Emily
It has been two days since I punched that asshole in the tattoo shop, and my hand still hurts. I’ve been busking in the subway tunnel by Central Park, and it’s somewhat more difficult to play my guitar when my hand feels like it does. But this tunnel is one of my favorite spots because the kids stop to listen to me. They like the music, and it makes them smile. Smiling is something leftover from my old life. I don’t get to do it much, and I enjoy it even less. But I like it when the kids look up at me with all that innocence and they grin. There’s so much promise in their faces. It reminds me of how I used to be, way back when.
I’m considering singing today. I don’t do it every time I play, but I am seriously low on funds. The more attention I get, the more change I’ll get to take home with me. Home is a relative term. Home is wherever I find to sleep that night.
I’m sitting on the cold cement floor of the tunnel, back a ways from the rush of feet with my guitar case open in front of me. In it, there are some quarters, and a little old lady stopped a few minutes ago and tossed in a fiver while I played “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Old ladies usually like that one. They haven’t seen troubled waters.
I’m wearing my school-girl outfit, too, because I get more attention from men when I wear it. It’s a short plaid skirt and a black ribbed short sleeve top that fits me like a second skin. Ladies don’t seem to mind it, and men love it. I sure got a lot of attention from that asshole two days ago. He was hot, I had to admit. He had shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway and a head full of sandy-blond curls. He towered over me when he stood up from behind that table, at least a head and shoulders taller than me. Tattoos filled up all the empty space that used to be his forearms, and it was kind of hot. He had lips painted on his left arm, and I wanted to ask him what those were. Were they to remember someone? A first kiss, maybe? Or did they mean something the way the tattoo I wanted did?
I’d dropped my tattoo design as I ran out of the shop, which pisses me off. I thought I had it clutched in my hand, and when I’d stopped to take a breath, it was gone. I’d almost expected the asshole to follow me, but he was still bleeding when I’d left him.
I shake out the pain in my hand again. A towheaded boy stops in front of me, his hand full of pennies. He is a regular, and his mother had stopped to pray over me once, so I switch my song to “Jesus Loves Me.” Jesus doesn’t. If He did, He wouldn’t have made me like I am. He would have made me normal. The boy’s mother sings along with my tune, and the boy dips his face into her thigh, hugging it tightly as she sings. When the song is over, he drops his handful of pennies into my guitar case, the thud of each one hitting the felt as quietly as a whisper.
I never say thank you or talk to the kids. I don’t talk to the adults unless they ask me something specific. I just play my music. Sometimes I sing, but I really don’t like to draw that much attention to myself. Except, today, I need to draw attention to myself. I had saved up three hundred dollars, which would pay for a place to sleep and that tattoo I thought I needed, but someone had stolen it while I was asleep at the shelter last night. I’d made the mistake of falling asleep with it in my pocket instead of tucking it in my bra. When I woke up, it was gone. I don’t know why they didn’t take my guitar. Probably because I was sleeping with it in my arms, clutched to me like a mother with her child.
I wish I’d gotten the tattoo yesterday. It was a useless expense, but it was my nineteenth birthday, and it’s been a long time since anyone has done anything for me. So, I was giving it to myself. And trying to free myself in the process. Who was I kidding? I’ll never be free.
This city is hard. It’s mean. It’s nothing like where I came from. But now it’s home. I like the noise of the city and the bustle of the people. I like the different ethnicities. I’d never seen so many skin colors, eye shapes, and body types as I did when I got here.
A girl reaches her chubby hand to touch my strings, and I smile and intercept her hand by taking it in mine, instead. Her hands are soft and a little damp from where her first finger was shoved in her mouth just a minute ago. I toy with her fingers while I make an O with my mouth.
Her mother smacks her hand away with a sharp, cracking blow to her forearm, and the girl’s eyes immediately fill with tears. You didn’t have to do that, I think. She didn’t mean any harm. But the mother drags the crying child with her toward the subway and picks her up when she doesn’t move quickly enough.
I draw a small crowd between subway arrivals, and one man yells out, “Do you take requests?”
I nod, and keep on smiling, playing with all I’m worth. He calls out, “I think you should suck my dick, then.” One of his buddies punches him in the shoulder and he laughs.
College kid. His mama never taught him any manners. I let my eyes roam over the crowd, and no one corrects him. So, I start to play “All the Wishing in the World” by Matt Monroe. The irony is lost on the jock, and they walk away as the train pulls in behind them.
The platform fills with new people getting off the train, so I switch to some more familiar tunes. Money drops into my case, and I see a dollar float down. I nod and smile as the person walks by, but she’s not looking at me. A big pair of scuffed work boots steps up beside my case next. I look at them for a minute and then up over the worn jeans and the blue T-shirt that’s stretched across broad shoulders. And then I’m looking into the same sky-blue eyes as the other day. My pick stumbles across the strings. I wince. His eyes narrow at me, but he can’t hear my mistake, can he? His head tilts to the side, and I turn my body to face the other direction.
My butt is freezing and my legs are aching from sitting on the cold floor for so long. But I don’t have anywhere else to go. My three weeks at the shelter were up yesterday. So, I have to find somewhere new to sleep tonight. I look down into my case. There’s enough there for dinner—but not for anything else. So, I keep playing.
Those boots move over so that he’s standing in front of me. I scoot to the side and look everywhere but at him. But then he drops down beside me, his legs crossed criss-cross-applesauce style in front of me. He has tape across the bridge of his nose, and it makes me feel competent for some reason. There are very few things in my life that I can control, and someone touching my body is one of them. I say when. I say where. I say with who. Just like in Pretty Woman. Only Stucky would never get to backhand me. I’d take him out first.
Tattoo guy leans on one butt cheek so he can pull out his wallet, and he throws in a twenty. He doesn’t say anything, but he points to my guitar and raises his brow. I don’t know what he wants, and he can’t tell me, so I just look at him. I don’t want to acknowledge his presence, but he’s sitting with his knee an inch from mine.
When I don’t respond, he puts a hand on my guitar. He points to me and strums at the air like he’s playing a guitar. I realize I’ve stopped playing. But he did put a twenty in my case, so I suppose I owe him. I start to play “I’m Just a Gigolo.” I love that tune, and love playing it. After a minute, his eyebrows draw together, and he points to his lips.
I shake my head because I don’t know what he’s asking. Either he wants me to kiss him or I have something on my face. I swipe the back of my hand across my lips. Not that. And the other isn’t going to happen.
He shakes his head quickly and retrieves a small dry-erase board from his backpack.
Sing, he writes.
I have to concentrate really hard to read it, and there are too many distractions here in the tunnel, so I don’t want him to write anymore. I just shake my head. I don’t want to encourage him to keep writing. I could read the word sing, but I can’t read everything. Or anything, sometimes.
He holds his hand up to his mouth and spreads his fingers like someone throwing up. I draw my head back, but I keep on playing.
Why does he want me to sing? He can’t hear it. But I start to sing softly, anyway. He smiles and nods. And then he laughs when he sees the words of the song on my lips. He shakes his head and m
otions for me to continue.
I forgot he can read lips. I can talk to him, but he can’t talk back. I play all the way to the end of the song, and some people have now stopped to listen. Maybe I should sing every time.
He writes something on the board. But I flip it over and lay it on the concrete. I don’t want to talk to him. I wish he would go away.
He throws up his hands but not in an “I’m going to knock you out” sort of way. In a “what am I going to do with you” way. He motions for me to keep playing. His fingers rest on my guitar, like he’s feeling the vibrations of it. But what he’s concentrating on most is my mouth. It’s almost unnerving.
A cop stops beside us and clears his throat. I scramble to gather my money and drop it in my pocket. I’ve made about thirty-two dollars. That’s more than the nickel I had when I started. I pack up my guitar, and Blue Eyes scowls. He looks kind of like someone just took his favorite toy.
He starts to scribble on the board and holds it up, but I’m already walking away.
He follows after me, tugging on my arm. I have all my worldly possessions in a canvas bag over my right shoulder and my guitar case in my left hand, so when he tugs me, it almost topples me over. But he steadies me, slides the bag off my shoulder in one quick move and puts it on his own. I hold fiercely to it, and he pries my fingers off the strap with a grimace. What the heck?
“Give me my bag,” I say, and I plant my feet. I’m ready to hit him again if that’s what it takes. But he smiles, shakes his head, and starts to walk away. I follow him, but getting him to stop is like stopping a boulder from rolling downhill once it gets started.
He keeps walking with me hanging on to his arm like I’m a Velcro monkey. But then he stops, and he walks into a diner in the middle of the city. I follow him, and he slides into a booth, putting my bag on the bench on the inside, beside him. He motions to the other side of the bench. He wants me to sit? I punched him in the nose two days ago, and now he wants to have a meal with me? Maybe he just wants his twenty dollars back. I reach in my pocket and pull it out, feeling its loss as I slap it down on the table. He presses his lips together and hands it back to me, pointing again to the seat opposite him.
The smell of the grill hits me, and I realize I haven’t eaten today. Not once. My stomach growls out loud. Thank God he can’t hear it. He motions toward the bench again and takes my guitar from my hand, sliding it under the table.
I sit down, and he looks at the menu. He passes one to me, and I shake my head. He raises an eyebrow at me. The waitress stops and says, “What can I get you?”
He points to the menu, and she nods. “You got it, Logan,” she says with a wink. He grins back at her. His name is Logan?
“Who’s your friend?” she asks of him.
He shrugs.
She eyes the bandages across his nose. “What happened?” she asks.
He points to me and punches a fist toward his face, but he’s grinning when he does it. She laughs. I don’t think she believes it.
“What can I get for you?” she asks me.
“What’s good?” I reply.
“Everything.” She cracks her gum when she’s talking to me. She didn’t do that when she talked to Logan.
“What did you get?” I ask Logan. He looks up at the waitress and bats those thick lashes that veil his blue eyes.
“Burger and fries,” she tells me.
Thank God. “I’ll have the same.” I point to him. “And he’s buying.” I smile at her. She doesn’t look amused. “And a root beer,” I add at the last minute.
He holds up two fingers when I say root beer. She nods and scribbles it down.
“Separate checks?” she asks Logan.
He points a finger at his chest, and she nods as she walks away.
“They know you here?” I ask.
He nods. Silence would be an easy thing to get used to with this guy, I think.
The waitress returns with two root beers, two straws, and a bowl of chips and salsa. “On the house,” she says as she plops them down.
I dive for them like I’ve never seen food before. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember if I ate yesterday, either. Sometimes it’s like that. I get so busy surviving that I forget to eat. Or I can’t afford it.
“How’s your brother doing?” the waitress asks quietly.
He scribbles something on the board and shows it to her.
“Chemo can be tough,” she says. “Tell him we’re praying for him, will you?” she asks. He nods, and she squeezes his shoulder before she walks away.
“Your brother has cancer?” I ask, none too gently. I don’t realize it until the words hang there in the air. His face scrunches up and he nods.
“Is he going to be all right?” I ask. I stop eating and watch his face.
He shrugs.
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He nods.
“Is it the brother I met? A the tattoo parlor?”
He shakes his head.
“How many brothers do you have?”
He holds up four fingers.
“Older? Or younger?”
He raises his hand above his head and shows me two fingers. Then lowers it like someone is shorter than he is and makes two fingers.
“Two older and two younger?” I ask.
He nods.
I wish I could ask him more questions.
He writes something on the board, and I sigh heavily and throw my head back in defeat. This part of it is torturous. I would rather have someone pull my teeth with a pair of pliers than read. But his brother has freaking cancer. The least I can do is try.
I look down at it, and the words blur for me. I try to unscramble them, but it’s too hard. I shove the board back toward him.
He narrows his eyes at me and scrubs the board clean. He writes one word and turns it around.
You, it says. He points to me.
I point to myself. “Me?”
He nods and swipes the board clean. He writes another word and shows it to me.
“Can’t,” I say.
He nods and writes another word. He’s spacing the letters far enough apart that they’re not jumbled together in my head, but it’s still hard.
My lips falter over the last word, but I say, “Read.” Then I realize that I just told him I can’t read. “Wait! I can read!” I protest.
He writes another word: Well.
He knows I can read. Air escapes me in a big, gratified rush. “I can read,” I repeat. “I can’t read well, but…” I let my words trail off.
He nods quickly, as though he’s telling me he understands. He points to me and then at the board, moving two fingers over it like a pair of eyes, and then he gives me a thumbs-up.
My heart is beating so fast it’s hard to breathe. I read the damn words, didn’t I? “At least I can talk!” I say. I want to take the words back as soon as they leave my lips, but it’s too late. I slap a hand over my lips when his face falls. He shakes his head, bites his lip, and gets up. “I’m sorry,” I say. I am. I really am. He walks away, but he doesn’t take his backpack with him.
While he’s gone, a man approaches the table. He’s a handsome black man with tall, natural hair. Everyone calls him Bone, but I don’t know what his real name is. I just know he’s trouble. Everyone knows that.
“Who’s the chump, Kit?” he asks. The people in this city who know me call me Kit. It couldn’t be farther from my real name.
“None of your business,” I say, taking a sip of my root beer. I fill my mouth up with a chip and hope he goes away before Logan comes back. And I hope deep inside that Logan will come back so I can apologize.
Logan slides back into the booth. He looks up at Bone and doesn’t acknowledge him. He just looks at him.
“You got a place to sleep tonight, Kit?” Bone asks.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m fine.”
“I could use a girl like you,” Bone says.
“I’ll keep that in mind.�
� It doesn’t pay to piss Bone off. He walks away.
“You all right?” I ask Logan.
He nods, brushing his curls from his forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. And I mean it. I really do.
He nods again.
“It’s not your fault you can’t talk. And…” My voice falls off. I’ve never talked to anyone about this. “It’s not my fault I can’t read well.”
He nods.
“I’m not stupid,” I rush to say.
He nods again and waves his hands to shut me up. He places a finger to his lips like he wants me to be quiet.
“Okay,” I grumble.
He writes on the board, and I groan, visibly folding. I hate to do it, but I can’t take it. “I should go,” I say. I reach for my bag.
He takes the board and puts it in his backpack. He gets it, I think. I’d rather play twenty questions than I would try to read words.
He opens his mouth and I hear a noise. He stops, grits his teeth, and then a sound like a murmur in a cavern comes out of his mouth.
“You can talk?” I ask. He put me through reading when he can talk?
He shakes his head and bites his lips together. I shush and wait. “Maybe,” he says. It comes out quiet and soft and his consonants are as smooth as his vowels. “Just don’t tell anyone.”
I draw a cross over my heart, which is swelling with something I don’t understand.
“What’s your name?” he asks. He signs while he says it. It’s halting, and he has to stop between words, like when I’m reading.
“People call me Kit,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “But what’s your name?” he asks again.
I shake my head. “No.”
He nods again. The waitress brings the burgers, and he smiles at her. She squeezes his shoulder again.
When she’s gone, I ask him, “Why are you talking to me?”
“I want to.” He heaves a sigh and starts to eat his burger.
“You don’t talk to anyone else?”
He shakes his head.
“Ever?”
He shakes his head again.
“Why me?”
He shrugs.
We eat in silence. I was hungrier than I thought, and I clear my plate. He doesn’t say anything else, but he eats his food and pushes his plate to the edge of the table. He puts mine on the top of it and looks for the waitress over his shoulder. I’m almost sorry the meal is over. We shared a companionable silence for more than a half hour. I kind of like it.
He gets the waitress’s attention and holds up two fingers. He’s asking for two checks. I should have known. I pull my money from my pocket. He closes his hand on mine and shakes his head. The waitress appears with two huge pieces of apple pie. I haven’t had apple pie since I left home. Tears prick at the backs of my lashes, and I don’t know how to stop them. “Dammit,” I say to myself.
He reaches over and wipes beneath my eyes with the pads of his thumbs. “It’s just pie,” he says.
I nod because I can’t talk past the lump in my throat.
Smart, Sexy, and Secretive
Book 2 in The Reed Brothers Series
Just Jelly Beans and Jealousy Page 4
