Chapter 1
Tommy
Working as a landscaper isn’t so bad. I mean, I work hard for sure, and it’s not for the weak. But it doesn’t really require much thinking from me, and my bosses don’t care that they have to pay me under the table because at least half the employees are undocumented, just like me.
Well, not just like me. At least they know where they came from.
I straighten up and stretch out my spine, putting my gloved hands on my narrow hips to pop the kinks out as I twist this way and that. The sunshine is harsh but the breeze is nice, and it keeps me cool. I take a deep breath and view the beautiful grounds of the new estate my team and I are working on.
We had to drive for over an hour out of the city to get here. It’s a gorgeous home, with flair, style and elegance, all shiny and new-age. It feels like stepping into a movie set for a near-future sci-fi film. Like any moment, a holographic butler or robotic dog will pop out of nowhere and everyone will just treat it like its normal, or no big deal.
I like it. It looks cool. I want it. I want to sneak in and lay on all the beds to see how soft they are compared to my lumpy, lame excuse for a mattress. I want to use every toilet and shower, shave my balls in their bathroom sink–because if you have a fancy sink, the whole awkward experience is probably better, right?
Anyway, it’s a nice house.
And it’s on a large plot of land that makes me feel like I’m somewhere remote and wild, despite the fact that we’resurrounded by similarly-tamed plots of land with their own mansions perched on them. Most of it is open lawn, with some areas nice and flat, others swelling with gentle hills. I’m happily working in their gorgeous garden. My gloves are covered in soil and I have mulch all over my jeans and boots, and even though it stains my clothes, I kind of like it. Or at least, I tell myself I like it. I order myself to like it. Because why the fuck would I complain? Why be a spoiled bitch about this when it feels so much better than breathing exhaust and city stink all day? This is much better than being on the road crews or construction.
It sounds like a no-brainer when I put it like that, right? Working hard and being sweaty and exhausted and sore all the time from bending over and hauling heavy shit around must be nicer when you have fresh air and like, flowers and shit, right? Anyone could say that. I guess, to be honest, it’s true. I’d choose the landscaping, sure. Hands down.
But even I can admit thatlikingit is a bit of a stretch.
But I tell myself to like it anyway. Tell myself to get my shit in order and be fucking happy with it. Because liking things in general isn’t easy for me, but it should be easy to like the dirt on my clothes. Dirt is free.
It’s a lot less easy to like things I’ll never have…at least, not without spending a few minutes scheming about how I’ll steal and lie to get it. I’ve gotten used to not having the things I might have to “earn” on my knees, or bent over. I haven’t done that in ages, but it was…well…it got me some extra money, but I’m done with that now. So I look at all that “extra” shit that I can’t have and shrug it off, and I decide I don’t like any of that shit anyway. I like what I have, and what I have is free dirt, and hard, mindless work, and fresh air.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and peer around. I’m on a small team today, because a few people called out sick and one or two just didn’t show up. We have a lot of work to do, but Idon’t mind having extra on my plate. Working keeps my mind busy, which is for the best. My brain… isn’t always very helpful. I might do something a little squirrely if I sit still too long.
Like think. Think about myself, or my feelings, or my life.
No thanks. That’s strictly off limits for me.
I bend to grab my little shovel and continue digging holes for the new flowers I need to plant when I hear a cry.
My head whips up and I stand, spinning like a satellite dish to try and lock in on the sound. There–a gentle weeping and some feminine sobs. It’s coming from deeper in the garden, behind the privacy of flowering trees and the hand-carved hedge sculptures. Without hesitation, I venture into the cooling shade and start hunting.
The garden is a bit of a maze, so I get within hearing distance before I see whoever is crying. There’s an ivy-covered stone wall separating me from her, and I circle it, trying to find a way in as I overhear the conversation.
“And he–he–he– God, it’s soawful!” A young woman sobs, sounding so forlorn that I feel my lips pull into a pout of sympathy for her.
A strident, more confident voice answers, also a young woman. “We’ll show him, Kira! He can’t just do this to you! You deserve better!”
Ah, a breakup.I stop, realizing that no one is in any danger, and I’m not needed. I turn on my heel to leave, but the gravel crunches under my feet, alerting them to my unwelcome presence. There is a gasp behind the wall, then a flurry of feet, and I look up to see a fearsome young woman, maybe twenty? Twenty-one? Rounding the wall with her fists balled and her eyebrows pulled in an angry expression. Her mouth is open to yell, but when she sees me, she deflates.
“Oh,” she manages. “I thought, well–I thought you were my little brother.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly, trying to convey unthreatening body language, since I did sneak up on her in a secluded garden and all. “I heard crying and worried someone was hurt. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“Who are you?” she asks me, looking confused.
“I’m Tommy, I’m one of the landscapers,” I reassure her, hoping I don’t look like a creep. “I was just working on some flowers and I heard crying. I got worried.”
“Well, that was nice of you,” she says, and for some reason, she sounds calculating and speculative. “Very kind, really. Honorable.”
“Um… thanks.” I give her a quick nod. “I need to get back to work.”
I turn to go.
“Wait.” She stops me quickly and I give her a quizzical look. She stares, and her eyes scan me in a once-over that is clearly assessing. She takes in my face and my figure, blatantly appraising me. I stiffen, uncomfortable.
