Still Waters

 

We didn’t talk about the money, or Florida, again. For a long time, we didn’t talk about anything. I sat on the floor, back pressed into the corner. Shudders ran down my arms. The rage pulsed white-hot through my head, shaking in clenched fists that ached to hit something, someone, anything.

 

And on the heels of the anger, so close that you couldn’t feel the transition, this burning coil. A molten knot of shame and realization.

 

There was no move to make. There was nowhere to go but along.

 

My jaw clenched, teeth pressing tight like I could get something between them. This is what it was to be truly trapped. No plan. No money. No dream of someday. And on his radar. With his notice, the inevitable end. A concrete wall at the end of the road.

 

Because even if I got through this night, this dangerous strip-joint robbery, in one piece and not under any suspicion or inevitable arrest, it would still never be enough. There’d be the next, and the next. No matter if Michael decided he was through with me, my dad never would be. Now that he could see the potential—the money I could bring him.

 

I was trapped for the rest of my life. And maybe that wouldn’t be too long.

 

I leaned forward, then slammed my shoulders back against the corner. Shifted until they were squared against one wall.

 

Made myself a promise. If we got through it, when the night was fully behind us, I would beat the hell out of them both. Dwight and Michael.

 

It made me feel better, until I thought of Janie, waiting with my dad.

 

The rage winked out. A shift in my mind, like watching a fan, and suddenly it seemed the blades were turning in the opposite direction.

 

My revenge wasn’t what was important. Getting through this night. Coming home to keep Janie safe was.

 

She came and sat on the foot of my bed. We waited. For three a.m., when Michael would pick me up for the job.

 

Finally, after hours, Janie spoke.

 

“What are we going to do?”

 

“Get through it, I guess.” I got up from the floor and scrubbed my hands over my face. “Keep our heads down. Keep our powder dry.”

 

I couldn’t stop the bitter laugh.

 

Jane eased closer, so tentative that the springs barely sagged with her movement. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry about the can. About all of it.”

 

I didn’t have to say it. That he would have had to kill me before I would have shown him where it was. And she didn’t have to say that I had a death wish or that we could start over. Or that everything was going to be okay.

 

I sat next to her. She sighed, and the breath coming out stuttered in little puffs, like she was about to cry.

 

“I don’t know what we should do,” she said in a tiny voice. “What if you get caught? Or get hurt?”

 

“You’re going to be fine, Janie.”

 

“I’m not worried about me!”

 

Her eyes were so dark I could see myself in them. I wrapped an arm around her. “I love you.”

 

She tucked her head on my shoulder and hugged me like she thought she’d never see me again.

 

“I love you, too. Please be careful, Jason.”

 

“I will. If you get the chance, take it. Run to Clay’s.” I hugged her back.

 

“I’ll text you if I do,” she said. We both knew it was a forlorn hope. “Should you call him now?” she asked.

 

I sighed. “What would be the point?”

 

We waited.

 

The clump of my father’s steel-toed boots came up the stairs and knocked the door open.

 

“Your ride is here.” Knife-blade eyebrows lowered in a glare.

 

I put on my work boots while my dad watched. Nodded good-bye to Janie and walked down the stairs and out the door.

 

On the front stoop I paused and shook out a cigarette.

 

Michael’s cherry Mustang idled by the curb. Michael stood beside it on the passenger side, hands in his pockets, a small, knowing smile hovering on his mouth. His clothes were dark.

 

His eyes flicked over my ripped jeans and stretched-out shirt. “No time to go change, sad to say,” he called. “Not that you would, right? Wearing your clapped-out clothes is the only screw-you move you’ve got left.”

 

I crossed the dirt and stood in front of him. Waited.

 

He crossed his arms high on his chest. “I guess you’re in now, huh? It’s for the best. You’ll see. I know you won’t believe me, but I really didn’t have anything to do with it. Dwight crossed a line, man, and he knows it. And when we’re done, if you want to break him, whale on him till he’s raw meat, no one will blame you, and no one will stop you.”

 

Like they could.

 

“But even though he was wrong”—he held up his hands in a now-let’s-not-be-hasty position—“it’s for the best. And you look fine, so you obviously handled your dad. For now.” He edged closer, dropped his voice. “My offer still stands. Tonight, after it’s over, let’s take care of him, and you’ll never have to worry again.”

 

I glared at him.

 

Michael took a step back.

 

“You’re right. I don’t believe you,” I said. The smile on his face tightened. “And, yeah, I’m in tonight. Not because you convinced me, or hired me, or any lame-ass reason you could dream up that you thought I’d go for. But because you forced it. That’s your control. Force instead of manipulation. Just so you get what you want.”

 

His eyes crinkled at the edges, though no smile crooked his mouth. “You suppose God cares if people love or fear Him? As long as they’re obedient?”

 

Smoke plumed out my mouth. “Tell me what I’m doing. And after it’s over, stay the hell away from me.”

 

Michael smiled like I had agreed to come to my own party. He dug in a pocket and handed over five crisp hundreds. “Be yourself. The badass we all know and love.” His eyes had that manic light—like he had tilted the table and everything was spinning his way.