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And when I say re-home, I mean toourhome.
I sniff as tension knots up my neck. We both know the grocery store is right next to a private poker club, so the appearance of food usually depends on if the cards are in his favor that day or not.
Brigid closes the refrigerator, fussing with the messy bun that secures her waves of otherworldly auburn tresses as anger bristles over my skin. Like our looks, we have diametrically opposed ways of dealing with our father. She’s more the head-in-the-sand while I’m more the get-your-shit-together.
Muffled noise from the living room draws our attention toward the hallway that connects the two rooms.
“What do you fucking want from me? Blood?” Dad’s voice hints at how desperate he is. “You were supposed to find me a new deal and you keep sayingtomorrowornext week.”
“That’s all you have to say?” It’s my pseudo-Uncle Greg that replies.
Brigid nudges me with her elbow. “I knew he owed someone,” she whispers, tugging her black yoga pants out of her ass. “But Uncle Greg? You know he once broke a man’s legs for not paying him.Bothhis legs, Han.Both.”
I inch through the door, but Brigid shakes her head.
“Hannah, don’t. That’s Dad’s business—”
“Oh right,” I hiss. “And when the Sheriff shows up to kick us out that’s not our business either?”
She looks torn, but when I slip out she follows. We creep down the hall as the straining A/C overhead chugs and clunks, mixing with Greg’s hearty laugh.
“You owememoney and I’m supposed to get you the gig to pay me back?” Greg releases a hard exhale. “I’ll give you ‘til Monday.”
“How am I supposed to get twenty grand by Monday? I don’t have twentybucks. Oh, hey…” Dad pauses. “You… you got a pack of smokes I can borrow?”
An awkward moment of silence follows as I imagine Greg rolling his eyes.
Then an incoming text pings. Two pings. Then another.
Brigid and I stand frozen in the dim light of the hallway where a smattering of our school pictures hang in a row down the wall. Dad only bought our school pictures when he was on a hot streak. So, about half the years are missing.
“Shit, Denny. You must have picked up a lucky penny today.” Greg finally breaks the silence with that heightened shrill they both get when the scent of money is in the air. “Just got a text about a guy I know. He’s looking for somethingparticular.”
“What’s particular?”
More text tones, a few seconds of silence as my innards twist and the muscle above my left eye twitches.
Finally, Greg says, “He needs someone to play his daughter.”
Brigid arches an immaculately micro-bladed brow as I cover my mouth with my palm.
Someone to play his daughter.
Don’t think Dad can pull that off.
A fly buzzes by, sneaking its way through the small opening in the door.
“What’s the job?” Dad clears his throat, swatting at the fly that’s made a beeline for his nose.
“Easy money,” Greg answers. He dominates the room; a three-hundred-pound Lothario complete with open shirt and balding head. “Twenty-grand upfront, and twenty-grand on Monday once the deed is done. All she’s gotta do is pretend to be this guy Hawk’s daughter so that his mark believes it.”
“That’s it? For forty-grand?” Dad’s voice approaches falsetto. “Hannah? Or—”
“Brigid. Brigid’s perfect. That look she has. It’s rich. Distracting but natural. And, a little bit…I dunno, like more of a pushover.”
Brigid screws up her face, her cheeks going a deep crimson, and even though I wouldn’t want the job, jealousy pangs in my chest.
It’s always Brigid.
