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That little question lands me back to reality with a crash.
Because while I was talking about money it was one thing—my call, my concern, my offer—but this? We’re back to square one where I’m a commodity and she’s the buyer.
Where I’m not a real person.
As it should be. As it is. Wake up, Riot. This is how things stand, and you need the money. She is not your girlfriend.
And you’re not a free man.
“Same price,” I say gruffly, throw the door open and step out before I do or say any more stupid things—like break the rules and offer to do this off schedule. For free. Like we’re just a man and a woman who like each other, like a normal couple.
We’re not. And I can’t.
What the fuck am I doing? This is getting out of hand, and I need to put the brakes on this, on the need to protect her and make sure she’s happy.
Not my problem. Not my circus, man, not my monkeys. Like I said, I’ve got enough on my plate.
No more fucking strays, Riot. No more.
***
My street is a glorified back-alley, dirty and narrow. The entrance to my building is dark and stinks of piss. I keep my eye on the shadows in the corners and other entrances as I unlock and enter the stairwell, pulling my bike behind me.
There’s an itch between my shoulder blades, like I’m being watched, but when I whip around, nobody’s to be seen. It’s not the first time, either. The other day I thought someone was following me.
Which is bullshit. Who would do that? Muggers and cutthroats, that’s who’s walking my neighborhood. They wouldn’t need to follow me or watch me. No, they’d have jumped me already if they wanted what’s in my pockets.
But what the hell do I know? Maybe they’re just keeping tabs, trying to gauge when I’ll be loaded to make it worth their while.
Wasted time. Most of the money I get goes directly to the fund for little Kyle’s medication and the debt for the surgery. As a matter of fact, I know I should have gone to visit him, but I had lots of work this week, and that first meeting with Paxtyn drained me for some reason. Rattled me.
And the appointments I had afterward were shitty. Made me feel like a lesser human.
Christ. What’s my deal today, huh? I normally don’t let life bring me down. I do what I have to do, and that’s it.
Suck it up, Riot.
I shake my head at myself as I lock my bike in the storeroom in the back of the building, and go up the narrow stairs, checking that no junkie is crowding the way, and that no drug trafficking is happening on my landing so I don’t get a gun in my face.
It’s happened before. Not the best of neighborhoods, this one, heh, but the rent’s cheap, which means I can save most of the money I earn to send to the boy’s mother.
Unlocking my door, I enter my pad and lock it behind me. Lock and padlock and then check the apartment just in case someone made it inside while I was out.
Suddenly a black ball of fur explodes out of nowhere and barrels into my legs. Tiny claws dig into my pants, into my legs, as Dexter makes his way up my body.
“Fuck, Dex.” I grab the kitten and carefully disengage his wicked claws before he digs them into my crotch. “Careful with the family jewels, buddy.”
Meet Dexter. He’s missing one of his hind legs, and he’s a serial killer of cables and electric appliances. Found him in a back alley one day, couple of months ago, coming back from an appointment, and he followed me to my apartment. He’s been my friend, my welcoming committee and my alarm clock in the mornings ever since.
A low howl comes from the kitchen, and I wander that way, Dex riding on my shoulder.
“Hey, Batman. Come here, boy.”
And he comes out of his hiding place behind the door, ears up—the ears that earned him his name. He’s a mongrel, but there’s some wolf in him, because he’s tall and lean and beautiful.
Found him outside my building a month ago, and Dex and I took him in. He was so sick and malnourished you could count his ribs. His fur had fallen out, too, and he had worms. Oh and let’s not forget the wounds. Someone had beaten him repeatedly.
Look how pretty he is now, even though he’s still jumpy.
