She’d better not start talking religion to him. Though he had to admit that unlike other religious quacks he’d run into, she’d mentioned faith in a natural way.
Why did people believe in a god they couldn’t see? The only time he ever heard Jesus’ name was in a curse. It went with the territory he’d inhabited until age fourteen. Masterson Ranch didn’t push religion. Chet and Susan had rules, but they hadn’t posted the Ten Commandments on some wall. Jasper told Bobby Ray the way a man used language made a difference in where he could end up. Gutter talk kept one in the gutter. Roman learned how to blend in, even knowing he’d never belong. He could play whatever role was necessary to get ahead. It had only been lately he’d begun to wonder if it was worth the effort. Roman Velasco’s mask kept slipping.
What would Grace Moore think of him if she knew where he’d come from and how he’d survived? A ghetto kid with no father and a whore for a mother. A kid who ran drugs until he talked the head honcho into making him the gang tagger. What would she think of the Bird, who mocked the world that celebrated Roman Velasco but wanted no part of Bobby Ray Dean?
What did Grace do on the weekends? Did she have a steady boyfriend, some nice-looking, button-down guy with a nine-to-five office job? Someone who’d take her to church every Sunday?
And why was he thinking about her so much?
Roman muttered a curse under his breath and sat up. He’d hired her because she wasn’t his type. He now had a dependable, trustworthy, nice-looking girl working for him. A good girl. All his experience was with the other kind.
He couldn’t imagine Grace in a nightclub, let alone looking for a hookup on Friday or Saturday. She wasn’t the kind of girl who’d have hot sex with a stranger, call Uber for a ride home at two in the morning, and make it to work the next day.
He’d wasted enough time sleeping. He didn’t need to waste any more obsessing about his personal assistant, who had already made it abundantly clear that they weren’t going to get personal. He should be happy about that.
Work would get his mind off her. He headed for the studio and drew four more zebras. He tossed his pen in the tray.
What was he doing with his life? Where was he going? What did he want? He felt an aching homesickness. But how would he know that when he’d never had a home?
After his mother disappeared and CPS placed him in foster care, he’d run away from every family who took him in, eventually finding his way back to the Tenderloin to look for her. It wasn’t until he was ten that he learned what happened to her. He stopped running away from his foster homes after that, as long as the “parents” gave him freedom to do what he wanted. He did best with those who were only interested in the government money they received to give him room and board. Inside, Bobby Ray kept running.
From what? To what? He didn’t know. That’s what frustrated him. That’s what caused the pressure to build inside him until the Bird had to fly.
The Topanga Canyon house was still and silent. Deserted. He felt like a ghost haunting the place. The property had been in foreclosure, a freak and fortuitous opportunity that dropped into his lap. He couldn’t even remember how it happened, but the Realtor said it would make a great investment. So what if the place was far too big for one person and had a guest cottage he’d never use. He wouldn’t have to live here long. Market value was climbing. He could sell now and walk away flush with savings. And then what? Go back to Europe? Ride around the country on a Harley? Buy a boat and sail the seven seas?
It had been over a year, and time muddied his recollection. He sometimes wondered if he’d imagined the encounter. He had been high that night, restless, until he saw the blonde. He had only fleeting memories of a long, silent ride to his place, then heart-shaking urgency, starbursts, and tears. She left, like a dream he couldn’t fully remember. He had gone out into the night after her and seen her slip into a car that sped away, taillight red eyes staring back and mocking him.
That night had been the awakening.
Roman sat at his drafting table again and stared at the migrating wildebeests and zebras. Some were running, some walking, all going somewhere out of instinct. Roman felt like an outcast among his species. He didn’t like gathering at the watering hole anymore, or rutting with any attractive, healthy female selected from the herd. He had no plans to procreate. Restless, he wanted to be on the move to his own Serengeti, wherever it was. He feared one more wrong step would take him over the edge into the abyss.
Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know what was wrong.
He had already achieved what most Americans wanted: the big house, the fast car, a rising career, money, sex whenever and however he wanted it. He should be happy. He should be satisfied. But he felt hungry for more. How much would it take to fill the void inside him?
Frustrated, he swept the drawing off the table. As it flapped to the floor, Roman grabbed a random can of Krylon spray paint and headed for the back wall of his studio.
BOBBY RAY, AGE 15
Slouched in the front seat of Sam Carter’s white Chevy Impala, Bobby Ray watched unfamiliar territory fly by. He’d never been outside San Francisco. Now, here he was in the wilds, more trees than houses, no freeways, just a winding road. They’d stopped once to eat at McDonald’s and use the john. The social services caseworker kept close tabs on him. “I know you want to run, Bobby Ray. It’s my job to get you to the group home. What you do after that is up to you.”
The peaks of the Sierra Nevada grew nearer. The longer Sam Carter drove, the edgier Bobby Ray got. He was used to bustling streets, alleyways, noise. Golden Gate Park had been the closest to what he was seeing out here in nowhere land. Sam glanced at him. “You’ll be okay.” Bobby Ray clenched his teeth as Sam talked about the Masterson Mountain Ranch. Bobby Ray tried to drown out the man’s voice by going over the route in his head. He’d have to remember in order to find his way back. He hadn’t seen any buses running on the country road.
“Chet Masterson will understand you, Bobby Ray.”
“Yeah. Right. Like you do. How long do I have to stay?”
“Until you turn eighteen.”
Two and a half years! Bobby Ray glared out the window. He didn’t see himself staying in a group home longer than a couple of days. Not out here in the sticks. A week, tops. He’d find a way out.
And go where? Reaper and Lardo were dead.
He spotted a sign. Copperopolis. It took less than a minute to pass through town. Bobby Ray cursed. “Where are we, anyway?”
“The closest to heaven you’ll ever get.” Carter smiled. “Getting nervous, Bobby Ray?” He laughed. “Some people have all the luck and are too dumb to know it.”
“Do I look like a country boy to you?” Tension coiled in Bobby Ray’s belly. How many miles was he from everything familiar? He knew how to survive in the streets. How to get by with less than nothing. “I got a raw deal and you know it, Sam. If I have to be in a group home, why not one in Alameda County?”
“Because it’s right across the bay, and you’d run away again.”
“San Francisco is my home!”
“Just because it’s the only place you’ve ever been doesn’t mean it’s the best place for you.”
“It should be my choice, shouldn’t it?”
“You’ve been making choices all along, Bobby Ray. Your most recent choice landed you here. When we get to the Mastersons’, you’re going to have to choose whether you use this time to learn something useful, or see it as time served.” Sam gave him a weary look and turned onto another narrow country road. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you checking every sign. But I’d better warn you. If you split, you won’t get far. People know Chet up here. No one is going to give you a ride anywhere.” He gave a nod. “There it is.”