Chapter 38
Jameson
I’ve just dropped Sam off at the diner when my phone buzzes. I pull it from my back pocket and answer Marcus’s incoming call.
His voice crackles over the line, the connection weak. “I don’t like waiting.”
Glancing at the clock, I confirm that I’m already ten minutes late. “I’m almost there.”
He grunts, and I know I’ve pissed him off. I wait for him to lay into me, but the line just goes dead.
Since my old man’s been gone, Marcus has taken over most of what he’s built. The guys who were loyal to my father shifted that loyalty to him.
I resisted getting back into it for as long as I could but, eventually, the need for cash won out. I called Marcus up, and he was more than happy to put me to work.
Still, I have my limits. Lines that I won’t cross.
Or, at least, I hope I won’t.
I know how much this life chips away at your moral compass. How it can turn you into a person you never thought you’d be. But it’s not just me I’m thinking about. It’s Sam. I can’t be another person she loses.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull around the back of an abandoned warehouse. Half the windows are smashed, the other half boarded up, and graffiti litters the stained brick walls.
Luke refused to let Marcus operate out of the garage, so this is our new spot.
I cut the engine and reach into the glove box, retrieving the envelope of cash I stashed there this morning, then step out of the car, sliding it into my back pocket.
Walking up to the warehouse, I check for my gun, reassuring myself that it’s tucked in place.
If my old man taught me one thing, it’s that you never know what kind of shit you’re walking into. Just because you think something is going to go one way, doesn’t mean it can’t go south fast.
I stop at the old wood door, knocking in a pattern of threes before it’s pulled open. A gun is pointed at my head before it’s lowered.
I’m used to the greeting because, just like my old man, Marcus doesn’t fuck around with what ifs.
Adrian steps away from the door, tucking his piece away and letting me pass.
I scan the room, clocking all the exits out of habit before striding over to Marcus. He’s sitting at a foldable card table, positioned in the middle of the room, cleaning a gun. He snaps his eyes up when the door slams closed behind me, the sound echoing through the cavernous space.
On my way to the table, I move past Jonah stripping a BMW and Marcus’s girl, Naomi, bagging pills. Their presence doesn’t make me any less on edge. I’m more than familiar with how power structures like these work.
Marcus is in charge, so if he wants to fuck with me, nobody’s gonna step in.
I stop in front of him, grabbing the envelope from my back pocket. “Sorry, I’m—”
“Sit,” he commands, nodding to the chair opposite him.
I lower into the seat, sliding the envelope toward him. He sets down the gun and reaches for it, tucking it away without checking its contents.
“I give you a lot of free passes ’cause of who you are, but this is the second time you’ve made me wait on you.” When I don’t say anything, he asks, “Things at home all right?”
“Fine,” I answer. I’m not about to tell him shit. It’s none of his business.
“Your mother?”
My jaw ticks. “Her husband’s dead, but other than that …”
“Lucky she has you.”
“You got the product?” I ask. “I’m here to pick up, not for a therapy session.”
I wait for him to lose it, maybe pistol whip me or something for giving him lip, but he just tilts his head back and starts laughing.
When he looks back at me, I notice his dilated pupils. “You’re one cold motherfucker, you know that?”
“Just here to work,” I tell him.
He watches me for a minute before he shakes his head. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he, kid?” Before I can respond, he drums his hands on the table and shouts, “Naomi!”
She looks up from where she’s working and quickly starts toward us.
When Marcus started bringing her around, it was clear the only reason she was with him was drugs and money. Well, and maybe the ego boost of being with a man in power. She’s at least fifteen years younger than him and the type of pretty he would never be able to pull if he wasn’t who he is.
Her hips sway as she saunters toward us, her skimpy outfit leaving little to the imagination. As she approaches, she runs her eyes over me appreciatively.
I look away, not wanting her to get any ideas.
When she reaches the table, Marcus yanks her toward him, and I shift, about to step in, but he drops his hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he questions, his voice low.
“What do you mean? I—”
“You were practically eye-fucking him the whole way over here,” Marcus spits.
She turns toward him, running her hand down his chest. “I wasn’t looking at him any kind of way.”
“You sayin’ I’m lying?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “No, that’s not what I—”
“Do you want to fuck him?”
“W-what?”
“I said, do you want to fuck him?” he asks, drawing out each word.
Her eyes widen. “No, of course not, no. I only want you. You know that?”
“You gonna show me just how much you want me then, hmm?”
She leans into him and nods as he trails his hand up her leg and grips her ass. He slaps it then tilts his head toward me. “Give him the bag, and then go wait for me.”
I stand and she passes me a duffle bag, barely making eye contact this time, before making a show of kissing Marcus then scampering off.
I grip the handle of the bag, the fabric digging into my palm. This whole situation makes my fucking skin crawl.
“Same time next week,” Marcus says, pushing his chair back. “And you better not make me wait.” He holds up two fingers. “You’re already at two strikes. Don’t make me show you what happens if you get to three.”
I fight to hold back a response, dying to put him in his place. Wanting to remind him that he used to be someone’s bitch, too. That I still remember the hold my father had over him, the way he followed my old man around like a dog begging for scraps.
He stands. “You hear me, kid?”
I stare him down, not playing into his bullshit, satisfied when it’s him who finally drops my gaze. Then I sling the duffle bag over my shoulder and turn without a word.
“Jameson?” he says to my back.
“Yeah, Marcus,” I call out, not bothering to look at him, “I hear you.”
I swing into the driveway, stopping home after some drop-offs and a few hours at my usual spots. I’m done for the day and have a couple hours to kill before Sam needs to be picked up.
The house is quiet when I step inside. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but each time I come home, there’s a part of me that hopes she’ll be up. That the mother I used to know will be back.
I picture walking into the house and it smelling like the roast chicken dinner she used to make because she knew it was my favorite. That she’d be in the kitchen, looking way too done up to just be cooking, humming some song the way she used to.
Instead, it smells like stale cigarettes, and the only sound is my boots hitting the floor.
I pass through the kitchen, noting the dirty dishes piling up in the sink. I ignore them for now, heading to my room so I can stash the duffle bag.
“Jameson?” my mother’s voice rings out as I start down the hall.
I take in a breath, slowing in front of her room. “Yeah,” I answer, lingering in the doorway.
Her room looks like a cave, the window covered with a sheet, blocking out any natural light. Her clothes are strewn around the room, an overflowing ashtray balanced on her nightstand.
“You’ve gotta clean this place up,” I tell her. “Seriously, Ma. This is getting to be too much.”
I move for the window, stepping over the mess on the floor.
She groans when I pull the sheet away and light floods the room.
“Get up,” I tell her. “This has gotta stop.”
This isn’t the first time we’ve gone through this routine.
Or even the second.
Or third.
I’ve been trying for months.
I click off the TV and turn to face her, tensing when my eyes land on her frail body.
She’s so fucking thin. Her knees are pulled to her chest. The satin robe she always wears pooling around her.
“You eat anything today?”
She shrugs, and I know that means she didn’t.
“We talked about this,” I say, moving around the room and picking things up. “It’s the middle of the day. You can’t just not eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” she mutters.
I sigh, facing her. “How much longer are you gonna do this? It’s been over a year.”
She looks up at me, her eyes hollow. “If I just had something to …”
“I’m not giving you more coke. The pills are bad enough.”
“I want to get better,” she pushes. “I do, really. I just need some help getting started. Something to help me get out of bed, you know?”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I messed up last time. This time, it’ll be different.”
“No.”
“Jameson,” she pleads. “Come on; don’t you want me to be better. I want to be better.”
“Of course I do, but—”
“I just need a jumpstart.” She shifts forward. “That’s it.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “You can do it without the coke.”
She shakes her head.
“Just take it one thing at a time.”
“You don’t fucking get it,” she snaps.
“Oh, I don’t get it.” I scoff. “You think this shit is easy for me? That I don’t wish I had the privilege of locking myself in my room and forgetting that this is my life.”
“It’s not the same.”
“You know how long I had to get it together after that night? About five fucking minutes. And do you know where you were when I was losing it?”
She stares back at me.
“Passed out drunk in this bed.”
She flinches.
“I tried to coddle you. Give you time. But I’m not gonna just sit back and watch you kill yourself. Watch you fucking disappear.”
“I’m not—”
“So, here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get up and shower. Then you’re gonna come sit in the kitchen, not in this bed, and eat something.”
She pulls her robe tightly around herself. “Who do you think you are giving me orders like that?”
I stand. “I tried to be your son, but you didn’t respond to that. So now I’ll be the one thing you actually will respond to.”
“And what’s that?”
“Your drug dealer, Ma. That’s what you want, isn’t it? What I’m good for?”
“That’s not … Jameson—”
“You do what I say, you get your pills. Got it?” My voice is flat, completely void of emotion.
She blinks up at me. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need me to.”
She stares back at me, resigned. Then, dipping her chin, she stands, brushing past me without a word.
I wait until I hear the water start then move for my room, slamming the door shut behind me. My fist cracks against it, splitting the wood.
“Fuck!” I shout, shaking out my hand.
I start to pace, the built-up energy inside me having nowhere to go.
My mind keeps playing the last few minutes over and over again in my head, trying to rationalize that I did the right thing. That what I did was for my mother’s own good. That it was the only way. That I’m not turning into my fucking father.
Pacing isn’t enough. Nothing is enough.
I need …
I pull my phone from my back pocket and dial Sam’s number. It rings several times before she picks up.
“Hello?” she says, the end of the word tilting up in confusion.
I almost never call her when she’s at work.
“Baby,” I push out. “I—”
She must hear it in my voice. “Hold on. Let me get on break.”
I continue to pace as I wait, listening to the muffled sounds coming from the other line.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m back. What’s going on?”
“I don’t want to be him,” I whisper.
“You’re not,” she’s quick to respond, her tone certain. “You know you’re not.”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “I’m not a good person.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“My mother … I …”
She gives me time, letting the silence sit between us.
“The way my life is … the way it’s been … it’s made me …”
“It’s made you what?”
“Broken,” I tell her. “Violent. Numb.”
“No,” she says. “No, you’re not broken.”
I blow out a disbelieving breath.
“You’re the strongest person I know, Jamie. You’re just trying to protect yourself.”
“What kind of person gives their mother drugs, huh?” I fight to keep my voice even, to not take my anger out on her. “What kind of person bribes their mother with them? Talks to her like she’s a stranger?”
“Listen to me,” Sam says. “None of this is your fault. I’ve watched you with her. I’ve seen all the ways you’ve tried to help her. You’re a good person, Jamie.”
I grip the phone so hard that it feels like the thing’s about to shatter.
“Whatever just happened, whatever you just think you did, I know you feel like it had to be done. And even though it was hard for you, you did it for her.”
“You don’t even know what happened.”
“Yeah,” she answers. “But I know you.”
“I don’t know how you see the good in me. How you have such blind faith.”
“That’s ’cause it’s not blind. You’ve shown me over and over again who you are.”
I drop down to sit on the bed.
“And not once did I see your father. Not once did I think you were broken. And not once did I think you were anything but good.”
I’m quiet, her words sinking in.
“Do you believe me?”
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
“I’ll keep telling you then,” she says, “until you do.”