Cracking a cruel smile and with cold eyes, he says, “Don’t you want to start them off right? You can show them how to be a Lost Girl so when I get my patch they’ll know their place.”
“You’re not getting a patch. You hear me now, and you listen good—you can be an asshole, you can use every girl in this town. I don’t care. But if you think you’re going to prospect, you are dead wrong, dude.”
“And who the fuck is going to stop me?” he says, smiling. “You’re not my mom. She ran off. You’re not my dad. He’s locked up.”
“Just clean up the kitchen, okay?” I say and push him back then slide out the front door. Walking to my car, I’m fuming mad. It feels like I’ve left the house a hundred times today and half of those have been after a fight with Jeremy. Five months—I remind myself—just five months until he’s eighteen. A sudden panic overtakes me at the thought of him being old enough to prospect. Then for a brief, selfish second I wonder what it would be like to only have to worry about myself. Having one mouth to feed would be a lot cheaper and certainly if he were patched, he’d be earning his own keep. But no matter how less stressful it would all be financially, it’s not worth what could and likely would happen to him. He’d be no better than the rest of them.
With irritated thoughts of my brother, I drive to The 101 Club on the other side of town, just beyond the bridge that crosses Noyo Bay. The 101 Club sits just off of South Main Street in a large dirt lot on the inland side of the road. The building looks small from the outside, with its worn paint and inconsistent flickering neon sign above the door that invites patrons to “Ente,” the R that nobody ever bothered to replace having been busted years ago.
I step out of the car and look down at my dark blue jeans tucked into three-inch knee-high black boots. Normally, if I was looking to have a little fun, I’d have gone for a suggestive top, but tonight I decided to wear a fitted, long sleeve, black top. It’s nothing fancy, but it covers up my ink. Not that I don’t love the artwork I’ve had done, but tonight it just feels too obvious. I highly doubt Ms. Mancuso has even an imperfect blotch of skin, let alone tattoos that trail across her arms and lower belly.
And just like that my bad mood gets even worse. I’m letting this chick and her presence in town really fuck with my head. I know damn well that it’s my own insecurities biting me in the ass, but that doesn’t put a stop to the incessant voice in the back of my head that won’t stop saying, “You’re not good enough.”
Inside the bar, it’s poorly lit, which probably helps its customers tie one on and take someone home they surely wouldn’t in the calm and sober light of the day. Horny customers make for spendthrifts, and spendthrifts are good for business. The decor leaves a lot to be desired with its mismatched furniture and torn fabrics, but it is comfortable and usually a decent mix between quiet and noisy. The likelihood you’ll have to shout to hear one another is low, but it’s not so dead that you feel alone. It’s perfect, and the owner is a friend of the club. He knows me and will keep an eye on me.
In the corner, shrouded in the darkness left by a burnt out bulb overhead, is Darren. He has a fresh beer, poured from the tap, still foamy on top, that he’s sipping from. In profile, he reminds me so much of who he used to be toward the end—grouchy, sullen, and mean.
Taking a deep breath, I give myself a moment to pause before closing the distance between us.
“Hey,” I say, sliding onto the stool beside him while keeping as much distance as I can. Setting down his beer, he turns to face me. All smiles and arrogance, Darren looks me up and down. With every mannerism and word he speaks, it seems like he’s stuck in a time warp. A few years older, likely a whole lot smarter after college, but still, just the exact same person he was back then—and here I was hoping he’d have changed.
“Something’s different about you,” he says, looking at my covered arms. I squirm a little under his gaze. Something about Darren Jennings has always been more than a little unnerving, and, yet, I have such a hard time having a backbone around him. Continuing to look me over, he reaches over and lifts the bottom of my sleeve. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you with this much clothing.”