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I am lost just for a moment. But when I raise my eyes at Droga, whose bare feet thud against the wooden pier as he approaches, his eyes are on me.
There is no judgment. Just a nod and a quiet, “Hey,” as his eyes shift to the kid and he helps him out of the boat.
My heart does this strange thing where it goes quiet, then starts pumping fast, then quiet again.
“Welcome to the Eastside,” Droga says with a smile to the little guy, then looks at me, “Give me a sec,” and leads the kid to the beach.
The pair is a strange sight—a tall muscled guy covered in ink and a little kid in an oversized lifejacket. Seeing kids around is just plain weird.
I watch them as the rest of the beach watchesme.
They hate me.
Whatever.
Not a single one of them dared to cross to the Westside in the last two years and try to talk to me.
Droga comes back to the boat, his movements easy like we didn’t have a week of shitty dealings between us or hate that separated us for years. Even the bruises on our faces haven’t fully healed yet.
“Wanna take a ride?” he asks.
My heart jolts in surprise. “Sure.”
I’ll take any chance to clean up this mess between us. Bribes, favors—you name it. Marlow says it’s cutting down on booze that makes me more level-headed. When I look several weeks back, what happened seems like a psychotic breakdown. It’s fucking embarrassing.
I idle out of the rocky patch and toward the Devil’s Caverns, tense as a steel rod the entire time.
“That’s good,” Droga says behind me.
I kill the motor, light up a joint, and sit down on the bench across from him.
Mom once said that admitting your mistakes can be embarrassing, but coming clean can eliminate years of hatred.
If Mom was around, she’d be alarmed at the way I’ve treated people for years. But that’s what comes with power—thatI learned from Dad.
“I didn’t know you smoked weed,” Droga says, leaning back as if purposefully displaying his tattoos.
The sight of his inked skin takes me aback. I was half-drunk during that cage fight weeks back and barely remember half of it. Things sure look more awful when you are sober.
“Anything goes these days.” I take a deep puff.
“Care to share?”
I pass him the joint, watching him take a deep puff and lean with his elbows on his knees. “You look like shit, though better than before.”
I chuckle before I can catch myself. And a hundred pounds that seem to sit on my chest lift.
“Thanks.” I study his face, the bluish-yellow bruise on his jaw. “You look better too. Yellow looks good on you.”
He squints from the smoke as he takes another drag, his eyes never leaving mine, then passes the joint back to me.
The tension between us is palpable, considering we beat each other up several times in the last weeks.
“How are you and Callie?”
“Still jealous?” Droga smirks.
“Genuinely interested.” I can’t fucking stand this strained courtesy, like a tug-of-war game where we pull at the rope but never actually put enough effort into it or try to win.
