of the two buildings, and the city actually grew from it.
The other, Goldstone Tower, rising up and reaching for the clouds above, shorter than its older cousin but somehow more inspiring with its golden-hued glass. It’s the yearning of the city for a better future, unafraid to shoot for the stars, secure in the knowledge that it’s only through the risk of failure that great successes are built.
“You’re getting sentimental again,” I chastise myself, turning away and looking at the pool behind me. The water’s not totally still, the waterfall and the outflowing stream guarantee that, but it’s peaceful in its perpetual motion, tranquility in the churning bubbles.
I reach down and gather up a handful of pebbles, tossing them in one by one to watch the ripples flutter over the surface, and my past sneaks up on me, reminding me of another pool.
“Jeremy!”
My little brother, Jeremy, stops and turns back to me, a grin splitting his face. We’re close in age, so close that my uncle calls us ‘Irish twins’, which confused the hell out of me when I was younger. We’re not Irish at all, from what I know of our family.
“Come on, Gabby. It’s just the Union.”
I sigh, tossing a rock across the small pond that we’ve been sitting next to for the past hour, watching it skip across the flat green water, the white stone so bright in contrast that it makes me stop, watching it bounce five times before dropping beneath the surface with a soupy plop.
Eleven months apart . . . we’re actually somehow in the same grade in school, but I swear Jeremy’s nothing like me. Like today. Mom and Dad told us to stay close to the house, and the pond technically qualifies since I can squint and still see the house from here.
But the Union? Where all the high school kids hang out and play basketball? Of all the places in town our parents don’t want us to go, that’s the one they’ve both named specifically.
And of course, Jeremy wants to go there. He’s been working on his layup recently and wants to put himself to the test, even if we don’t start junior high until August.
“Come on, Gabby!”
“Jeremy, stop calling me Gabby!”
A breeze blows across the valley, and tears threaten as I think about my brother. He was always the adventurous one, the one willing to break the rules.
That first time we snuck off to the Union, he was six inches shorter than everyone else there, but he already had big brass ones. Even though he got elbowed right in the eye at one point, he still kept going for that damn layup and wore that purple bruise like a trophy for his gutsiness.
“Why’d you never slow down?” I whisper, shaking my head. “And you somehow kept getting me to go along with it, too.”
Go along with it. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing now? Just go along with the plan, or pick from any of the half-dozen that I’ve formed in my head already, and kill her?
Yeah, it’ll suck, and I’m going to feel like shit . . . but I felt like shit for three days after Jeremy got into a fight with Mickey Ulrich and his buddies and the two of us got stomped out royally.
I still never regretted jumping in to save Jeremy’s ass, even if it was six on two.
I never regretted sticking with him.
Until the one time that I didn’t.
“Jeremy, come on!” I growl, looking up from my keyboard. “I get it, you wanna show off for Jenae, but newsflash . . . she’s not feeling ya, brother. And I’ve gotta get this damn history report done by tomorrow!”
Jeremy scowls at the dig about the girl he’s tailing after, his stringy cotton tank top already hanging off his toned shoulders, showing off a body that’s changed a lot over the past year. I guess I got the jump on him there. I’ve got two inches on him and I’m already having to shave, but Jeremy . . . with his looks and personality, he’s going to be getting girls long before I do.
“Blah, blah, blah, Pilgrims, maize, We the People, and sum it the fuck up!” Jeremy jokes. “You really want to tell me that you’d rather do a history report than play ball with the girls watching?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Tiffany Robinson’s going to be there.”
My fingers falter for a moment, and I think of Tiffany. I swear she’s looked at me from across the room in math class, and while I can’t be sure she’s interested, it’s gotta be a good sign. I mean, we run in different social circles, but stranger things have happened, right?
He’s got me, and judging by the slick grin on his face, he damn well knows it. “Not yet,” I growl, looking down. “Just . . . gimme a half hour to finish up, and I’ll go.”
“Sorry, bro, but Jenae’s got work later,” Jeremy says. “Listen, I’ll head down now, and you can join me when you can. I mean, even if Tiffany has already left by then, it’ll still be fun, right?”
He’s right. It’d be fine if it’s just the guys playing, but he’s even more right that it’d be better if Tiff were there.
Jeremy’s words help fuel a furious bout of rapid-fire typing, and twenty minutes later, I feel like I can take a break. All that’s left is the bibliography and figuring out what I’m going to say when I have to do the presentation on it in class later this week. But I can bullshit my way through that with the paper as a foundation.
I hurry and get changed, yanking on an old Angels T-shirt and some shorts before pulling a ballcap on. I think I’ll see if Tiffany will hold it for me while I play, and if I’m lucky, she’ll wear it herself. It’d be a good look, that girl in my hat.
I jog down to the Union, praying she’s still there. I’m almost courtside when I hear something that I swear sounds like a typewriter, or firecrackers, and then the screams start.
“Jeremy?” I ask, my heart stopping in my chest as someone else screams his name. “Jeremy!”
“I promised you I’d find out who did it,” I whisper, watching the ripples in the pool but talking to my brother’s ghost in the wind. I feel the responsibi
lity of the vow I made to my brother’s grave to get vengeance for his death.
It wasn’t grief talking then. It was fury, it was righteous justice that no other family need go through this.
“And Blackwell says he can point me in the right direction. But it’s complicated, Jer.”
In my pocket, my phone buzzes, and I’m surprised I get a cell signal up here. Pulling it out, I see I’ve got a text from a blocked number. Still, I know who it is.
I’m waiting for your word it’s done. There’s a difference between patience and stalling.
I don’t react, my emotions going cold as I put my phone away and stand up.
I knew this assignment wouldn’t be easy, knew I’d have to get my hands dirty. But it’ll be worth it to fulfill the promise I made.
At all costs, at any expense. Even if it’s my own soul. Even if it’s her life.
Chapter 7
Isabella
Wednesday comes and goes, and as I wipe down the counter, I sigh. It’s nearly nine o’clock now, and still no Beefcake.
For days now, I’ve been daydreaming about him. While that’s admittedly more than a little creepy, a ridiculous infatuation with a man I’ve shared a total of five minutes of conversation with, I can’t stop looking up every time the bell over the diner door dings. And I can’t help feeling a stab of disappointment each time it’s not him.
Maybe Char’s right. I don’t need Gabe . . . I need Hitachi.
“Izzy, you have a minute?” Martha asks from the door to the back, waving me toward her. I glance around the diner and see we’re pretty quiet. We’re in between the dinner rush and the late-night surge. The other waitress on duty, Shelley, can handle things by herself for a few, but still, I glance at the door one more time before heading back.
“What’s up, Martha?” I ask when we get to her office. “Everything okay?”
Martha always does paperwork on Wednesday nights, which usually means she’s locked in her office for the bulk of the evening. Hopefully, whatever she needs won’t keep me here long because I need to get back on the floor after having to scrape my bank account down to six dollars and thirty-two cents to get together enough cash to keep Russell off my ass, I need every extra quarter.
“Not quite,” Martha says, picking a receipt up off the table with a perplexed look on her face. “You got a complaint over the weekend.”
“What?” I ask, surprised. “Who?”
Martha hands me the receipt, and I glance at the time and date. Sunday night, near closing . . .
“Oh. That guy.”
“What do you mean?” Martha asks as I look at the note he wrote on the back of the receipt. Weitress is crap. Zombie the hole time. POS servus.
It’s not the bad spelling that hurts. It’s the big fat double zeros in the tip space on the receipt, not even rounding up to the nearest dollar. Not even a line through the space . . . a big set of double zeroes.
“This guy came in last week too,” I explain to Martha, handing the receipt back. “He bitched about the pork chops, sent them back, and scammed for a burger. When he came in this time, he sat down already bitchy. I did my best, but I don’t think he’ll be happy, no matter what.”
“He’s a regular?” Martha asks, and I shrug. “What’s he look like? Somebody I’d know?”
“He’s a delivery driver,” I reply, sighing. “He comes in occasionally. I guess you could call him a regular. Anyway, if you want backup on his attitude, ask Elaine and Henry.”
“No, your word’s good with me. Next time, feel free to give him a little sass or have Elaine take care of him. We don’t need troublemakers like that around, so if we can run him off nicely, all the better. Otherwise, I’ll pull out the big guns,” Martha says.
I appreciate that she has my back and that she’d be willing to kick the guy out for being an asshat, because she is definitely the big gun that takes no crap and tells you what’s what with blunt efficiency and a solid lack of fucks about what you think.
“There is one other thing, though. I need you to cover another shift.”
“Another?” I ask, torn. Right now, I’ve got twenty-one dollars to my name, including the few dollars I have in the bank. I do some fast figuring and think I can make it last, but a couple more bucks would make it easier.
But I’m also struggling to stay awake in class, and I know my grades are starting to suffer because of it.
You’re still passing classes though.
“What do you need?”
It’s the sound of the hamster wheel turning.
Martha looks at me carefully for a moment, then turns to the calendar on the wall. “Hiring a new server for the front’s been tough. I wanted to see if you’d like to pull a double this Saturday, and next month, I might need you to do Wednesdays.”
“Martha, that’s potentially like an extra twenty-five hours next month, and a double on Saturday?” I ask, torn between joy and frustration. On one hand, it’s money I desperately need. On the other hand, Vash is going to forget what I look like, and I’m going to have a feral cat by Christmas at this rate.
Martha blinks. “Shelley can’t do it because of the kids, but I can ask Elaine if you want me to?”
Way to guilt trip me, I think. Elaine is fierce and feisty, but I know the years of being on her feet caught up to her long ago. An extra shift each week would kill her. “Okay, you know I’ll try my best.”
Martha starts scribbling my name on the color-coded calendar, and all the orange ‘Izzy’ entries make me a little dizzy.
“Thank you. Listen, I can’t do much on the pay stub side of things, but I’ll talk with Henry. Maybe we can at least help you on the tip side of things. Uncle Sam doesn’t need to know about an extra twenty bucks cash you get as a shift incentive.”
“Thanks,” I reply, knowing that over the next four Wednesdays, I certainly won’t be pulling in eighty bucks in cash tips. Still, Martha’s trying and I appreciate that, especially considering how she’s always had my back with my changing school schedule and lets me study at the counter when we’re not busy. “I should go help Shelley.”
I head back out, reminding myself that I was the one who came to her saying I needed extra hours recently. She’s just giving me what I wanted. But the enormity of my schedule is killing me, slowly but surely.
As I hit the diner floor, I look around, hope that Gabe has arrived blooming in the desert of my heart. But the room’s empty other than Shelley, who is marrying ketchup bottles in a booth by the window.
Stupid heart. Gabe’s no Prince Charming, sweeping in to save me from the stress of my crazy life. Not even as a momentary distraction.
I grab a bottle of sanitizer and a rag, making my way to the table in the corner furthest away from the door. Ducking my head down, I get to work. Not once do I look at the door or even out to the parking lot for headlights. It feels like a hollow victory.
“I think Char’s right,” my other best friend, Mia Karakova, soon to be Mia Goldstone, says. We’re not at The Gravy Train for once, but at a coffee shop near campus, mainly because she’s buying and it’s got free Wi-Fi.
“Are you nuts?” I reply before rolling my eyes. “This isn’t a new bra she wants me to buy. It’s a friggin’ gun.”
“Obviously, but that doesn’t change the fact that Charlotte’s right,” Mia repeats, sipping her latte. “Russell’s bad news, Izzy.”
“I’m not disagreeing with that. He’s an idiot, and as soon as he gets his next hit, he’ll forget all about me,” I repeat, even as I wish I hadn’t told Charlotte about my problem with Russell at all.
I know she means well, but I don’t need to hear about it from two sides at once, especially since that lets me know without a doubt that my besties have been talking about me. I know they worry, but their comparing notes on me brings back too many crappy childhood memories.
Plus, Charlotte’s not even having coffee with us today so I can give her shit about selling me out. I stick to my usual party line, hopi
ng it shuts down this attack as well as it usually does.
“Seriously, next week, I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve been pitching that same line for a long time now,” Mia says, disappointed in me. “Next week, you’ll be fine. Next paycheck, you’ll be fine . . . same thing ever since your aunt passed away. You’re more stubborn than even Papa, and he’s worse than a damn mule.”
“Then you know not to argue with me,” I reply, hoping to sidetrack the conversation to safer ground. “How is he doing, anyway?”
“Gushy. He can’t wait for the wedding,” Mia admits. “It’s sort of cute. But stop deflecting. You want to be stubborn, I’m going to be blunt.”
Before I know it, Mia’s reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. She plops it on the table in front of me. It unfolds on its own, and I feel a stab in my gut as I see the number of zeros on the check Mia’s giving me.
“Mia, come on, this is bullshit! You know I can’t accept this!”
“I’m not giving it to you,” Mia says simply. “It’s a loan. Izzy, we’ve been friends since we were munching on Lunchables together. I’ve subjected you to hundreds of hours of anime and video games, and meanwhile, you keep refusing help from the friends who love you, choosing to work yourself to the bone instead. Do you think Char and I don’t know how tough things get for you?”
I startle, wondering exactly what they know because I thought I’d done a decent enough job hiding the rougher aspects of my life. Sure, they know I’m busy and strapped for cash, but definitely not that there are days I only eat my employee meal and that I’ve uselessly searched my couch for coins to keep the lights on.
But my pride still won’t let me take the check. “I appreciate it, I do. But I can’t.” I try to shove the check back her way, but the paper sticks to my fingers. Well, okay, it doesn’t stick so much as my thumb and pointer finger won’t let go of it.
“Look, I know I’ve let you push off help, but that was when we were all struggling to some degree. Things are different now. I’ve got enough money to help you, and I promise my bank account won’t feel it.”
Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Page 6
