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I jogged up the stairs of my building and turned the key. Stale beer and bad breath infiltrated my senses, and I frowned at the sight of Quinn, who was still sleeping off his hangover on my couch. I knew he was partially to blame. The little stunt he’d pulled at the bar had less than impressed Avery, and it was hard to look like I was winning at life while hanging out with sloppy people.
Quinn was a douche, sure, but he was a loyal douche. I hadn’t met any friends like him since I’d moved to Philadelphia. He knew my shit and wanted to be my friend anyway.
Grabbing his ankle, I pulled him until his body rolled to the floor with a thud.
“Fuck! What was that for?” he asked with his right eye barely opened to stare up at me.
“Get up. Party’s over.”
With a groan, he pushed to his hands and knees before standing on unsteady feet. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.”
“That’s funny. You know who has been hit by a car?” Shoving my finger into my own chest, I winced at how even such a small movement caused such unbelievable pain. I wasn’t a small guy, spending most of my spare time in the gym. I’d learned in seventh grade after an after-school brawl that weight training was a healthier way to vent my frustration than picking fights and ending up in juvie. “This guy. I still managed not to drink myself into a stupor, humiliate myself, and sleep away an entire day.”
“Maybe you’re just not applying yourself.” After shooting me a crooked grin, Quinn padded his way to my kitchen and opened the fridge. “You really need to get groceries, man. This is no way to treat company.”
“You’re not company, and if I lived in my mom’s basement, I would have my shelves stocked, too.”
“I live in her apartment building, not her basement. Totally different.”
“Does she wash your underwear?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Yeah, whatever. Let’s go down to Tootie’s and grab some eggs after I change my clothes.”
“You buying?”
My teeth clenched, and I threw my coffee-stained shirt in the dirty laundry hamper. “Just get up.”
“All right, all right. Jesus, you’re cranky today,” Quinn said, pulling on his jeans.
“Just—” I sighed “—try not to say anything stupid to anyone with tits today.”
“Oh. You’re still pissed about Jacobs.”
I ripped my belt from the loops and folded it in half, glaring at him.
He held up his hands. “Okay. You’re right. I fucked up. It’s been a while and I was nervous, so I might have tried for liquid courage.”
“I’m pretty sure you drank liquid jackass instead.”
“I wasn’t that bad.”
“You introduced Jacobs as slavery, and then you puked sushi and raisins all over the ground.”
Quinn looked around, trying to remember. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” I said, remembering the look on her face when she walked away from me at the hospital. She had the upper hand, and she knew it. “Get dressed.”
I’d consumed enough food to feed a small village, and all I wanted to do was sleep. Instead of going back to my apartment, Quinn used his mom’s apple pie as a peace offering. We walked back to his place and then helped his mother move a bedroom set she’d found from a secondhand store to the third floor of her apartment building.
“You sure you’re all right, man?” Quinn was leaning back against his mother’s counter, polishing off a thick piece of pie.
“I’ll live.”
He shook his head but didn’t press me any further. I didn’t need anyone looking over my shoulder, and Quinn understood that. Despite his frequent fuckups, he was a good guy.
“You boys have plans this evening?” his mother asked as she handed Quinn a napkin and a glass of milk. I shook my head, struggling not to laugh at how helpless he became in the presence of his mommy, a spitfire Italian.
“I got something I gotta do.” I walked toward the door with a wave. “Thanks for the pie, Mrs. Cipriani.”
Quinn lifted his chin in acknowledgment as he continued to shovel food into his mouth.
I was practically running on fumes by the time I slipped out of the old brick housing unit and made my way down to Tit for Tat, a small tattoo joint I saw on my way to work every day. I’d hoped I wouldn’t be seeing the inside of one of these places for a long time, but it had become a superstitious ritual now. A bell chimed overhead when I pulled open the door. A man with a Mohawk and more ink than a paperback glanced up at me through dark-rimmed hipster glasses.
“Just finishing up here, man. Check out the flash on the walls. It will just be a second.” He wiped a towel over the arm of the woman he was tattooing, smearing a small stain of ink across her milk-colored flesh.
I nodded, glancing over the drawings hanging on the walls. There were a lot of traditional pieces and some new age tattoos that looked like they could be in a gallery somewhere. But I wasn’t up for something fancy. My tattoo was more of a scoreboard—a death cheat sheet.
Shoving my hands deep into my jean pockets, I roamed around the lobby area, averting my eyes from the woman’s breast now in clear view as she showed one of the employees her nipple ring she was worried was becoming infected.
The cash register slammed closed, and the tattoo artist called to me. “Sorry about the wait.” I turned around, approaching the front desk. It was made of glass with various body jewelry and morbid décor inside. “Can you give me an idea of what you’re looking for?”
