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“Hey.”
He turns halfway down the hall. “What?”
“I’m going to destroy who did this.”
He stares, almost confused, then nods. “I missed you, man. I missed you a lot.”
I watch him quietly open his door and I’m left alone. I enter Mad Dog’s room and walk right over to the box. My hands almost caress the old cardboard edges.
Fuck it.
I open the faded corners. The faint mildew smell makes my resolve even stronger. Flipping the box open, I pull out the old notebooks filled with my early attempts at poetry. Dumping them on the bed, I continue to dig.
I pull out an ugly blue ceramic ashtray that Edge and I made in grade school. Our teacher was hysterical, wanting us to change it. I smirk, remembering Edge saying this was the most useful thing we could ever make.
I look inside and find some of my rings. They’re covered with clear nail polish. That way when you beat someone, the blood doesn’t stain them. Moving around another notebook, I pull out a Glock with bullets.
My breath stutters as I stare at the bottom of the box. It’s there in a plastic baggie. My hand remains poised above it. At last, I reach for it—a white gold necklace with a charm shaped like a book, her beautiful face engraved on one side and her initials on the other. I had it made the week she was born. I rip open the bag and grip it tight in my fist. The cool metal is heavy.
I will avenge her and all the others who need it. As a father, a cousin, and a man, I’m willing to die, a more-than-likely outcome given the fucked-up plan that runs through my head. But I’ll be damn sure I don’t go down first. Opening my fist, I reach behind my neck and clasp it on. My good luck charm I had called it. Tabatha loved to play with it, her chubby hands reaching out to grab it on many occasions. Now it’s a reminder of what needs to get done. I look over at the morning light barely making its way across the yard where the bikes reflect a bit of the sun. And I feel peace. For a moment, my mind rests. No monsters swirl around my head. All I sense are the remnants of the two people who matter most: the cool metal around my neck and a memory of golden cat eyes blinking up at me.CHARLIE“Do you need anything Charlize? Or am I done?”
Though I’m right in the middle of counting her register, I look up for a moment, blow a piece of hair out of my face, and keep counting.
“Umm, are you okay?” Cindy bites her lip and takes a step back as I glare at her.
Sighing, I set down the wad of cash to look at her. She seems worried. God, I’ve been a complete bitch the last couple of days. Okay maybe the last week, but who’s counting?
I draw in a breath and exhale. “Cindy?”
“Yeah?” Her voice sounds cautious, and I almost laugh. It’s absurd I’ve allowed David this kind of power over me.
Whatever, I’m human. I have to acknowledge that fucking David in the parking lot was needed and move on. Time to stop being grumpy because I was naïve enough to think he would call… or stop by. Something, anything.
“I’m sorry.” I look down and straighten the piles of twenties. I genuinely like Cindy. She’s sweet, smart, and always shows up. Not to mention the customers love her.
She’s like a walking Barbie doll. Long blond hair, big blue eyes, small waist, huge boobs, and a happy personality.
I smirk. Cindy is everything my mother hoped I would be, and I’m the polar opposite.
“I guess I’ve been a little curt lately.”
She plops herself in the chair so that we face each other.
“Oh my God! You’ve been a raging bitch.”
I cringe. Hearing it sounds so much worse.
“Um, well, I’m going through some personal—”
“It’s that fucking hot god in the suit, right? I mean, I know it is. Only someone like that could make you”—she gestures with her hand—“turn into that.” She points at me. I look down and sigh again. She’s right. I look like shit. I don’t think I even put on makeup today.
“You know what you need, Charlize?” I want to stop her, but she jumps up, her boobs jiggling in her tight T-shirt, and I have to fight back a grin.
“You need a girls’ night.” She turns and puts her hands on her hips.
I snort. “Um, no… that’s the last thing I need. But thank you, Cindy.” I reach down and start to count a pile of ones.
“I’m serious. I think you’re younger than me.” She eyes me as if I’m sorely lacking.
“How old are you?” I eye her back.
“Twenty-seven.”
“Really?” I sound shocked because I am. Jesus, I’m turning into a mean old maid.
