Want You

by Jen Frederick

  Almost nineteen-year-old Elizabeth Moore is an entirely different person today than she was at fifteen. I might not be a queen of a country, but I’m ready to rule my own domain. It’s time I proved that to Leka.

  23

  Leka

  “You look tense, kid,” Beefer declares as we enter the safe room in the basement of Marjory’s. “The boys giving you a rough time? I can knock a few bills off their paychecks.”

  “I’m good,” I reply automatically, but truth is, I’ve been feeling anxious lately. I think it’s because Bitsy hasn’t told me what her plans are after she graduates next spring. It’s six months away, but lately she’s been making some noise in her texts about coming home.

  Home. I haven’t had a home since she left. The apartment’s a vacant, noiseless tomb. Kind of like me. I’m empty without her. Those texts she sends—the ones that say she misses me and she can’t wait to see me—they’re like darts piercing the most vulnerable parts of my defenses. Every time I get one of those, I have to beat down the instinct to type back, YES, in all caps and bold letters. Because, fuck, yeah, I miss her, but there’s no place for her here.

  I take out my phone and double-check to make sure the green dot on my maps app hasn’t moved. It hasn’t. It’s sitting solidly in the upper right corner of her dorm building, which is good since it’s after ten and she should be in bed. I rub my finger over the screen.

  It’s been a while since I’ve heard from her. I’m not a good communicator. I hate texting and I hate talking on the phone even more. I try for Bitsy’s sake, but each time I talk to her, it gets harder to stay away.

  But that’s what I need to do to protect her.

  She hasn’t been back here since Cesaro took over, and in those four years, she’s pretty much faded from everyone’s memory. Most of the crew I oversee is new or didn’t have much contact with her before I shipped her off to school. Only Mary and Beefer make mention of her from time to time and mostly in passing, as if they’re recalling a memory of someone who died. That’s how I want it. I’ve taken great pains to erase her presence around here.

  And while I go home every night to eat my dinner with only the hum of the refrigerator to keep me company, I survive knowing that my girl is far from harm. I do it for everyone else’s good, too, because I’d have to kill anyone who looks at her wrong. We already have too much turnover on the crew as it is.

  “You don’t sound good. You worried because your money isn’t here anymore?” Beefer reaches into the metal safe bolted to the concrete, grabs a wad of cash and shuts the door. It’s payday for the boys. “Where’d you put all of it anyway?”

  I hesitate, because talking about where your dirty loot is stashed with other crooks isn’t a good idea, but this is Beefer. He practically raised me.

  On the flip side, Beefer’s been taking a small slice off the top for a while now. He’d probably argue it was a service fee. Bankers take the same kind of cut, but only guys down at the financial sector are a little more upfront about it than Beefer.

  “It’s somewhere safe,” I say vaguely. Bitsy isn’t the only thing I’ve moved out of reach of Cesaro.

  “In your apartment? Doesn’t sound very safe to me. You best bring it back here. No one’s taking money from this safe. Not when they know it’s your money. Who’s gonna mess with you?” He pats the top of the box, using it for balance as he pushes himself upright. Beefer’s put on a lot of weight in the last few years since he’s been promoted. He’s been eating well. No deal gets through the northeast without Beefer getting a cut. The price he had to pay for it—no, the price his daughter paid—seems to have been forgotten.

  “Lots of people probably.” I slide a finger over the metal butt of my gun. It doesn’t get the workout it used to, but there are new dumbshits every day that want to test themselves. It never goes well for them. Greed and arrogance end up being the downfall for a lot of these wannabe gang leaders. Give someone a taste of the green and they’ll lap at any dirty pool, no matter how deadly, to have another taste. And guns give them a spine that they were never born with.

  “Banks? Is that where you’re keeping it?” he guesses. “The Feds watch those accounts. You’re going to end up wearing orange for the rest of your life if you ain’t careful.” Beefer lumbers over to the old metal desk that Stinky Steve lifted from some office warehouse we robbed over fifteen years ago. The guy who owned the office supply place racked up some bad debts at the horse track. He didn’t have much in assets, so Steve had Beefer slice off the dude’s dick as payment. Beefer used this desk as the surgery table.

  “I’m careful.” The banker I use to move my money around told me all about this in the beginning, in between sniffing the lines of coke I’d brought.

  “You don’t think I was careful with your money? Shit, boy, I kept your wad a secret from even Arturo.” Beefer spits out some tobacco juice toward a cup, but half of it spatters on the desk. Clumsily, he wipes his hand across the top and then smears the mess across his patterned shirt. A deep crease cuts into his forehead. “No one you can trust more than me.”

  He’s wrong. There’s only one person I trust and she’s several hundred miles away from here, tucked away in an expensive all-girls school. But I don’t think Beefer’s upset about a lack of fidelity here. I think it’s money.

  “You running short?” I ask bluntly.

  “Nah, why you asking?” But his eyes are pinned on the stack of bills in front of him. He should be counting it out, making small piles that’ll get tucked into envelopes and passed out.

  “How much are you behind?”

  “I’m not behind,” he proclaims. “I’m worried about you, is all.”

  I swallow a sigh. If Beefer’s not making his monthly tithe to Cesaro, we’re going to get a visit. I don’t want Cesaro around here. It’s not good for morale. He terrifies the troops, constantly questioning someone’s loyalty, pitting one person against another. I finally figured out that the reason he likes them “fresh,” as he says, is because he gets off on fear. The more fearful the girl or boy is, the more he likes it. I’ll chop off my left nut before he ever gets close to Bitsy.

  I can’t convince Beefer to break away from Cesaro, so the next best thing is to make sure he doesn’t come around. The way to do that is to make as little noise as possible and not give him a reason to take notice.

  “How much?” I’ve got some money to cover whatever shortage Beefer is suffering at this moment.

  “It’s nothing.” He eyes the thick stack of bills with so much lust that it verges on pornographic. “Why don’t you go upstairs and make sure the girls haven’t killed each other. Shit. I don’t know why those two hate each other so much. They’re like two chickens in a coop that’s made for one. Tell the girls I’m hungry. I don’t care who cooks me a piece of meat, but I want something on the table by the time I’m done here.”

  I leave so Beefer can skim off the top of the wages he’s supposed to pay. Upstairs, Mary and Beefer’s oldest, Camella, are glaring at each other from opposite corners of the room. I know why they don’t like each other. Mary’s jealous of Camella’s youth, and Camella fears that her future is the life Mary’s leading—an aging sex worker who’s reduced to sucking the cock of an obese small-time gang leader. They both have one thing in common, though—they’re the happiest when everyone around them is miserable.

  I give Mary a short nod before turning to Camella. “Beefer’s hungry. Can you throw a steak on the griddle?”

  “I’m not his fucking cook,” she sneers, adjusting the strap of her black, sheer, body-con dress. When her father sees it, he’s going to hit the roof. It’s five and Camella’s dressed for the nightclub already.

  “Make your dad some food,” Mary snaps.

  I rub my forehead wearily.

  Predictably, Camella’s short fuse lights up. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, you old whore,” she yells.

  “Whore? I’m not the one crawling around the financial district selling h
er pussy to the first guy who dangles a bag of coke in her face.”

  “At least I don’t spend all my time on my knees in the hope for a few pennies.”

  “Pennies? My underwear, which, by the way, your daddy peels off with his teeth, costs more than your whole fucking outfit. If there’s anyone on their knees, it’s your old man, not me.”

  Camella flies across the room at Mary. I grab the younger woman and move her to one side. Whenever I get down about not having Bitsy around, all I need to do is look at these two women. This could easily be Bitsy’s life. I need to remind myself anytime I have the hankering to bring her back to me.

  Holding Camella back, I point a finger to Mary. “Beefer’s downstairs, so I’d be careful what you say about his daughter.” To Camella, I say, “Mary’s higher up the ladder, so you got to give her some respect.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t have to give her anything. She can eat my ass.” Camella turns around and flips up her skirt, waggling her thong-wearing ass in Mary’s direction.

  This time it’s Mary who launches herself at Camella. I’m holding the two of them off when Beefer appears in the doorway.

  “What in the fresh hell is going on here?”

  Camella immediately sidles over to her dad. “Mary’s being mean to me.”

  Mary calculates whether to defend herself or to try to flirt her way out of this mess. When Beefer’s arm goes up to wrap around his daughter’s shoulder, Mary makes the decision to play for something south of Beefer’s heart.

  She cocks out her hip and slams a hand on her waist. Tits forward, she winks. “We both know my skills aren’t in the kitchen, babe.”

  Beefer eyes Mary hungrily and his arm starts to slide away.

  Camella senses her father’s withdrawal and tries her own play, but she can’t read the room like Mary does.

  “I’m not cooking,” Camella declares. “I just got my nails done and I don’t want to mess them up. What do you think of them, Leka?” She lays them on her chest, so the tips are pointing at her barely concealed tit. I shift my gaze over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know much about a girl’s nails.”

  “What are you asking Leka for?” Beefer says in annoyance. He’s finally noticed what little Camella has on. “Why aren’t you wearing actual clothes, girl? Shit, you’re always complaining about how you’re treated like trash. Maybe you should stop dressing like you want a bed in the stable.”

  “This is Gucci!” she fires back.

  “I don’t care if it’s from the Pope himself. You look like a slut. You might as well hang a for sale sign around your neck.”

  “Like you did?” she taunts.

  His hand comes up so fast I almost miss it. Almost. I push Camella out of the way and grab Beefer’s arm on the downstroke. He trembles beneath my grip. Beefer’s carrying a lot of extra weight around the middle, but he’s still strong as shit. The thing is, though, he doesn’t want to fight his daughter. He’s wracked with grief and guilt and this is how it plays out for his family. His daughter acts out. He hits her. She replies by wearing even skimpier clothing and doing harder drugs and worse men.

  “Go out in front. The girls will get dinner ready,” I say quietly.

  Beefer backs down and turns on his heel, but as he’s leaving he swipes his arm across a stack of stainless steel bowls, sending them crashing to the floor. He picks up a pan and whips it against the wall. Mary ducks as some plaster rains down above her head. Camella’s still cowering into the corner where I pushed her.

  “Go ahead and make the meal, Mary,” I direct.

  “I didn’t sign up for this shit,” Mary declares as she pulls a pan off the shelf. “When Cesaro gets here, things are gonna get straightened out.”

  Camella makes a noise in the back of her throat. Bringing up Cesaro’s name is a dirty hit. I grab my black suit coat off the hook and toss it to Camella. “Put this on,” I order.

  She lets it fall to the ground. “Does my body bother you? Aren’t I good enough for you?”

  “Stop your whining,” Mary snaps, but Camella’s been triggered and she’s not paying any attention to Mary anymore.

  Her mind’s back on the night that Cesaro took her. The night her dad gave her to a monster. And she’s desperate to wipe that night out from her memory banks, taking drugs to numb her mind, taking men to replace the pain.

  She tugs at her top, pulling the stretchy lace down so far her tits fall out. “What’s wrong with these? They’re tight and bouncy. Is it my pussy? You haven’t even seen it. I take care of myself. I—”

  I rub a hand over my eyes, which is the wrong action.

  “Look at me!” Camella screams. “What’s wrong with me? Don’t like the used goods, is that it?”

  “You’re a disgrace,” Mary sneers.

  “That’s enough,” I order as I grab a tablecloth from the stock room and throw it around the younger girl’s shoulders.

  Camella tries to wriggle out of my hold, but I keep her wrapped up, hustling her out the door and into the back of one of the delivery cars that don’t have handles in the rear. These cars are used to deliver things other than food.

  I jerk my head toward a fairly new recruit who I know isn’t going to take advantage of Beefer’s daughter. She’s not his type. “Mason, get over here and drive Camella home. If you so much as look at her, I’ll take your eyes. She’s not doing well, okay?”

  Mason nods and climbs behind the steering wheel without another word. I like him—as much as I can like anyone not named Bitsy.

  “Why don’t you want me?” Camella pounds on the window. “I’m hot. Look at my body!”

  Mason turns white.

  “Go.” I slam my fist on the top of the car.

  At my order, he peels out of the alley, driving a wailing, demoralized girl away. I don’t understand why Beefer can’t see her pain. She’s not mine, but her tortured eyes appear in my head when I close my eyes at night.

  I’ll be dead before Bitsy comes back here.

  24

  Bitsy

  “Why don’t you stay for one more day?” Audie suggests as I cart my suitcase down to my car. All the boxes are stacked in the back seat. I only need to grab one laundry basket upstairs and I’m set. “We’ll go to a party! I wrangled an invited from Rachel Hoover. She's been seeing this guy Max Trent for like six months now. He's on the football team. I think he's a back, a quarterback or fullback or half-cup back. Something like that. It’ll be fun."

  We aren’t into sports. The only reason we know about the runner is because the track can be seen from our third-floor lounge.

  “I’m going home, Audie.”

  “Look at Trent’s Instagram feed. He’s got some hot friends.” Audie waggles her phone in front of my face. Instead of the picture feed, the phone’s message app is open. I spot my name.

  Pulling her wrist close, I read aloud, “Liz is graduating early and has never been within spitting distance of a boy. We should rectify that.”

  “Oh no. That’s not—” Audie twists out of my grip, but not before I snatch the device free of her grip.

  I read Rachel’s response. "What's the point? Liz isn’t the type guys want to—eggplant emoji—on site. She's more good personality know what I mean?” I look up at Audie who’s grimacing. “She used the eggplant emoji unironically and misspelled sight. I’m supposed to trust her taste in men? Also, is she calling me ugly?”

  Audie snatches the phone back. "You're not supposed to read the messages," she chides, "and no, she's not calling you ugly."

  I reach up and touch my wild, crinkly hair. I've a smattering of dark freckles across the bridge of my nose and along my upper cheeks. My nose flares at the bottom more than I’d like, but I tell myself that at least I don’t have breathing problems like Kira who had to have surgery on her deviated septum. I touch my finger to the tip. I know I’m not the type of girl who’s ever going to blow up on social media for my face or body. Guys aren’t going to drop their bags and rush over to o
pen the door like I’ve seen them do for Jeanette, but none of that really matters because I’m going to marry Leka.

  A sense of anxiety stirs in my stomach. On the beauty scale, Leka and I are on the opposite ends. He does get random strangers flustered. Women are always straightening their clothes, sticking their chests out and fluffing their hair when he’s around. It was annoying as hell when I was younger.

  His looks haven’t faded as he’s gotten older. His body, as far as I can tell from the few video chats we’ve had, is just as fine as it’s always been. His hair has darkened from blond to a chestnut gold, and his eyes are still a piercing blue. I’ve no doubt that there are women left panting everywhere he goes, but he’s never noticed in the past. Why would that change? Why would it change just because I’m here in Vermont and he’s hundreds of miles away?

  "You're not ugly," Audie says, interrupting the dangerous thoughts. She pulls my hand down to my side. "Can we focus on what's important here?”

  “Yes, I’d like that.” I grab her and pull her in for a hug. “The important thing is that we’re going to stay in touch.”

  Audie sags against me, finally giving in. "I'm going to miss you,” she sniffles.

  "I'm moving back home, not dying," I tease gently.

  "I know, but I'm a crier. You know this."

  I do. Audie cries during commercials. During the Olympics, we had to skip all the human interest segments because Audie kept breaking down. I think we went through five boxes of tissues during that week. I make a mental note to see if the tampon subscription box could throw in a few tissue packs.

  "I know, but you're going to be okay."

  "Don't let him walk all over you."

  "I won't."