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The thought hurts too much. Much more than I ever thought.
“Not now. I have to go. And you don’t have to do this,” I say, feeling like ten kinds of idiot for suggesting it.
“I don’t mind.”
She doesn’t? I’m staring at her open-mouthed, and I don’t know what to say. I can see uncertainty in her eyes, in the quiver of her jaw. She’s fighting something, and I’m not sure what it is, but that feeling that she reminds me of someone is back, stronger than ever.
Speak, J. Say something.
“Awesome, then,” I mumble. “How about tomorrow morning, here?”
She nods quickly, too quickly. Nervously. She glances at my leather bracelet as though she wants to ask something, but she doesn’t.
“Tomorrow,” she says and leaves me alone, hard and aching for her, and confused like never before in my life.
A walk into my dark past serves to clear my mind from any doubts about the future. Down the same dirty streets where I slept, passing from the park gate where Zane found me trying to tattoo the demon on my chest after losing Helen to the place where I got my scars.
I stare at the dumpster and the graffiti that are part of my nightmares, not sure what I’m doing, what I expect to find, and how to fix the hole in my chest that opens every time I remember it all.
What I don’t expect is to find Jason, an old buddy from those days. Haven’t seen him in months. In combat boots, tight jeans and a black tank top, his blond hair gelled up in a fauxhawk, he’s leaning on a wall at the corner to the avenue, trying to look cool and nonchalant. Like he has no worries in the world, and just happened to stop by for a second to rest and observe the passersby.
Oldest profession in the world.
He turns when he hears my footsteps crunching on broken glass—so much broken glass, it makes my scars itch—and his eyes go comically wide.
“Pinch me now,” he says and
grins rakishly. “Jesse Lee, as I live and breathe. I heard you moved up the social ladder, buddy. What the fuck are you doing back here in the gutter? Came to take photos of your past?”
His words hit too close to home, and I turn my head to hide a wince. Schooling my face into a neutral mask, I bump fists with Jason and shake hands.
“How’s it hanging, man?”
“You know how it is.” He tsks and nods at the busy avenue. “Work, work, work. You should be the one to tell me tales now. You said you were going to work at a tattoo shop in the center of town. How did that work out for you?”
“It’s great,” I say and mean it. So great in fact that I often feel guilty for everyone I used to know, like Jason, who didn’t get that opportunity. “You should come visit me one day.”
“Yeah, of course.” But I know he won’t. He doesn’t feel he can wash the stench of the street off him. It’s like he has a brand on his forehead marking him as homeless and a hooker and is convinced everyone can see it.
I feel that way sometimes, too, although it’s not as bad as it used to be.
“Are you seeing the others? Mayleen, Adam, Josie? They still around?”
“I see them. Where would they go, man? We’re stuck here.”
Except me. Familiar guilt washes through me. I’ve tried giving them my money, but they won’t take it. They’re proud people, and I know how they feel about charity.
“They okay? No trouble?”
“You talking about something specific now, aren’t you, J?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Jason nods. He knows, and normally he’d tell me to chill, and that everything’s calm.
This time, though, he remains silent, and I don’t like it. He glances down the street, then behind him. On edge.
“Come on, Jason, spill.” I want to shake him, rattle any information out of him, so I ball my hands into fists and wait him out.
