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WhenI’mfinished,Ijoin him in napping for ten minutes.Ineed to make dinner beforeRomanleaves for work, soIsit up eventually and pokeBeckuntil he’s grumpy and awake enough to drive.Aswe head home, part of me thinks it’s weird that he’s zoning out instead of turning on his favorite music.I’mtoo busy daydreaming about my new job to question it until he turns the wrong direction, into a part of townIdon’t recognize.
“Whereare we going?”Iask, watching run-down mechanic shops and bars roll past.Thisisn’t the worst part of town, but it’s rough enough to make the back of my neck prickle.
Beckshrugs and pulls into a busy grocery store parking lot. “Ijust have to meet someone really quick.”
“What?”Ifrown at him.
“Youwant me to say it again?”There’san edge in his voice that almost never gets directed at me.
“No,”Iemphasize patiently. “Butsomething marginally less vague would be nice.”
Heparks in an open spot and sighs. “Quithounding me.Ifound some scrap andI’mselling it to a guy.”
Myeyes follow his fingers as he fidgets with the keys.Ifeel sick, andIdon’t know why. “Beck.Isthis a gang thing?”
“No,” he says loudly, then shakes his head and lowers his voice. “No, it’s not.”
“Becausethe website for your intervention program said that the most dangerous time to interact with the gang is when you’re trying to get out.There’sretaliation and–”
“Iknow what the damn program says,” he interrupts hoarsely, not looking at me. “I’mthe one at the meetings.”
“Okay.”Ihunch my shoulders and stare at my interlaced fingers in my lap. “Promiseme it’s going to be fine?”
“Iswear, baby.”Hisfingers squeeze the back of my neck, like an apology for snapping. “Behappy about your new job.Thisis nothing.I’llbe back in five minutes..”
“Fiveminutes.”Ihold out my pinkie, but it’s too late.Healready climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
Hegrabs a heavy-looking reusable shopping bag from the trunk, then trots away.Ipull out my phone to text our group chat about the job, but something makes me pause.Thatsame something makes me unbuckle my seatbelt and lean over untilIcan seeBeckwalking toward the store.Halfwaythere he glances over his shoulder, then turns and jogs the opposite direction.Myhead feels completely empty asIwatch him cross the road to a run-down, abandoned-looking bar and disappear around the back of the building.
Buthe promised.Beckdoesn’t lie to me; he doesn’t lie to anyone.He’sa simple, open guy with no dark secrets.
“Fuck.”Istart re-braiding my hair, counting strands to stay calm.Afterpulling it out and starting over twice,Iknowit’s been five minutes and he hasn’t come back across the road. “Fuckfuck fuck.”Ifling my door open so roughly it almost bangs into the car next to me, then scramble out and slam it as hard asIpossibly can.Nowmy hand hurts andIdon’t feel any less horrible.
Thebar looks shittier and shittier the closerIget, with crumbling pink-painted brick and bars bolted over windows that haven’t been cleaned in years.Ihesitate in the middle of the parking lot, which contains oneSUV, one motorcycle, half of an upside-down pizza being picked apart by birds, and a million weeds.NowthatI’mhere,Ihave no idea what to do.WhenIretraceBeck’ssteps to the back of the building,Ifind a rusty door on the rear wall, next to an overflowing dumpster.
“You’reoverreacting,”Itell myself asIwander over to the open field beyond the parking lot. “He’llbe out any minute.”Isquint into the scrubby grass, searching for prairie dogs or coyotes, but nothing moves.Justto distract myself,Iunzip my jeans and maneuver the tip of my packer out of the slit in my briefs.Eversince the guys got me this realistic hollow packer forChristmas,I’vebeen able to pee standing up.Aftersix months it still gives me a thrill every single timeItake a piss.Today,Ijust feel queasy and tense asIwatch pee splatter into the dry earth.
OnceI’veshaken off, zipped up, and rearranged my bulge,Icheck the time.He’sbeen in that scary-ass building for almost twenty minutes.Mybrain starts to go haywire, imaginingScoutandRoman’sreactions whenItell themBeckisn’t coming home.Picturingmyself crawling into his empty bed to smell him and cry for days.Surelythe man understands how much we all need him.Surelyhe wouldn’t do that to us.
Imarch toward the forbidding metal door, then stop and grip my head in my hands. “Think,Dallas.Shit.”Ifsomething bad is going down in there,Beckcould fight it,Scoutcould talk his way out of it, andRomancould intimidate everyone with his sheer size.I’vegot nothing.
Butif he needs saving,Ihave to fucking do it.EvenifI’museless.
Thedoor scrapes across the concrete, showering flakes of rust.Holdingmy breath,Isquint until my eyes adjust to the dark.It’sexactly whatI’dexpect in the back of a bar–a cleaning closet, a toilet, boxes of pretzels, and a hall stretching toward the front.Myheart rate kicks up whenIhear voices down the corridor, too faint to make out words.
Ionly sneaked out after bedtime once as a kid, to see a street chess tournament.Momtold me later that she heard me leave but decided not to interfere becauseIwas so pathetically bad at sneaking she felt sorry for me.Thatdoesn’t bode well, butIdo my best to move silently and keep to the shadows.Thehallway opens up into the bar itself, half-lit and unoccupied except forBeckand three other men.Dirtytables with stools leaning against them help block their view of me asIcrouch against the wall.
Beckis standing in the middle of the room with his phone to his ear, his body language tense and aggressive.Aman with sleek black hair and a nice leather jacket stands at the bar, digging throughBeck’sgrocery bag.Mymouth goes dry whenIrealize the other two men are skulking along the sides of the room, ensuring thatBeckstays mostly surrounded.Noneof them look like people who would buy scrap metal off eBay.I’mused to seeing rough characters from the trailer park, but these guys are like wolves, focused and casually dangerous.
Mybest friend lied to me, and something tells me he’s made a huge fucking mistake.
Slowly,Becklowers the phone. “He’snot picking up.Butif you think you’re being cheated, take it up with him.I’mgoing.”Whenhe takes a step toward the hall, the man nearest to me blocks his way.Becktilts his chin up, his nostrils flaring and his jaw tight. “Youknow there’s nothing wrong with the delivery,Ivan.Thinkabout everyone who has tried to fuck with us and lived to talk about it.Youcan’t, because there aren’t any.”He’stalking way too fast, barely making sense.
“Idisagree.”Theguy who must beIvanpushes awayBeck’sbag, whichIassume contains drugs or money that he’s not happy about. “IthinkCarlosknewIwouldn’t appreciate his insult, so he sent a messenger he doesn’t give a shit about.Hedoesn’t care whatIdo to you.”
I’venever seen anyone fromBeck’sgang world.It’sjust a vague place he disappears to sometimes, built in my head from stereotypical scraps of crime movies and books.Thesemen are so solid.Ican smell their cigarette smoke and a tang of unfamiliar cologne, and hear the creak of leather boots when they move.Myhands are shaking.AllIwant is to wake up next toBeck, sweaty from my nightmare, then snuggle tighter against him and drift off again.
“Takeit up with him,”Beckdemands. “I’mout.”Withan explosive movement, he makes a break for the front door.Theman behind him moves instantly, going for the gun in the back ofBeck’sjeans.
