“Others?” I ask, sensing where this is going. “You mean hurting your ability to drop five hundred bucks on a skirt and sandals for me, don't you? Didn't think I noticed the price tag?”
Jackson blushes, but shakes his head. “No... not just that, Katrina. I mean, there's my mother, and as bad as she was to me, she can't survive on her own. And Andrea, she's still in school, and then there's the other people who may...”
“Stop it, Jackson. Just... cut the bullshit,” I snap, pulling my t-shirt on. I sit down and pull my socks on, looking for my boots. “Jesus, I had hoped we were past this point. It's not about the fucking money! Life isn't about that!”
“It isn't about blood and revenge either!” Jackson yells back, still naked. “You told me to be better than him, well, you need to be, too! Stop worrying about your goddamn vengeance and live your life! Let it go, let us be able to let it go!”
“I can't!” I yell back, furious. “I'm not looking for his death anymore, but that asshole stole ten years of my life! I can't get that back, and I'm not the only one. Maybe he didn't kill my parents, but he's killed how many more? How much of that money you're so worried about is blood money? And don't try to fucking lie, telling me it's not the money you're worried about!”
“So what are you going to do? Blow the whole damn thing up? Burn the house to the ground? Because if you send him to jail, you might as well! You know the feds and who the fuck else is going to civil sue the shit outta the estate. What then? Living broke?”
“I've done it,” I reply coldly, standing up. I go to grab my bag, and see the skirt sitting on top. I yank it out, and rip it in half, tossing the pieces onto the carpet. “It isn't as bad as you think. Might just make you stronger, Jackson.”
Before he can answer, I grab my backpack and leave, pissed and trying not to cry. I'd suspected, I'd feared since yesterday, but hearing his words, I know that I can't trust Jackson to not interfere in the rest of the plan. He cares for me, I know that. But right now... he's not ready.
“This seat taken?”
For the first time in my life, I'm well on my way to being drunk. After storming out of the hotel, I grabbed a taxi, going toward the beach, not with any purpose but to get some distance and to calm down. Distance and perspective are important for any warrior in a fight, after all, and I hoped that watching the waves on the sand would help me find some temporary peace and clarity.
The problem is, I can't calm down. I used the prepaid card I have with me to take out a couple hundred dollars, most of what's left on that card, and crash at a fleabag hotel, putting myself through a workout that leaves my body dripping in sweat, but my mind no more settled.
Jackson's tried to call me half a dozen times, and texted me more. He's apologetic, but I can read between the lines, he still wants to protect the fucking money. Finally, about two hours ago, I gave up and shut off my phone. Instead, I headed here, one of the first bars that I saw, and walked inside. Fuck it, it works for everyone else, why not me, too?
I'm about four drinks in when I hear the voice, and I turn my head, three-quarters drunk, seeing two people standing there. I have no idea who they are, but don't really care. “Go 'way. Not good conversation.”
“I can see that, Katrina,” the one person, a woman I notice, says gently. At the mention of my name my head whips back, and I reel to my feet.
“Who the fuck're you?” I ask.
“It's me,” the woman says, stepping closer into the light. “It's Andrea.”
I squint, and I realize that it is Andrea. The straight black hair, the almond-shaped eyes, but the same dark blue as Jackson's... “Well hey! It is you! How'd the hell you get here? Who's yur big friend?”
I blink, but in the dim light of the bar, I can't make out his face. “Who are you?”
“A man who owes you a lot more than I can ever repay,” he says. “Come, let's talk. Away from the alcohol.”
“My tab though...” I protest, and the bartender, who's been watching with a leery eye, waves me off. “What?”
“We're pay as you go,” he reminds me. “We're square.”
Andrea reaches into her pocket and pulls out another bill and puts it on the bar. “Just in case, and for taking care of her,” she says. Coming closer, she takes my arm and puts it around her shoulder. “Come on, Kat. How much did you drink, anyway?”
“I dunno... less than a bottle,” I say, swaying along with Andrea's help out onto the streets. It's later than I thought it'd be, the moon is nearly fully overhead. “Hey... what time is it?”
“A little before eleven thirty,” Andrea says. The sidewalk is mostly empty, but this is the beach area of Miami, and I guess along A1A, the traffic and pedestrians don't go to bed until much later. “Sorry it took us so long to get here.”