2. Dane
2
DANE
Every inch of my body is aching with pain. I twist on the futon, trying to get comfortable, but there’s this one damn spring that’s jabbing one of my cuts no matter how I contort myself. It’s irritating the shit out of me to the point where I almost consider sleeping on the cold, hard floor.
I carefully maneuver onto my side, my bruises protesting in sheer agony, fully aware that I’ve bled onto the two fleece throw blankets my savior provided me.
Last night was bad. Really bad. I should thank my luck that I didn’t meet my maker, but my mind’s preoccupied, replaying the events of last night in my head and scrutinizing every little detail.
I’m minding my own fucking business, as one does, cruising down the street on my bike.
Two dickheads I don’t know tailgating me and riding my ass.
Trying to lose them to no avail and stupidly turning into an alleyway where I careen into a pile of pallets and crates like a rookie.
My ass getting swarmed and curb-stomped by Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, with no sign of stopping.
I ache for another painkiller. Instead, I lie there shivering under two small blankets in a small apartment on a small-as-fuck futon. Small appears to be the theme of this place.
Sleep evades me. Shutting my eyes, I only see the crowbar swinging up over and over and over. Staying awake, a dull pain throbs across my body. After another excruciating hour has passed, I weasel my phone out of my pocket, my lips curling at the bent and cracked glass.
Dane: come get me
Dane: and bring your truck
Marco: Man wya?
That’s the million-dollar question.
Dane: I’ll drop a pin
I drop my location just in the nick of time. The screen freezes momentarily before it goes black. Cursing under my breath, I toss the broken thing onto the coffee table.
It’s still a quarter to five. I listen to the clock tick every agonizing second as I remain awake.
Not wanting to lie on the futon and have my spine become extremely familiarized with that fucking spring any second longer, I sit up slowly, ignore the screeching protest from every joint and muscle, and push to my feet. Clenching my jaw hard, I pocket my phone and examine the small apartment I’m in.
There are two barstools lined against the kitchen counter. A shoe rack by the futon where every pair of shoes is sorted by color in order of the rainbow.
On the fridge door, there’s a whiteboard calendar listing shifts, paydays, exams, birthdays, and tutoring sessions. A hexagon corkboard hangs on the side of the fridge, pinned with Polaroid pictures and fake flowers.
A round tray filled with spice jars sits on the corner of the kitchen counter, and a candle is placed beside it. I spot a short charging cable near an outlet and immediately plug my phone in.
The screen flashes when it comes to life, displaying a text message sent from Marco twenty minutes ago telling me he’ll be there soon.
I know Marco. The guy will drive ninety miles per hour at minimum. If he’s not outside already, he will be soon.
The sound of running water brings my attention to the kitchen wall. I’m guessing there’s a bathroom on the other side.
Marco: Yo I’m here
Dane: be out soon
Of course, my little savior is taking a shower right when I need my keys. I don’t want to wait any longer—I want to go home and take my very own shower—so I erase one of the flower doodles on the bottom right corner of her whiteboard and scrawl out a message.
Went home. I owe you one. Will get my keys later. D.
I don’t like owing favors, but I figure I owe the chick something for letting me crash here and for cleaning me up the best she could. That and she didn’t call the cops, which means Daniel Kingsley won’t know a single thing that transpired last night, and I plan to keep it that way.
I hobble out of the apartment, my lips forming a hard, grim line at how run-down the building is. The floor I’m on is tilted. The outdoor pool on the bottom floor is murky brown with leaves and bulky junk floating inside. A couple can be heard screaming at each other while dogs howl in the distance.
It’s not The Westbrook Resort, that’s for sure. I can’t blame the girl when my eyes snare on the rusting security bar bolted to her apartment window.
It’s a miracle the elevator here is functioning. More importantly, it’s empty when I limp in. I exit on the ground floor, my joints aching every step of the way, taking immediate notice that none of the gates are closed. The parking gate is wide open, and the smaller one for the courtyard is propped ajar with a trash can.
“Holy fucking shit.”
I glance over to see Marco sticking his head out of his truck, his long brown hair swaying with the wind. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve last seen his mug. He’s been out of town, and I haven’t been bothered to ask what he’s up to. Especially when the answer’s always chasing the surf .
“What happened to you?” he calls out.
“Don’t want to talk about it,” I grunt. “Help me find my bike.”
I pull out my spare set of keys while he hops out of his vehicle. As we look for my bike in the building’s parking lot, I suddenly remember leaving it behind some dumpster. He doesn’t get on my ass about it as we make our way back to his truck.
It’s a short drive over to the alleyway. Not only is my bike still there, but the dumpster enclosure is already opened, allowing me the opportunity to retrieve it.
After the disc brake alarm has been unlocked and unlatched from the rear wheel before it can go off, I check to make sure nothing’s been tampered with. Once that’s squared away, I tip my head to the side, and Marco gives me a nod.
Considering how loud and chatty Marco generally is, I savor the rare moment of silence lapsing over us. He doesn’t utter a word, remaining quiet as we load the motorcycle onto the back of his truck.
“Giancarlo?” Marco guesses.
“Maybe.” It’s the only thing I can think of to explain what happened last night. “Or maybe it’s road rage gone wrong,” I mutter when we observe a giant SUV cutting off another car.
“Yikes.” Thankfully, Marco doesn’t press on the subject. The only things he cares about are catching waves, playing blackjack, and smashing chicks—all in that order.
Marco likes being one with the fucking wave or something, and I like racing cars and bikes. Different things, but the same underlying theme. We like thrills. Get that hit of dopamine that can only come from all of that pure adrenaline. Chase that next high.
“Want me to take you to the h?—”
“No hospital,” I bite out, cutting him off. The last thing I need is for any word to get back to Daniel Kingsley.
“All right, man.” He turns the radio on, switches to an alt-rock station, and fiddles with the volume. Without warning, he stomps his foot on the gas, causing me to launch backward and ram a bare, bruised shoulder into the leather seat. My set of keys flies out of my hand.
“Jesus!” I seethe through clenched teeth, and I reach down blindly to grab for it, fingers brushing against all sorts of random shit he’s shoved underneath the seat. There’s so much crap under here. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an empty jar of surfboard wax from five years ago with how he treats the passenger side as some sort of honorary junk drawer.
“I can be gentle for you, baby,” Marco cackles.
My fingers wrap around my keys, and I snatch them. “Fuck off.”
He only chuckles even harder. If he were anybody else, I wouldn’t have let that shit slide. But Marco and I go way back.
Way, way back to when we used to go by the devil and the king. Back when we thought we were hot shit. Untouchable. Invincible. Destined to be Gods, brothers in arms: Divenanzio and Kingsley.
The point is, we’ve been there for each other through thick and thin. He’s got my back for the longest time, and I’ve got his.
Unlike most of the people at Belford U, we are the only two who don’t give a shit about Greek life, athletics, or academics. Doesn’t mean we’re dumbass losers; it just means we don’t give a shit about something as meaningless as throwing a ball or wearing tacky polo shirts while spitting shit game at incoming freshman chicks.
Suddenly, the truck hits a fucking pothole, and the belt locks against me. A hiss escapes between my gritted teeth as I tug the seatbelt away from my injured shoulder.
This area isn’t bad, my ass .
I throw my forearm over my eyes to block the morning sun, hoping that the ride will be smooth sailing from here.
Given the fact that my apartment's on the top floor, I’m genuinely fucking grateful elevators exist for the second time today. I hobble inside the moment the door barely swings ajar, ignoring the gasp from the cleaning lady as I head to my room and straight for the bathroom.
The lights flick on, and my eyes cut to the mirror. Well. It’s not as terrible as I had expected, and I was expecting the worst, given how badly the chick from last night was reacting to my injuries.
Over reacting, if I’m being honest. Sure, my face isn’t pretty to look at, but I’m still alive. That’s got to count for something.
The entire right side of my chest is covered in a cluster of bruises. There’s a tiny pink bandage along my jawline—straight from my savior’s own personal stash of first aid—as if it’s supposed to help with everything going on with my face. I rip it off and cuss loudly when it yanks a few strands of hair with it.
Without standing around any longer, I crank on the shower, kick off my jeans and boxers, and wait for the telltale signs of my mirrors fogging up before I slide the shower door open and climb inside.
Scorching hot water pelts me. I nearly groan in bliss from the soothing relief my aching muscles are receiving—enough to ignore the sharp stings of my cuts getting soaked.
My hand braces against the shower wall as I let the heat seep through my skin to my bones. I stay there until the hot water finally runs out, and I continue to stand under the showerhead as cold water takes its place.
I only get out when Marco shouts about the fucking drought. Dragging my wet, dripping, butt-ass naked body out of the bathroom, I face-plant on the bed and welcome the sleep that finally comes to me.