Perversion (Perversion Trilogy Book 1)

by T. M. Frazier

  She had good fucking weed.

  “So,” Marci sat up and folded her hands between her legs. “You must be wondering what the fuck all this is about.”

  I nodded, looking at her through the haze of smoke between us.

  “Well, that’s…complicated, but I promise it will all be explained to you when the rest of your new family gets home.”

  This time when I coughed it wasn’t from the weed.

  “You have three brothers,” she explained. “Sandy, Digger, and Haze. They’re out attending to some family business, but they’ll be home for dinner. My old man Belly should be back soon, too. He’s eager to meet you.” She stood up suddenly. “You like pot roast?”

  She handed me back the joint and walked into to the open kitchen. She waved for me to follow, so I did. I leaned against the granite counter while she opened the lid of a steaming pot on the stove, stirring its contents with a long wooden spoon.

  I shrugged. I didn’t know if I’d ever had pot roast, so I didn’t know if I liked it. But it smelled better than anything I ever tasted, so it couldn’t be all that bad. My mouth started watering, and my stomach growled. Come to think of it, it had been a while since I’d last eaten.

  “You hungry?” she asked pointing toward my loud stomach.

  I nodded.

  “You know,” she said, looking down into the pot. “I know you can talk, but I’m not going to force you. You’ll learn that this is a safe place. We ain’t gonna judge a single word that comes out of your mouth or any of them that don’t.”

  I suddenly felt like I owed her a verbal response in exchange for her hospitality and the weed. Besides, I just spoke to a strange kid I didn’t know, I could scrounge up some words for the woman taking me in.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She smiled at my verbal response. “But just so you know. We do have a few rules in this house.”

  Here it comes. The catch.

  Marci put the lid back on the pot and leaned over the counter on her elbows. “I know I said I wasn’t going to judge what you say, but…” She crooked her finger, and I leaned in closer. “If you ever call me ma’am again, I’m gonna add your balls to this pot.” Laughing, she straightened, and I couldn’t help the small smile that crept its way onto my face.

  I had no fucking clue why I was here or how long I’d stay.

  Marci took a tray of dough balls from the refrigerator and placed them in the oven.

  At least, I might get some good food while I figured it the fuck out.

  The front door slammed open.

  “Hey, animals, careful with that fucking door against the wall, or you’re going be spackling and repainting this entire house,” Marci yelled out.

  Three teenage boys around my age filed into the house, followed by just as many apologies.

  “Sorry.”

  “Oops.”

  “It was Digger’s fault.”

  “This is Sandy, Digger and Haze,” Marci introduced. “Boys, this is your new brother, Tristan.”

  “Man, it’s you!” Sandy says. I’d recognize his dusty blonde hair and shit-eating grin anywhere. We were in the same group home awhile back. It’d been at least a year. “Ma, you guys didn’t tell me you were buying someone I know.”

  “Adoption is not a purchase of people,” Marci corrected.

  “Yeah, cause if it was, then you got Sandy from the clearance rack,” Digger joked, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing back an out of place dark hair. “I hope you kept your receipt.”

  “Fuck, off,” Sandy replied with a middle finger.

  “Watch it, Digger,” Marci warned. “Boys.”

  Digger kissed Marci on the cheek. “Sorry, Ma.”

  She forgave him with a smile, then swatted at his hand with her spoon when he dipped his finger into the pot.

  “I’m glad you’re here, bro” Sandy said. I stood, and he gave me a fist bump without touching my hand. “I thought I’d never see you again when the foster house burnt down.”

  “Then, maybe you shouldn’t play with matches, dumbass.” This came from a beefy kid with a shaved head who looked as if he bench-pressed dump trucks. Must be Haze.

  “Hey, accidentally burning that shit-hole down was the best thing that ever happened to me because look at where I am now,” Sandy called out from the kitchen sink where he was washing his hands. He dried them off with a towel Marci handed him. He looked around the room. “Now, I’m in paradise.” He opens his eyes. “Besides, the place was a fucking fire hazard anyway. It was bound to go up in flames sooner or later.”

  Digger scoffed. “Anything is bound to go up in flames with a can of gas and a lit fucking rag.”

  “Tomato. Toh-MA-To,” Sandy sing-songed. He grabbed a stack of plates from the counter. “You give him the low-down yet?”

  “No, not yet. We’re still waiting on Belly, but he did get taken by a little girl on the way out of town.”

  Sandy laughed and handed me half of the plates. I followed him over to the long dining room table and helped set the table for six people.

  “Little girls are the worst because you never see it coming. What did she get from you? I mean, besides your dignity,” Digger asked, setting down napkins and forks. “Wallet?”

  I nodded. And the only picture I had left of my mother.

  I clenched and unclenched my fists.

  “And he got a door prize,” Marci said, rounding the counter to pick up Mr. Fuzzy from where he was swatting at a shoelace on a heeled leather boot. “We’ll have to take it to the vet for shots. After dinner, I’ll run to the store and grab him some food and a flea collar.”

  I glanced up at her.

  “Yes, we’re keeping him.” She scratched his head. “How could we not?” she asked in a baby voice.

  “Awe man, a cat? You got off easy. Some little girl got old man Duncan to take in a mini-donkey once,” Haze said, grabbing an armful of beers from the refrigerator and setting one at each place.

  “Water, too,” Marci ordered, placing Fuzzy back on the floor.

  “Why?” Haze asked. “Nobody ever drinks them.”

  “Water,” Marci repeated, narrowing her eyes at him.

  Haze sighed and headed back to the kitchen to grab some glasses and a pitcher of water.

  “A cat isn’t so bad,” Marci cooed, still talking to the Fuzzy. “And old man Duncan’s donkey is adorable. But who in their right mind names their donkey Jackass?”

  “Old man Duncan ain’t in his right mind,” Sandy replied. He shook his head.

  “That’s what he wants you to believe,” bellowed a voice from the other side of the kitchen.

  In walked a husky man wearing a denim button down shirt with the sleeves cut off and a black leather biker’s cut. His large stomach extended well over his belt. He was bald except for a silver ring of hair above his ears. The man stroked his long grey beard until he met Marci’s disapproving gaze focused on his feet. He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall to take off his boots.

  “Duncan is calculating, resourceful, smart and cunning. He might be getting on in years.” He looked to Fuzzy then back to me. “But may we all need to be a little more like old man Duncan.”

  “Amen to that,” Marci said, dropping a basket of rolls onto the center of the table as Belly took the seat at the head.

  “I’m Belly,” he said, motioning for me to take the seat next to him. “I’m your new pops. You can call me Belly or pops, either of which I will respond to. Whatever you’re more comfortable with. We can start with Belly and go from there.” He gave Marci a kiss on the cheek.

  She patted his rounded stomach and grinned. “The name’s self-explanatory.”

  “Hey now,” he said pushing her hands away from his stomach and wrapping them around his shoulders. “Missed you today.”

  “Missed you, too, Papa,” Marci coos. They rubbed their noses and pressed their foreheads together.

  “Get a room,” Sandy said through a series of fake
coughs.

  “And here I thought I owned the whole house,” Belly replied.

  Sandy, Digger and Haze took their seats. Sandy sat next to me. Digger and Haze were across from us. Marci put the pot on the center of the table and served Belly first before grabbing each of our plates to scoop heaping spoonfuls of the best smelling food that had ever invaded my nostrils.

  When everyone was served, Marci finally sat down, taking her place at the far end of the table.

  Belly grabbed his fork. “Dig in, boys.”

  “So, what do I call you?” he asked me with a mouthful of food.

  I almost didn’t hear his question because the pot roast was so good. Even better than I thought it would be.

  Salty and meaty.

  Belly waited for my answer. I took a large gulp of my beer so I wouldn’t choke on the enormous amount of food I was struggling to swallow down.

  “Tristan,” Marci answered for me.

  Belly scrunched his face. “You like that name? Don’t suit,” Belly said. That makes twice today I was told the same thing about my name.

  I shook my head.

  “What do you wanna to be called?” Marci asked from the other side of the table.

  Sandy answered for me. “I’ve always called him Grim. Cuz he’s always wearing a hood over his head, and he looks like a reaper stalking around all silent and shit.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and finished his beer, belching loudly before looking to Marci apologetically with a straight toothy grin. “Sorry.”

  Belly turned his head from side to side like he was considering the name. “Grim, I like it. Fits much better. I knew a Grim once back when we still had our chapter of the MC. Good guy. Good soldier. Could whittle ponies outta wood with this tiny sharp knife that could take your eyelashes off if he waved it too close to your face.”

  Belly was part of an MC, and one of the guys in it…whittled ponies?

  He sighed like he was fond of whatever memory he’d been recalling. “Seen him kill quite a few men with that little blade. They never saw it coming, either.” Belly chuckled. He took the basket of rolls Digger passed him, putting three on his plate before passing it to me.

  I took two warm rolls before passing the basket, slathering butter across the top like it was my fucking job.

  I looked up to find Belly studying me mid-chew. I looked around the table to find the rest of them doing the same.

  I used my words and attempted to take the attention off me. I pointed to my food and looked to Marci. “Thank you. It’s great...”

  Marci smiled at the compliment then raised her own eyebrows when she sensed the ma’am part coming. It was going to be a hard habit to break. I may have been a delinquent, but I grew up in the South.

  I was a polite delinquent.

  Marci waved at her plate. “This ain’t nothing, wait until you try my meatloaf.” She then looked to Belly who was also smiling just as big, although I could sense it was for another reason entirely, because he was still staring at me.

  I paused mid-chew, waiting for him to say whatever he was mulling over when he broke out into a deep laugh. “Fucking aye, boy. Well, at least we know you’re not squeamish,” Belly said with a…well, a belly laugh. “Most people would have at least hesitated at the mention of murder at the dinner table.”

  I’m not most people.

  “I think you’ll fit in fine, here.”

  I shrugged and continued eating. When my plate was empty, Marci filled it up again and handed me another beer. She tended to us like she enjoyed it, not because it was dreaded job she had to endure. There was an authority about the way she worked. A power in the way she controlled the room by taking care of those around her.

  “Got the new PlayStation yesterday, Grim. You want to help me kill a shitton of zombies after dinner?” Sandy asked.

  I’d never played a video game in my entire life. PlayStation systems cost hundreds of dollars. I never had that kind of money. Shit, I’d never even known anyone with that kind of money.

  I nodded and looked at Sandy. I mean REALLY looked at him. He wore a designer t-shirt with some dude’s face on it, and I don’t know fashion, but I recognized the logo enough to know that shirt must have cost a shitton. He had a round diamond earring in both ears, and they weren’t small either. Then, there was the silver biker’s ring with a black rose and shiny black stone in the center on the ring finger of his right hand.

  I looked around the table and noticed that they all had the same ring. Even Marci, although hers was a thinner and more delicate version.

  “He’s got the look,” Sandy said, pointing at me with his fork, his lip twisted up in a smug grin.

  “He’s definitely got the look,” Haze chimed in, looking equally amused.

  I gulped down another swallow of my beer.

  “What look?” Digger asked, looking up from his phone for the first time since we sat down.

  Belly smiled big. “Like he’s about to figure it all out.”

  After dinner we all helped with the dishes. Then, Belly and Marci sat me down and handed me glass of whiskey. The good stuff, too. They tried to explain that they were a family.

  One that I was now a part of.

  Marci smiled softly and was about to place her hand on my knee when I pulled away instinctually. She didn’t look hurt and rebounded quickly, wrapping her hands around her glass instead. “You see, when Belly’s chapter of the MC got absorbed into another group, he decided that was his time to get out.”

  “I wanted to start my own thing based on loyalty and respect. Everything the MC was supposed to be but never could be because of the leaders lacked guts. Sold us out to another fucking club. You don’t sell out your own fucking club. You don’t sell out your family,” Belly chimed in. He took a healthy gulp of whiskey.

  In the background, I heard Sandy and Digger arguing over whatever game they were playing in the family room. Haze sat in a corner rocking chair, silently observing our conversation while smoking a joint.

  “So, you see, this is the club I’ve always wanted.” Belly waved his arms around to the walls of the house. To Haze. To Marci. “The family I’ve always wanted. You live here. You work here. Use your natural born instincts. Talents. Protect your brothers. Protect your family. That’s all we ask.”

  “How do I do that?” I asked.

  “The same way you have been.” Belly pulled out a manila file from under one of his legs and opened it. As soon as he started reading, I knew it was my file from Child Services. “Tristan Paine. Anger and aggression issues. Problems with authority. Arson. Disruptive Behavior. Morbid curiosity. Lacks sympathy and empathy for others. Lashes out. Reckless. Deviant. Manipulative…”

  He closed the file and tossed it onto the coffee table.

  I stood up feeling restless. Angry. Those words written about me may have been true, but they were written by people who didn’t know me, who sent me from one shitty home after another, adding more and more diagnoses to my file along the way. As if those words would somehow help. As if they really knew anything about anything because they didn’t know shit about me.

  “Sit the fuck down,” Belly ordered. He stared me in the eye and calmly repeated himself. “I said sit the fuck down.”

  Marci pulled me down to the couch and held my hand as if she could stop me from running out the door. I guessed Emma Jean really did break something inside me because I didn’t immediately tug my hand away.

  Belly leaned forward. “We’ve already read your file. The shit that’s in it? That’s not why we don’t want you here; that’s WHY you’re here. To the outside world it might look like a list of your problems, shit they want no part of, but to us?” He laughed and pointed to the file on the table. “Shit’s like the most beautiful fucking resume I’ve ever seen.”

  I’m so fucking confused. I drained my glass of whiskey.

  “It’s a good thing. I promise,” Marci assured me, giving my hand a squeeze.

  Belly stood up, extending his hand to
me. I shook it, and he held on firmly, as if trying to communicate all the reassurances he could through that handshake.

  Sandy appeared in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest and his feet at the ankles. He smiled wickedly, knowingly.

  “Welcome to the family, Grim,” Sandy said.

  Belly released my hand, spread his arms wide, and turned his palms upward in reverence.

  “Welcome to Bedlam, son.”

  Marci smiled. “Welcome home.”

  Emma Jean Tricks,

  You can keep the picture as long as you promise to keep it safe and also to give it back to me someday. The new place is a lot different, but I think it’ll work for me. Magic? Like card tricks? That’s fitting considering you’re a trickster and conned me into taking Mr. Fuzzy while stealing my wallet. That’s what I’ll call you.

  Tricks.

  And what’s got you so sad you need my picture to make you smile?

  -T

  Tristan,

  Thank you for writing me back! You know that foster kid life is never fun. But let’s make a deal. I won’t talk about the bad stuff if you don’t. There’s enough bad stuff, but writing to you isn’t.

  Tricks? I’ve never liked nicknames. Probably because the only ones I’ve ever been called have to do with my curly hair. Like Curly Sue. Medusa. Little Orphan Annie. So unoriginal. Plus, I do like my hair…like every other day. And yes, I love magic. Always have.

  I guess conning people into doing stuff is just a bigger trick with a bigger rush. I can do every card trick. I can escape most knots. Oh, and I love quotes. I tape them to the wall of my room. And I’ve never told anyone this, but I also love writing stories. Mostly, fairytale type stuff.

  Tell me a secret of yours? Something you’ve never told anyone else.

  -Tricks.

  PS-I love the name Tricks.

  “We all have magic inside us.” -J.K. Rowling

  Tricks,

  You should like your hair every day. It’s unique, like you. You’ll have to show me those card tricks someday. Shuffling a deck is pretty much all I’ve got, but one of my new brothers is huge into card games and video games and…well, every other game you can think of.