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“You’re a good leader, Ro,” Austin mutters, and we both watch how the fizzy liquid fills my glass. “And I trust D.—” He eyes me and I nod, understanding.
“I’ll look after him.” And then I practically down the entire content in one single gulp, needing to feel the alcohol, the sting, anything to ignore this tightening in my chest.
“Only today.” We raise our wrists in response to an unspoken question, and watch as they connect, as the matching ink unites us.
The Void.
Our family.
“Tomorrow we celebrate the future. Make plans for our loved ones.” Austin’s voice is a little shaky. From the drink, from the emotion, from the jetlag. Who knows? Who cares?
“You’ll be next in line, couz.” Ro eyes me on a solemn nod.
“Yeah.” We’ve all been groomed for this in our life. As children of mobsters, we were all raised in injustice, in money. Drugs, sex, crime, they are a means to an end. And the end is power. Lots of it.
“You’ll do well,” Austin slurs.
“Thank you.”
“Your Dad will ask you sooner than expected,” Ro reveals, referring to Dad. “Because times are going to be hard. Sun rays have found us, bright, and sharp. And we gotta make sure that they don’t burn us, couz. We gotta make sure that they don’t burn us, man.”
“I know.” I find those sun rays with my eyes closed, bright and rare, in the shape of dark curls and large, fearful eyes. In the shape of an infuriating snarl and a rapid beating of his heart.
I sigh in defeat. It’s been months now, snow replaced by rain, rain replaced by sunshine, and he’s still on my mind. And he shouldn’t be, for obvious reasons—and trust me, I can name quite a few —but he fucking is.
It’s time to pay No One a visit.
ChapterFour
PHOENIX
Jefferson Airplane’sSomeone to Lovebooms through my earbuds by the time I empty the soapy water down the drain. After I rinse the bucket and leave the used cloth together with the other cleaning tools where they belong, I retreat into the restroom to get ready. It’s well past midnight when I’ve changed back into my own, ratty garments and no longer wear the plastic protection around my shoes. Time to go to bed, get a few hours’ sleep, then leave for my other cleaning job. At least I got paid tonight, that never fails to be the highlight of the week, though I set aside most of the cash to get Mom into one of those rehab programs. What’s left is barely enough to pay for groceries. The thought, combined with the next song,Catch the Windby Donovan, is enough for my mood to turn sour.
“Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind.”
The lyrics… they always get to me, always manage to hit me in that weak spot where it hurts most. Even the outside chill doesn’t calm my nerves —air still crisp from the earlier rainfall —nor the reassurance of the city. Cars, dirt, people.
Grabbing my phone out of my pocket, I check again. No messages. No All Saints. That’s gotta mean that they’re not out for blood yet. But the envelope… there’s no way they’ll pay up after today’s failure. I just wish…I just wish they’d still give me Dad’s letter.
Curling my arms as close to my chest as possible, I scoot down the dark street toward the nearest crossing. Paul McCartney is singing about Strawberry Fields, but as far as my gaze reaches, I only see heavy traffic and too many people. Too much of everything in this city that never sleeps. Thank fuck I don’t have to hear them.
I need my pencils.
Too exhausted to climb the fire escape, I take the front door. Despite the late hour, there are people downstairs occupying the hall. People who watch me, their heads nodding in rhythm to the beat of some rap tune that’s blasting through the place. I recognize them ‘cause they’re wearing the same, worn-out clothes as I am, wearing that identical distrusting scowl on their face. It reeks of hash and cheap perfume. I pass them with my head ducked, instructing my feet to move as quickly as possible, only exhaling the shudder that is my breath once the elevator goes up to the fifth floor.
Strawberry fields forever.
There’s nothing sweet about this life of ours.
We’re sinking, tauntingly slowly, each month a little more until there comes a day when we’ll be evicted. Mom doesn’t ask questions, but I think she knows, somewhere deep down inside that broken heart of hers, that we’re spending more than what I’m making. That blood money is the only thing left to support what remains of this scattered family. But, if there is the slightest chance in this fucking world that Dad can get us out of this mess, that he hasn’t forgotten me, that he hasn’t stopped loving me, I’ll take it.
I’ll always take it.
The front door opens with a shriek, and I push it closed with the heel of my foot before locking it, closing us off from the world. Mom’s still awake. Ever since alcohol became her savior, her sleeping rhythm has changed, and she has become a night person, lost in her own ramblings.
Right now she’s sitting at her usual spot at the table in the kitchen, a cigarette plastered between her lips, her eyes focused on the tv screen. I don’t think she has moved since I left her earlier. The plate of half-eaten pasta has been shoved aside, carelessly deserted, used partially as an ashtray from the sight of the butts that stick out of the tomato sauce.
“Hi.” My throat locks at the hoarse word, shoulders tensing when her glassy gaze slowly sweeps over mine. She doesn’t reply, and for some stupid reason that nearly makes me crack. Nearly makes me confess to her the mess I’m in. When I saw her before, her passing-out was the perfect shelter, but now, under her scrutinizing stare, I feel naked and vulnerable.
