At that, Hank slaps an enthusiastic hand against my chest. It’s holding an envelope with my copy of the paperwork I need for tonight’s job. “Goodnight, Stiles.”
I take it and shove it into my pocket while simultaneously making sure I still have the money envelope there. Then I back out through the front doors and head for the car.
Sure, I left the kid to fend for himself. In my defense, I try not to make a habit of taking the word of delinquents I bring in when they tell me they didn’t do it. Which, by the way, is every single one of them. I mean, I would not make money that way, and I’d be a fucking laughing stock.
I’ve got a reputation to uphold here.
Worst case scenario, Donnie learns a tough lesson. Maybe he goes to jail with some bumps and bruises. Or maybe he’s telling the truth and he’ll be scot-free in a few days.
Maybe.
THERE’S NO ESCAPING FAMILY…OR STALKERS
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN my dream state and the living world there’s a kid who visits my subconscious each morning. He’s not completely unfamiliar, but he doesn’t resemble the person I knew over a decade ago either.
He’s grungy and distant. He hasn’t aged, but he hasn’t stayed the same. He’s about ten years younger than I am now. His eyes are dark and grim like his stare. They’re full of death. There’s a deep, un-healing gash just above his right eye.
I can’t stop staring at it.
No matter what I say, or how I say it, he never moves. He never speaks. He just glares.
Not that I need him to say anything. I know what he’s thinking. I’ve thought it a thousand times myself.
It was your fault.
For the millionth time in the past ten years, I take pause at the irony of living in a city that’s literally named after what I crave worse than tobacco but am never going to get.
A pounding somewhere off in the distance vibrates inside my head and draws my attention away from the kid. When I look back for him, he’s gone.
Heavy shit for the crack of dawn, I know.
Welcome to my world.
Fucking A.
My cranium was apparently used as a landing pad for a Boeing seven-fifty-fucking-seven overnight. I can barely move without an ache screaming at me. My system is trying to decide if it wants to flush itself upward or downward. On top of which, my cell phone alarm is pissing me right the fuck off.
I stretch and yawn. My arm is like lead when I feel around for the damn thing. The stiffness in my body makes every move painful. Hell, even the backs of my eyeballs are wailing out in dull misery.
I find it. The phone that is. Eventually. And once it’s silent, I toss the damn thing to the floor because I’m too fucking tired to find the table again.
I tighten my eyelids to make the jack hammering inside my head go away along with certain memories. But there’s only ever one way to make the flashbacks back the fuck off. So I open up my eyes, face the world, and fill my day with the business at hand. One day at a time. And maybe some goddamn ibuprofen.
It’s been about three weeks since I’ve slept in the bed just down the hall. I’m not sure why but as a result the first thing I see every morning is the hand drawn cartoon character of yours truly hanging on the wall, wearing a black mask, a black cape, and a ray of hope surrounding his frame. Its glass encasement protects the art work these days, but I can still see the torn edges of the paper and the wrinkles from when it was thrown away, once upon a time.
The sketch is the only thing I own worth putting up in the apartment. The only thing I both love and hate about this place.
“Morning, Mikey.” My voice is strained and rough but despite the harsh sound of it, when I say his name, I’m someone else. Someone who doesn’t hate himself with every fiber of his fucking being.
Luckily, the sound of my favorite newswoman repeating today’s news has begun to waft throughout the living room. It dulls the ache in my temples and clouds my head with distraction.
Time to get a move on.
My shoulder is killing me today. An old injury that never really healed from when I used to be a productive part of society, a.k.a., high school.
I sit up and roll it out until it’s bearable. Then I stretch my neck and rub my temples. The half-empty bottle of Patron Silver sitting on my coffee table gets shoved aside and I shiver, because… alcohol.
“Ow.” Where the fuck did this bruise on my arm come from, anyway? And where is the goddamn Aleve?
Marty Sweetwater’s voice grabs my attention again, and she sounds slightly stressed as she doles out the news. That’s not something your average Joe would notice. Even in my current state, I’m pretty good at reading people, up to and including the way their voices change during intense moments they might be having.
Not that I’ve been in Marty’s company while she was experiencing such intensity.
Much.
Okay, one time.
Every few months.