by Olivia Chase
I wait in the lobby for Zack, who doesn’t make me wait long. By the look on his face, his visit with his dad was about as successful as mine. He seems withdrawn, pensive.
My stomach feels like it has lead in it. My heart is racing sickeningly.
We get into his car, and he cranks up the heat to ward off the chill in the cab.
“How was your visit?” I ask him in a neutral tone.
“Fine.” His reply is just as neutral. “Butch was in quite a mood, I guess.”
Butch.
Zack’s father.
The man getting my father high. Could it really be one and the same?
My heart is racing so hard now that I can barely breathe. Do I say something to Zack? Does he even know his father is a drug dealer, or at least a pusher to my father?
And if he does, do I want to know?
Yes. Yes, I do. Because I don’t want my heart to get any more vulnerable to someone who could be okay with that. It’s one thing to be in “security”—which given what I’ve learned about him, I assume has something to do with being hired muscle—but another to deal in drugs.
“You okay?” Zack asks.
I give a wooden nod. I can’t seem to even fake a smile on my face. So much for all that thought process about faking it back in the prison. I have no mask. I can’t even hide from myself.
“Was it hard seeing your father in jail?” he asks gently.
I swallow. “Yeah,” I manage to croak out. “He’s not doing well.” It’s about all I can say to him right now.
Zack reaches over and takes my hand. The gesture draws out conflicted emotions in me. I want to tug away, yell at him about how my father’s substance abuse problem is being aided and abetted by Butch. But if he doesn’t know that, it might crush him to learn it.
And I suppose it’s always possible that the whole thing is a coincidence.
God, what I would give for that to be true. But somehow, deep inside, I know that Zack’s father is the one hurting my father.
So I hold Zack’s hand, and I sit beside him on the car ride home, not really speaking. He doesn’t speak either.
We pull up in front of my apartment. And thank God, because I can’t seem to hold an even face anymore. I just wanna cry and eat a gallon of ice cream. And maybe sleep for the rest of the weekend so I can pretend like none of this is really my life. That things haven’t gotten this jacked up.
Zack turns to me, his brow bearing a deep groove. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “This is just…hard. I need some time to process it.”
“Okay.” He sounds unsure. “Talk later?”
I nod, make myself brush a kiss across his lips, then exit the car, not looking back.
Monday afternoon, the last bell rings. My students grab their belongings and go flying out of the room in a flurry of voices and stomping feet. I have a small headache that’s throbbing and hasn’t gone away since Saturday.
I pack up my bag and straighten my desk. Wipe down the chalkboard.
A person clearing his throat in my doorway draws my attention there. It’s the principal, Mr. Wright. The overhead lights gleam off his bald head, and he looks washed out in his pale gray suit. I think I’d die if I ever saw him in anything other than gray or brown—that’s all the man seems to own color-wise.
“Autumn, I’d like to talk to you in my office if you have a moment.”
My stomach lurches. Mr. Wright has never seemed to like me, and I’ve seen him give me a few disapproving looks with how I’ve played with my kids at recess sometimes. Like, because I’m an adult, I shouldn’t have any fun.
I lift my chin. “Be there in a minute.”
His curt nod is all the answer I get before he spins on his heel and stalks off.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell myself under my breath as I close down my classroom and head to his office. But it’s like being a kid all over again who got in trouble and is going to detention.
When I get in there, I take the seat across from his desk. He steeples his hands and stares at me over his tented fingers.
“Autumn, we took you on in our school because you showed promise, and we liked that you were pursuing your Master’s degree for continuing education. But frankly, your methods in the classroom are nonstandard and unapproved, and they’re causing disruption.”
“What?” I can’t help but gape. “Who is disrupted?”
“Other classrooms near you can hear your students being overly loud and laughing.”
I scoff, and at his narrow glare, try to rein back the reaction. “So…I’m in trouble for using methods that make my students happy?”
He rolls his eyes. “Every once in a while, we get someone in here who thinks she’s going to reinvent the curriculum. And every time, we have to remind such a person the practical purpose of having such a curriculum in the first place. We can’t set aside standards just so some young teacher might feel like she’s blazing new trails in education. We’ve developed these standards and practices over decades and we expect you to adhere to them from now on.”
That response sends a shot of fury through my spine. “But—”
“Consider this an official warning, Autumn. Stick to the curriculum. You will be evaluated to ensure you’re doing so.”
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with what I’m doing,” I protest.
“I know you have a potentially special-needs student who seems to be running amok in your room,” he says.
“Leo?” I assume that’s who he means. “He’s actually responding—”
“You can’t sacrifice the needs of the other students to focus on one.” Mr. Wright shakes his head as if to say rookie mistake. “I’ve said my piece. If you have questions about how our curriculum—questions about using it, not trying to thwart it—you can ask any of us for help.”
I just sit there for a moment, trying to collect myself. “Is that all, sir?” I ask in a strained voice.
When he nods, I rise, gathering my bag and purse. It takes all my will to walk steadily to my car. I don’t even feel the cold air because my body is pulsing with anger.
Unbelievable. I work so hard to help my kids, and this is what happens.
Don’t color outside the lines, Autumn.
I wait until I get in my car before I let myself release several choice cuss words. My emotions are reaching a breaking point. Between this, and the stuff with Zack’s dad and mine, I’m strained.
Depressed.
I grab my phone and call Harper, not even bothering to text. She answers on the second ring. “I need a wine night tonight, my place,” I tell her.
“Uh-oh. You okay?”
My eyes burn. “No. I hate Mr. Wright, and I’m just not sure how to handle anything anymore, and—”
“Whoa, it’s okay,” she soothes. “What time do you want me over?”
“Is a half hour too soon? That gives me time to buy a case of wine at the store.”
Her laugh buoys me a bit. “Okay, I’ll bring the ice cream then. See you soon. Hang in there until then. We’ll sort this out.”
“He didn’t,” Harper says with a gasp, shoveling a massive bite from her gallon of chocolate ice cream into her mouth. “What an ass fucker! What is wrong with Mr. Dickweed? Does he seriously think no one can ever come up with anything better than our outdated curriculum?”
I shrug, scooping a bite of my own gallon of strawberry ice cream into my mouth. Harper knows me so well. “He’s a jerk. I don’t get it. I’m just trying to help them. Give them the space to be kids. They’re kids! Of course they’re going to laugh.”
Harper pours more wine into our glasses until they’re filled near the top, polishing off the bottle. She plops it on the coffee table. “Well, fuck him. You should talk to Leo’s parents and see what they think. Maybe you can work with them to get an IEP. They may just not know how things are in school for him, yanno?”
I nod.
“Okay, what else is going on? Because I don’t thi
nk that’s the only problem.”
At her words, I burst into tears. She tries to soothe me as I spill the beans—about my father and his reuse of drugs, about Zack, about losing my virginity to him, my conflicted feelings on everything.
“Holy hell,” she breathes when I’m done talking. “That’s a ton of drama. No wonder you’re a mess.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically with a sniffle.
“Okay. You want my advice?” Harper takes a big gulp of her wine. Her lips are stained red by now. I’m sure mine are too. I don’t even care.
I nod.
“You need to tell Zack what his dad is doing. If he knows and he’s okay with that, then fuck him—you don’t want someone like that in your life. But if he doesn’t know, he can stop it…he can ask his dad to stop dealing to yours.”
“Maybe it’s not his dad, though. Do you think it might be some other guy also named Butch?” I ask, hopeful.
Harper gives me a long look. “Another guy named Butch that everyone knows and is afraid of?” she says. “Seems like something out of a bad movie with Nicolas Cage starring in it, and playing both roles, I’m sure.”
I sigh. “Okay, so it probably is the same guy. You think I could really ask Zack to help with this?” I want to believe he would try to help if I told him. But I’m scared. Because what if he gets angry at me for telling him something he doesn’t know? “I might be ruining his view of his father.”
“Nope.” Harper holds up her hand. “Stop right there. His dad is ruining it himself by being a drug-pushing dick. That’s not your problem. They gotta sort that shit out between themselves. But he can’t if he doesn’t even know what his dad is doing.”
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“Of what? Making him mad?”
“Of losing him.” I can’t believe I said it. I can’t even believe I feel it.
“Oh, honey.” Harper gives me a pitying look. “You’re falling so hard for the bad boy, aren’t you.”
I drop my spoon into my ice cream and drop my head in my hands. “I’m an idiot,” I mumble against my fingers. “I should know better.”
“The heart doesn’t care about all that,” she says with a gentle laugh. “Stop beating yourself up over it.” Her eyes are kind. “But be careful, honey. I don’t want him to hurt you. You deserve the best, and if he doesn’t give it to you, then you need to move on to someone who will.”
She’s right. We all deserve someone who will treat us the best.
And I can’t help it that I want Zack to be that person. Because as crazy as it is, something about him fits me so well. He makes me feel alive. Special. Wanted.
I take another bite of ice cream. “This is the best dinner I’ve ever had.”
She raises her wine glass, and I clink mine against it. “Fuck yeah. Here’s to liquid dinner.”
Zack
Mason, a middle-aged guy in our neighborhood a couple of streets over, perches on the edge of our chair as he looks at me and my brothers. His brow is deeply furrowed with worry.
“I’m just fucking tired,” he says with a defeated sigh. His small, dark eyes reflect his emotional agony. “Yeah, I made a mistake. A huge one. But this man is blackmailing me and threatening to tell my wife by showing her the pictures. I’ve been paying him hundreds of dollars a month to keep him quiet.” He rakes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “But now he wants me to double the payment, and I can’t afford to do that. I’m already broke and lying to my family about where the extra money is going every month.”
Axel’s jaw twitches from where he’s giving a tattoo in the corner of the living room to a guy in his early twenties, a colorful dragon wrapping around his upper arm. “That’s fucked up.”
“I already know I was wrong to cheat on her,” Mason admits. “We were at a bad point in our marriage and we almost split up, but since then, we’ve gotten better. Closer. It’s been over with that girl for a while. But how can I move forward with my wife when this man won’t let me?” His eyes are filled with agony. “I made the mistake, and I’ve paid for it. But this just isn’t fair.”
“Do you have any contact information, or any details about him that you can provide?” Hudson asks, grabbing a notebook and pen.
Mason tells us where he does his payment drop-offs, including that the next one is due tomorrow morning, to be left in an envelope taped under one particular garbage can in the park.
“We’ll take care of this,” I tell Mason. The man seems genuinely sorry for his misdeeds—but that’s between him and his wife. What I’m concerned about is that some fucker out there is blackmailing people in our neighborhood. Because if he’s doing this to Mason, he’ll get brave enough to do this to others.
Our neighborhood doesn’t rat on each other. There’s a code in how you deal with things.
He’s about to learn that lesson the hard way.
Mason swallows, the sound audible even above the drone of the tattoo gun. “I don’t have a lot of money, but I can pay you guys the next three months of what I was originally paying him.”
“We’ll work that out later,” I tell him smoothly. “First, I’ll make sure this man leaves you and your wife alone, okay? You have my word.”
“And the pictures…” He squirms in his seat.
“I’ll get those too, if they actually exist.”
“He sent one to me on my cell phone—I tried to find out who owned the number, but I guess it was from a burner phone.” His face turns a dull red. “So I know there’s at least one image out there.”
“You think it’s possible the girl was involved in this?” Hale asks.
Mason whips his head around in anger. “What? No, there’s no way. I’m sure she’s innocent in it.”
Hale’s jaw tightens. “Oh, you’re sure, are you? Did the blackmail happen to start after you guys broke up?”
“I…” He gives an indignant sputter, then his face turns an even brighter red. He bites his lower lip. “Well, okay, I guess technically that I don’t know if she is or isn’t.” He wipes his palms on his jeans. Shrugs. “Shit, I don’t know what’s up or down anymore. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t.”
“If she is, we’ll find out, and we’ll take care of that too,” Hudson says in an easy tone. At Mason’s concerned look, Hudson quirks a brow. “We’re not in the business of beating up women, if that’s what you’re worried about. You came to us—hopefully you’re aware of our reputation.”
Mason has the good nature to look a little shame-faced. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Okay, we’ll be in touch when it’s finished,” I tell him, a subtle hint that our business is done here.
Mason takes the hint and stands, shaking our hands. He leaves, and the twins and I spend a few minutes conferring over our plans. Hale’s going to watch Mason tape the money to the garbage can and confront the guy. He’s all too happy to have an excuse to throw some punches, given the eager grin on his face.
Axel continues to work on the piece he’s doing for the customer. I watch for a few minutes, in awe of his easy skills. He definitely inherited that talent from Butch—neither me nor any of my other brothers have that kind of talent, which is why we mostly have Axel doing the ink work now.
I crack open a fresh beer and hand it to the customer. He takes it with a grin, but before I let it go, I look him dead in the eyes. “You overheard some of our business.”
His smile falls, and he nods. “I won’t say a word, man, I swear. None of it leaves this room. Vegas rules.”
I nod, and then move into the kitchen, leaving the rest of my brothers in the living room to chat.
The TV flicks on, and I hear a football game in the background. But I turn my attention to our bills…and our dwindling income. We need a way to make more money—without turning to prostitution or drugs. We might not be tax-legal, but we have a moral code that we won’t break.
Fuck. I keep my face even as I count our money and try to sort out what bills we’re going to pay now. I’
m getting damned tired of this game—we aren’t going to be able to sustain much longer this way.
A knock on the door saves me from my dark thoughts. “I’ll get it,” I say, jumping up and opening the door.
My chest tightens in surprise. Not exactly the person I expected to see darkening our doorstep.
“Can I come in?” Jamison asks, standing on our porch, his hands shoved in his jean pockets.
“Why?” I say in a flat tone. “What the fuck could you possibly have to say to us?”
He sighs. “Smith asked me to come by.”
Ah, so this isn’t a family social visit. Shocker. He’s come on behalf of our illustrious cousins. Must be regarding the board of health issue…and shit must have gone bad if they sent Jamo here to talk to us. I fight back a smirk and open the door. “Head into the office with me,” I say, pointing toward the kitchen table.
As he steps in, our other brothers, still in the living room, spin around and stare at Jamison. He gives a quick head nod in their direction. Axel and Hudson return it, albeit stiffly. Hale just narrows his gaze, then turns back around.
Jamison doesn’t react to the slight. He goes into the kitchen and sits down.
I don’t offer him a beer. I continue to sip on mine as I quickly pile up the bills I had spread out earlier on the table. Our shit is none of his business anymore. I drop them onto the floor beside me. “So, I gather this must be about Outlaws?” I ask innocently.
He rolls his eyes. “Come on. We both know what the fuck is going on. I can read you like a book, Zack.”
“Oh, have you learned how to read since moving to a better neighborhood?”
Ignoring my jibe, Jamison says smoothly, “Smith asked me to come by and try to broker peace between our families. As I’m sure you…heard…the board of health paid a visit to Outlaws recently, and they’ve been written up for having health code violations due to a rodent infestation.”
“Wow, sucks for them.” I take a long draw from my beer to hide my smile. “Maybe they shoulda cleaned up better so that wouldn’t have happened. Customers tend to complain about things like that.”
