by Lake, Keri
I needed it. I needed to remember what the hell I was there for in the first place. Not to frolic in some teenage fantasy romance, as if I had nothing better going on.
I had a job to do, and the job had an end—one that didn’t exactly fare well for Sera. She played a role, and I would need to bide my time with her, gain her trust, so that when the precise moment arrived, everything would be flawlessly executed.
Just as I’d planned, waiting for her to ship off to college, outside of her daddy’s watchful eyes. When she’d be vulnerable amongst the wolves.
She couldn’t have picked a better city to go to school, either. Detroit swallowed up girls like her every damn day. Rich chicks from the suburbs looking for some adventure, to sow their wild oats, or some shit. Only the hardened ones with thick skin ever stayed, and Sera didn’t fit that bill. She was soft, innocent, all the things that got eaten first when you lived in the city long enough.
In some ways, I felt sorry for her. I’d had an easier time watching and hating her from afar. Could’ve stayed that way, too, and she’d have never known what hit her in the end. But that’d be tragic. Because she needed to know why, and I needed her to feel the cold desolation I’d lived with all those years, to see the same ghosts that haunted me, to smell the burning flesh and taste it at the back of her throat until it gagged her.
The getting to know her shit had begun to wreak havoc on my head, and if I’d known how much she’d start to crawl under my skin, I’d have thrown her from that fucking rooftop the first night at the Savarine.
I knew better, though. Everything had to be perfect. One kill at a time. Anything outside of the plan made for messy, and I couldn’t afford messy. I couldn’t afford to be caught before the job was finished. Sera’s part in my act of vengeance needed to have meaning, not look like some sloppy, drunken accident.
In truth, I’d expected her to be another spoiled rich bitch—an easy target, for the most part. In a few brief encounters with her, she’d proven otherwise—a fact that was eating away at my resolve, making me question shit that I didn’t need to question.
She wasn’t as perfect as she appeared from a distance.
She had quirks and fears, evident in the pens she’d chewed to shit, and the way she twirled the blue highlights of her mermaid blonde hair around her finger, mindlessly, as if completely oblivious to it. I’d discovered two of her little phobias that first night at the Savarine, yet even they didn’t smother the fiery determination in her, her refusal to give in, even when pushed to her limits.
A quality that could eventually prove useful.
Far from the uptight princess I’d envisioned, she didn’t paint her trimmed nails or primp her long, wavy hair that hung precariously over her full, perfect breasts. And she sure as hell didn’t dress like her haughty prep school peers in her ripped up jeans and flannel shirts. She looked like a fucking blue fairy, all dainty and small. Yet, those pale amber eyes, warm and inviting, did a fine job of hiding the secrets behind them. Secrets I intended to drag to the surface and expose. Ones I’d have to coax out with a little charisma and trust, because the girl seemed to have a shitty history with men.
I could do charming when I had to. In fact, I’d worn that mask for nearly a decade, and after a while it got to be exhausting. Fake. Yet, it seemed almost effortless with Sera. Like I was catching a glimpse of the guy I might’ve been, buried beneath layers of all that fucked-upedness that’d somehow wound itself into my DNA and strangled the good.
Being around her made me feel normal in some ways, like a regular guy chasing after a pretty girl, but I’d tried normal for years, and it didn’t work for me. It’d always come down to the same thing—the nightmares, hallucinations, the sharp slivers of pain beating against my skull, reminding me of the promise I’d made.
A promise I vowed to keep.
Sera put on a damn good show with that sweet girl shit, but I knew what lived below the surface, the sludge that blackened her conscience. She had demons, too—evident in the scar they’d left on her face. Only difference between hers and mine was our willingness to acknowledge them. While I had to give her some credit for not flaunting her rich bitch lifestyle, slumming it up in sub-par housing and attending a public university, it didn’t change who she was under all that veneer. Didn’t change the reason I’d taken an interest in someone like her.
The driving force behind every painful memory of my past.
I set the rod off to the side and lifted my hood, admiring the smooth bead, giving the alloy a couple minutes to cool. The burnt metal fumes on the air took me back to the days when my dad would come home from work wearing that same scent on his clothes and skin. I screwed my eyes shut to the mental image of him standing engulfed in flames, and snapped them open again, teeth grinding away the fury that smarted my jaw.
Hand gripping the metal, I tugged the handle I’d welded onto the large slab of steel and smiled.
Everything was coming together perfectly.
7
Jameson
Nine years ago …
Doesn’t feel right.” With my deck planted against my hip, I stared up at the sketchy house sitting on the corner of a street that looked like it’d been evacuated during a war. Weeds had grown up around all the surrounding houses. Across from them was an open field, where an old building had long been abandoned, with its cracked concrete parking lot and busted out windows. “Let’s go.”
“Relax.” Eli’s elbow thumping into my ribs drew my attention away from the shady surroundings. “You saw how slow this motherfucker walked? If it looks shady, we’ll leave him behind in the dust.”
“There might be others inside.”
As if some logic had penetrated his brain, Eli glanced around and shook his head. “I don’t see any cars, do you?”
“They obviously don’t have money. I doubt they have an entourage of cars.”
“Don’t be chicken shit, bro.” Eli leaned into me, while I kept my eyes on where the other kid stood kicking a rock, waiting for us to decide if we were really going inside the shack he called home. “Whatever we find, we split. Fifty-fifty.”
“I’m not about to explain to my dad how I scored a bunch a cash. He’d kill me even if he thought I went scrapping with you.”
“Then I’ll have my mom pick up a fifth of Jameson for your old man. Look, we’re here. We might as well go in. See what’s up. Might even get to sample the goods.” Brows winged up, Eli smiled and swung his attention back toward the kid. “So, this is where you live, Stuttering Stan?”
“M-m-my name’s not Stan, it’s—”
“Nobody cares what your name is.” Eli jerked his head toward the hellhole in front of him. “This is where you stay?”
“Y-y-y-yes.”
“And I thought my house was bad.” Shaking his head, Eli waved me to follow after him. “Let’s see the goods.”
“Go ahead.” I hated backing out, possibly putting Eli in a bad place, but my gut burned with a bad feeling. Something told me the kid had a different agenda. “I’m staying out here.”
“Fine. No smoky treats for you, asshole.” Eli toed his board toward me and followed after the kid, up the rickety staircase, without so much as a glance back. Every step marked another second I’d have to wait, and when he finally disappeared inside the house, my pulse kicked up to high alert.
Every nerve ending on my body flared with nervous electricity while I waited. Edgy. My sweaty palms slid across my skateboard, as I glanced around what looked like some kind of country road that didn’t belong in the slums of Detroit. A rusted bike sat turned upside down alongside the cracked wooden railing of the crumbling cement blocks and makeshift stairs to the front porch. A pile of black garbage bags had been stacked beside the door where the screen curled back, torn from the frame.
The sun beat down on my neck, and I wiped the sweat from my nape, onto my long shorts. Dry air tugged at my throat for a sip of water, and I swallowed what little saliva I managed to produce.
Ten minutes must’ve passed, but maybe only five. I set down my skateboard and plopped down onto deck, kicked at the dry dirt. Something shiny caught my eye, half buried into the earth, and I scratched at the hard dirt around it, digging it free. I lifted out the silver, square object, turning it over in my palm to see dirty white controls on the face of it. An iPod shuffle. Two years back, I’d begged my dad to get me one for my birthday, unaware that he’d already shelled out the cash for an Xbox. I pressed the power button, not surprised to find it didn’t bother to light up. Somehow the stuttering kid didn’t strike me as the type to own even slightly outdated tech toys.
“James! James!” The sound of my name from inside the house slammed into my stomach and knotted my guts.
Without much thought, I sprung forward toward the porch, my heart ready to beat right the hell out of my chest. Pushing through the battered front door brought me standing in the middle of a room without furniture. Garbage littered the grease-stained brown carpet beneath, and the sewer stench on the air reminded me of the Metropark bathrooms during fourth of July weekend.
“James!”
Eli’s cry guided my feet toward the staircase, and I took three steps at a time, shooting to the top, and rounded the bannister to the hallway. In the room to my right, a burst of laughter tightened my jaw, as Eli stood hunched over himself beside the stuttering kid.
“Damn, I thought you’d have taken off, for sure! Look at you, all heroic, and shit.” Another laugh grated my spine, and I knocked him in the arm, kicking him back a step. “Ouch. Fuck, dude. It was a joke.” He raised his arm, gesturing toward the kid, who stood holding a brown box with a menacing black skull on the front. “Check it out. Homeboy’s got about two ounces easily.”
I didn’t like the scheming tone of Eli’s voice telling me, one way or another, we were leaving with whatever goods lived inside of it.
A Ziploc baggie held dried clumps of green, and when he lifted it from the box, a small blade sat below it.
“That stash box is sick. Got any papers? Big ones. I wanna canon, man.” Eli chuckled, knocking me in the arm for the second time. “This pansy needs his cherry popped. He’s never tried herb before in his life.”
I clenched my jaw, wanting nothing more than to pop Eli in the face.
The kid’s eyes seemed to slide to the side and back, subtle, but I caught it. “I-I-I-I got p-p-p-papers.”
“Then g-g-g-go get em, chump.”
The kid frowned at Eli, and hobbled toward the door, carrying the box with him.
With a shake of his head, Eli hiked a thumb over his shoulder after him. “You believe this asshole?” He laughed, dropping to his knees, and shoved his arm beneath the bed, patting around.
I wasn’t laughing. My nerves were wired. Primed to jump out the window if I had to, and the cues Eli seemed to miss had begun to trip my internal alarms. “Eli, you said two minutes. Time to go.”
“What’s the hurry? Your dad’s not gonna be around until midnight. When Retardo comes back, I’ll knock him on his ass, and you grab the weed.”
It wouldn’t be the first time we’d stolen shit, but the kid was kind of pathetic. Weak. Didn’t feel right taking from him that way. “What the hell are you doing?”
“This is where they stashed the weed. Bet they got some cash, or some other shit under here.” Satisfaction lit his face, his brows winging up. “Oh, yeah, baby. Jackpot.” He slid out an old shoebox, half eaten by mold, and a flicker of a frown danced across his face as he stared down at the contents inside. “What the hell is this shit?”
I reached down into the box and lifted a small Polaroid picture from inside. Wasn’t one of the big ones, like something out of the eighties, but the kind our neighbor-lady used when she scrapbooked with her friends. In the picture, a boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, lay sprawled across the very bed we stood beside, his dick completely exposed.
“This is some weird shit.” Eli handed me two pictures in which another kid, a redhead covered in splotches of dirt or maybe bruises, kneeled inside a cage—the kind a dog would sleep in. In the second photo, his cheek rested against the bed of the cage, and I could just make out his hands tied behind his back.
“You sh-sh-sh-shouldn’a got into that.”
Both Eli and I twisted around.
The kid stood in the doorway, holding a box labeled RAW and the bag of weed. “Put ‘em back.”
“The fuck is this? Your private stash?” Eli taunted, tossing another pic into the box. “You gay, Stuttering Stan?”
“N-n-n-no. They aren’t m-m-m-mine!” The rage in the kid’s voice flipped my nerves to high alert. “S-s-s-stop calling me that!”
“Where’s the papers, Fagboy?” Eli mocked, tightening my muscles.
He’d become a bona fide asshole the last few months, and particularly harsh to gays, for some reason. The week before, we’d gathered at the end of the block where he lived, playing dice, and Robert, the known homosexual of our group, made a snarky comment about his dick. Next thing I knew, Eli’d had the poor kid flattened on his back, punching him in the face. It’d taken three of us to pull him off.
“I’m n-n-n-not a fucking f-f-f-fag, you cunt!”
“Relax, man.” I turned to Eli, who sat with a devilish grin on his face, watching the kid’s pissed off tirade. “He won’t call you that again.”
As Eli’s eyes flickered to mine, I silently warned him to cut it out.
“We’re gonna go. My dad’s coming any time.”
“Your dad isn’t coming for a few hours, lyin’ ass. I’m not leaving until I sample the shit.”
Eli had officially worn my patience thin, and I’d had enough of his bullshit. “You’re sampling the shit on your own, then.” Two steps toward the door, and the big kid stepped in my way.
The first zing of panic rippled down my spine.
“You c-c-c-can’t go yet.” His brows came together, his shoulders bunched and body rigid for a fight.
“Get out of my way.” It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to fight a bully, and although my head seemed convinced the sheer size of him could easily pummel me, my gut told me not to back down. “I’m going.”
“Piss off, asshole. If he wants to leave, he can leave.” Eli pushed up from the floor, coming to a stand beside me. His fingers hit my palm, and I knew what would come after.
In the next breath, Eli barreled forward and knocked the kid backward with a thunk against the wall behind him. A flimsy light fixture jiggled above them, then popped out of its fitting before shattering below.
Eli scrambled across the floor with the kid, while I stood dumbfounded for a moment. “Get the bag!” he shouted, wrestling the kid’s flailing arm, and socked a punch to the poor sap’s face.
The kid squealed, grabbing hold of his arm where blood trickled between his fingers. “You fucking c-c-c-cut me!”
I lurched forward, just outside of their rollicking, and swiped up the weed from the floor. “Let’s get out of here!”
Spinning away brought me face to face with a stranger in the doorway, and I froze in place.
“Well, what have we here?” The unfamiliar voice brought everything to a standstill. He must’ve only stood an inch taller than my five-ten, and he wore a black Megadeth tank top, faded enough to show the massive sweat stains at his pits. Probably in his late thirties, maybe early forties, judging by the grays in his short-cropped beard and ponytail. His glasses held a slight tint, making it hard to see his eyes behind them.
“Th-th-th-they was t-t-t-tryna steal from you!”
Eli pushed to his feet beside me. “We weren’t stealin’ nothin’. Your boy offered it to us.”
The stranger’s brow winged up, his mustache shifting with his smirk. “My boy? Well, that wasn’t his to offer, son.”
I tossed the bag, and he caught it mid-air. “We didn’t mean any harm. We’ll leave.”
Frowning, he dipped his gaze toward the stuttering kid and back. “No harm? His arm looks like it got
its fuckin’ menstruals.”
“Just defending myself.” Eli stuffed the knife back into his pocket, holding up his hands. “Asshole attacked me first.”
“L-l-l-liar!”
Cheeks puffed, the stranger stared down at the bag, and blew out a breath. “You want to try it?” He cocked his brow at the same time he held up the weed. “I won’t tell your mom and dad. Long as you don’t tell ‘em you saw it here.”
“S’okay.” Eli’s voice held a much quieter tone, more humble and laced with what I determined might’ve been a small bit of fear. “We’ll just go. We won’t tell no one it’s here.”
Finger pointed at Eli, the guy shook his head. “Ah, I don’t believe ya. See, when someone’s part of the crime, they’re less likely to tell. I call it the guilt factor. You go home now, it’s easy to squeal to your momma that some asshole’s got weed stashed under his bed.” The abrupt movement of his hands to emphasize his words, like a cartoon character on crack, kept my nerves on edge. “But you try some? Boy, all you gonna do is pray she don’t smell it on ya.” The shaking of his body accompanied the dramatic clasping of his hands in prayer, and his lips spread to a rotted-toothed smile, with brown stubs where his incisors should’ve been. “So I’m gonna need ya to take a couple hits.”
“I’m not smokin’ shit. Never tried it before.”
That evil smile widened, and a burst of laughter flew from his mouth. “What the fuck kind of boy scout bullshit is this?” The bag dangled with every jostling chuckle where he held it against his hip. “You come to my house, into my bedroom, and was holding my stash, son. Don’t give me this just say no shit.”
My jaw clenched and I lurched toward him, but in the next blink, I stared down the barrel of a gun pointed at my skull.
“Kids ‘round here call me Uncle Fox. I’m a nice guy. Unless you’re a shithead with a cowboy complex. Then things get a little touchy.”
Eli took a step forward, his chin jutted in anger. “Touchy? ‘S’at why you have pictures of naked kids under your bed?”
