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“Not too bad,” I say with a shrug, deciding not to mention Musclehead as I toss my keys onto the coffee table and head into the tiny kitchen just off the living room. “How was school?”
“Eh, not too bad,” she says with a yawn, echoing my words. She cranes her neck to look at me over the back of the couch as I pull some leftover pasta from the fridge and pop it in the microwave. “I’m getting excited for the summer, though. Maybe I can get a job so you won’t have to work as much.”
The microwave beeps, and I grab the plate of pasta, a slightly crusty bread roll, and a fork, then head back into the living room. Nudging Chloe to get her to scoot over, I plop down onto the cushions beside her.
“Abby wants to take me to a punk show over in Clifton tomorrow,” she says as I dig into my food, which is unevenly heated thanks to our shitty microwave.
I frown. “Clifton? You know that’s West Point Gang territory.”
She makes a face, running her hand through her dyed blonde hair. “I’m not going to get in the middle of any gang stuff. It’s just a show.”
“You don’t always get a chance to decide what you’re in the middle of,” I shoot back, my stomach tightening into a knot as I put my fork down. “You know that, Chloe.”
We’ve been pretty lucky, if you can call it that. Our little corner of Halston may be rough, and my job guarantees that I deal with assholes on a regular basis, but I’ve still managed to keep Chloe sheltered from most of the dangers of the city.
And soon, if my luck holds out, I’ll get her off to college and out of here completely.
“Eat,” she says, nudging my plate. “And quit worrying so much. I know things are bad between West Point and the Reapers right now—”
“You do?” I glance over at her, frowning. “How do you know that?”
I’m sure there are parts of Halston that aren’t overrun by gangs, but since we don’t live in those parts, it’s a basic survival skill to keep tabs on what the local gangs are doing. Not paying attention to the way the wind is blowing is a good way to end up dead, but I still wish I could protect Chloe from the ugly side of life.
Fuck knows our dad never tried.
“Um, because I live here?” She rolls her eyes, stealing the dinner roll off my plate. She pulls off a piece and eats it, shrugging one shoulder. “Besides, it’s no secret. There was a shooting down by Checkers tonight, and I’m pretty sure West Point took out a few of the Reapers.”
“Shit.” I swallow hard. “Did you see it?”
I’m suddenly not hungry anymore. Checkers is a little bodega just down the street from us. We run down there all the time.
“Heard it,” Chloe says, which doesn’t make me feel any better.
If she was here in the apartment, even though we’re three stories up and always keep the doors locked, that’s still too close. The walls are thin, too thin to stop a bullet, and those fucking gangs don’t give a single solitary shit about who gets in their way when they go after each other.
“Quit looking so dire.” She gives me a look, pursing her lips. “My point is, the gangs are keeping each other busy. I’m sure it will be fine at the show.” She pokes at my plate again. “Now eat. I know dancing makes you hungry.”
I’m not nearly as sure she’ll be fine in Clifton as she is, but I pick up my fork again anyway. Chloe deserves to have a life, and the world is full of risks no matter which way you look at it.
Besides, she’s eighteen now. It’s not like I can roll her up in bubble wrap and keep her locked up in this apartment day and night. She’ll have to get out there and make a few mistakes someday. The best I can do is just make sure I steer her away from the big ones.
Chloe’s phone vibrates on the coffee table, and when I glance over at it, I see our dad’s name on the lock screen.
I frown.Speaking of big mistakes…
“What the hell?” I glance sharply from the phone to Chloe. “What the fuck doeshewant?”
She sighs, wincing. “He needs money. He called earlier and left a voicemail. I haven’t called him back yet. Should I answer?”
“No.” I shake my head, the muscles in my shoulders and neck already tensing. “I’ll talk to him.”
Snatching up the phone as it vibrates its way across the coffee table, I swipe the screen and bring it to my ear.
“Heyyyyy, little girl,” Frank drawls before I have a chance to say anything. “Did you get my message? Did you figure out where your sister keeps all that cash she brings home? Your old man’s in a bit of jam here.”
My jaw clenches. He doesn’t know I’m the one who answered the call, and hearing the slimy, cajoling way he speaks to my sister pisses me off.
“Hey, Frank,” I say coolly. “You want to explain to me why a grown-ass man has to come crawling to his teenage daughter, begging for money?”
