Leander isn’t confused. His expression is one of resignation. “You can never get out.”
“Oh Jesus,” Luke mutters when he realises what I’m talking about. His head tips back and his eyes close as if I’m dead already.
“Goddammit!” I tug fingers through my hair. “I’ll just leave. They don’t know my real name. They’ll never be able to find me.”
Leander shakes his head. “You aren’t a ghost, Romero. They’ll find you.”
With a low roar that rumbles through my chest, I jerk to my feet. My chair skids backwards on the tiles. “Then fix it.” I jab a finger at Leander. “You got me into this. You get me out!”
The accusation isn’t fair, but I can’t think straight. I can’t be tied to the King Street Boys for life. I can’t.
The night I shot that man, I left that house and wandered for hours. When I eventually came back here, my steps were heavy as I walked the stairs to my room. Luke had been sitting on my bed, waiting.
“What are you doing in my room?” I growled.
He was paler than the crisp white sheets he sat on. “Lee told me what happened. Holy fucking shit, Romero. I didn’t know. I swear to god. The gun wasn’t loaded when you left here. It wasn’t fucking loaded.”
My teeth ground together, stopping me from throwing up a second time. “I killed someone.”
“I know.”
I kicked the bag on my floor clear across the room. The force sent it crashing into a lamp. It smashed to the floor, the bulb shattering. “I fucking killed someone!” I yelled at him.
“I’m fucking sorry!” he yelled back, rising from the bed. “I didn’t know!” His voice cracked, like he couldn’t bear knowing what I’d been forced to do. “I didn’t know.”
Standing still, I stared at him, my eyes burning, and I believed him. He was my best mate and I trusted him with my life. Luke wouldn’t have lied. Not about that.
“Leander says Boyd must have loaded the gun when he got it from the car. After you left he tried finding you. He drove around for an hour. Then he came home and he’s been yelling into the phone ever since. He’s pissed.”
I didn’t give a shit about Leander at that point. He could go get fucked for all I cared. “How do I live with myself?”
Luke shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Neither did I, but somehow I did. The first few days after were a bad dream, one I prayed to wake up from. They had me do small jobs at first that grew to bigger ones. I hated it. I hated the gang. I hated being trapped. But like I told them, I was no one’s bitch. My rule was no more guns. They relented. I was given the least violent jobs. But it was a waste, Ross told me, eyeing my size.
I still played school football. It was an outlet. A stress release. But then I was introduced to Rowan, who played in a band at The Bar—an original name for a huge tavern by the beach. It was a hopping place and when they needed a drummer, I stepped in. I’d found my happy place there and a small measure of peace. It was there I’d found a way to live with myself.
“I’ll talk to Ross,” Leander says, dragging me from the past. “If you want out, I’ll find a way. We’ll make this work.”
I give him a short nod. “Good.” As I start to walk away, I turn and narrow my gaze. “By the way, you owe me ten thousand dollars, asshole.”
Leander laughs. It’s a rare sound. I don’t know what happened to the Fox brothers. They don’t talk about it. But with the way Leander is, I know it was bad. Real bad. “Is she eighteen?”
“Not yet,” I concede.
“Then hold your horses, mate.”
“What are you going to do?” Luke asks him. “Set Rowan loose on her?”
Rowan can talk a nun out of her underwear, but his charms washed right over Mac. My smile is smug. “He already tried that. Didn’t work.”
“I could set Luke on her. He’s always had a thing for Mac.”
I look at Luke, my glare promising death.
He holds up his hands. “Fuck that, Lee. I prefer my balls attached. You both keep me out of your stupid ass bet.”
“What bet?”
We all turn. Mac is standing in the doorway. She’s wearing the same pale lemon dress she wore the day she arrived. Her hair hangs in a wet curtain down her back.
“Just some bet on the horses,” I say in an offhand voice.
Luke snorts in his chair, muttering under his breath, “Horses? Damn, you are so dead if she finds out.”
“What do you want to do today?” I ask, knowing Mac hasn’t overhead us. If she had, she’d be setting fire to the house and watching us burn.
“I want to get my hair cut,” she announces, moving into the kitchen. Checking the water level in the kettle, she flicks it on and turns around, leaning against the counter. “I wasn’t allowed to cut it before. You can’t ‘artfully arrange’ short blonde hair at Fucking Dick Head school,” she air-quotes.
Leander and Luke know all about FDH. Mac is bitter. And she showed them the website. It looked like a pretty prison for Barbie dolls. If she’d gone there, she would have snapped eventually and slashed everyone’s clothes with a machete in the dead of night. No dress would be spared. Every female in the college would wake to a wardrobe of ribbons. I know this because she told me exactly that with very solemn eyes.
“Alright,” I tell her. “I’ll go shower.”
“I’ll make you a coffee,” she yells behind me as I climb the stairs.
“Make me one too,” I hear Luke say.
“Get stuffed, Little Fox,” she replies, turning his favourite phrase against him. Mac already has his number, and it makes me chuckle as I walk to my room.
MAC
It’s Saturday night and summer holidays. Jake and I are at The Bar where his band is playing tonight. It’s my first time here and watching Jake play is more fun than a trip to Disneyland. Humidity is high and his shirt came off an hour ago. It’s tucked into the back of a worn pair of jeans. Drumming is a physical activity. Sweat beads on his chest and muscles ripple as he hammers the drums with his sticks. His rhythm gives life to the song.
“Cheap bastard,” I bitch to the bartender when he hands over my drink. It’s supposed to be juice, but all I see is ice and a dribble of pale, orange liquid. His response is to snatch the glass back, tip out two cubes, and add a squirt more juice.
I exercise considerable restraint in not leaping the bar, grabbing the squirty juice gun, and blasting it in his face.
Instead, I take my drink from the bar and return to my table, running fingers through my hair. It was freshly shorn this morning, cut in a short, choppy style just below my ears. It feels fun and light. And my outfit is inspired. I’m in short, ripped denim shorts, knee-length brown boots, and a tee shirt with Miss Piggy printed on the front. Unfortunately for Jake’s band, I’m still calling them The Muppets and it’s begun to stick.