Payback Excerpt
DEAN
(Get Payback here)
I'm so, so fucked.
Completely.
Totally.
I don't know what to do. And not knowing isn't a choice.
There's a tiny scrunchy-faced bundle four floors up in the NICU, and she needs me to know. She doesn't know I'm a fuck-up who was only ever good for one thing. She doesn't know I'm the reason she doesn't have a mother.
My fingers tremble against the mustard yellow tile I'm sitting on. I keep pressing my hands to the floor, trying to stand, to move, to do literally anything, but I'm stuck here.
The hamster wheel in my brain keeps spinning on questions I have no way to answer.
Where are you going to live?
How are you going to support yourself?
What the hell do you know about taking care of a baby when you can barely take care of yourself?
The one person who knew? The one who had a plan?
Well, they kicked me out of her room when she collapsed to the floor. Thanks to her parents I wasn't even allowed to say goodbye.
They hate me. Not half as much as I hate myself.
The door squeaks open and I don't bother to look up. My forehead stays resting against the arm draped across my knees, and like those weird toads I see around the trailer park, I'm hoping if I don't move whoever's walking in will ignore me, do their business, and leave.
With the sound of piss hitting the urinal and then water running while someone washes their hands, I think I've gotten my wish.
Until someone says, “Everything okay?”
Nothing is okay. Nothing will ever be okay again.
What I want is for this guy to leave. I want to nod and tell him I'm fine and then get back to figuring out what the fuck I'm supposed to do now.
Except the shaking inside me intensifies, the tears I thought had dried threaten to spill over again, and when I open my mouth I blurt out, “I’m going to ruin her life.”
There's a quiet click of footsteps, sounding like the way the pastor at our old church walked. He had those shiny shoes with the smooth bottoms. Kind of like the pair that appears in front of me. When I look up I realize the resemblance to my old pastor ends at the shoes.
The man looking down on me is dressed nice—way nicer than anything I own—in a pair of black pants and a dress shirt. He's also got a bull tattooed on his neck and a gun holstered at his hip.
“What the fuck you doing down there, big man?”
Uh. “I didn't think you were allowed to have guns in a hospital.”
I thought I saw that on a sign. I'm probably wrong though. A lot of stupid things come out of my mouth.
I'm expecting some reply that starts with “well, actually...” but all he does is laugh. “Probably not.”
He doesn't seem at all concerned about getting caught. Which tells me he's dangerous. I've seen guys like this back home in Georgia. There was one who showed up at our trailer park once, and my dad said it was because old Mr. Cornell was dumb enough to borrow money from the wrong people.
A couple of weeks later, Mr. Cornell disappeared for good.
“Well?” The man nudges his fancy shoe against my foot. “Why are you down there looking like the world ended. Someone die?”
This is not a man to confide in. The last thing I need is to give someone information they might use against me. Except I can't think right now. And there's literally nobody else for me to tell.
“Yes, sir. My...my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend?” His eyebrows lift.
For some reason I'm losing feeling in my arms. “Sh-she... Our daughter...” I lick my lips and it's like licking sandpaper.
“She gave birth to our daughter yesterday.
Today they came in to help us give the baby her first bath, but when Billie went to get in the wheelchair, she just collapsed.
Out of nowhere. A blood clot, they said.
Now I've got a baby upstairs who needs me and I don't know what to do once they decide she’s ready to go home.”
Fuck. I bite down on my lips, trying to stop the way they’re kind of twitching.
The man crosses his arms over his chest, pulling the fabric tight around his biceps. He’s shorter than me, but Lord I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. I’m not sure I should be talking to him now.
“Anywhere you can go? Any family who can help you out?”
Right now I'm not sure where to look. The gun he’s wearing is practically in my face and it feels like an important thing to pay attention to, but it's a few inches from his crotch and looking at that feels equally wrong. Looking up at his face though, well, it's a scary fucking face. He’s almost pretty in a way, with full lips and dirty blond hair, but his blue eyes are cold, and the bridge of his nose is thick with a bump that makes me think it’s been broken.
Really should’ve kept my mouth shut.
“Not sure where to go. I’ve been here at the hospital since yesterday.
No family. Well, my daddy, but he washed his hands of me when I got my girlfriend pregnant.
He wasn’t great anyway. Billie had some savings and a decent job lined up to get us started, but her parents won't let me touch that now...”
“Not even for their grandchild?”
“They don't even want to see her,” I babble. “She's the tiniest, sweetest, most perfect thing you've ever seen, and they won’t even look at her.”
My effort to keep my tears in my eyes fails. I make a hasty swipe with the back of my hand, for all the good it does.
The man tips his head to the side, almost as if he understands.
“She reminds them of what they lost.”
“Guess so.” Not that it helps me understand.
“So, what's the plan?”
I’m curling up my fingers to avoid pulling my hair out right now.“I have no fucking clue. I’m poor white trailer trash from Georgia with half a semester of a sports nutrition degree under my belt. My only marketable skills are dribbling a basketball.”
“Hey. Look at me. How old are you? What's your name?”
I’m afraid to answer. I’m afraid not to. “Dean. I'm, uh, nineteen. Sir.”
This guy may scare the crap out of me but even now I know better than to disrespect my elders.
“Sounds like you'd do anything for that little girl upstairs.”
“Anything.” I feel like I swallowed a rock. “Anything in the world.”
One hand slips into his expensive-looking pants and pulls out a money clip. Given that the bill on the outside is a hundred, I already know it's more money than I've seen in one place.
“Maybe I can help.”
“What’s that help gonna cost me?” I’m not the brightest star in the sky, but I know this isn’t a man whose help comes free.
He pulls all the cash out of the clip and drops it next to the sink where he washed his hands. “A thousand dollars,” he says. Then he pulls out a small rectangle of paper. “My business card. You come see me in the morning, I can get you work.”
“And? What's the catch?” There has to be. There always is.
He puts a hand next to the money he just laid down and hops onto the counter next to the sink, legs spread wide. “Stand up.”
Alarm bells ring in my head. Whatever he wants, you don't plunk down that kind of money for a stranger. He's probably fucking with me.
But in twenty-four to forty-eight hours my daughter is getting discharged. We have nowhere to go. If there's any chance at all though he's willing to let me have that cash, I’ll do what he asks.
So, I do the thing I've been unable to do for the last couple of hours, and I push myself up onto my shaky legs.
Silence stretches between us. I'm itchy to ask him what he wants again. To find out the price. But it doesn't matter, does it?
“You want this money, right? For your kid?” he gestures to the cash.
“Mister, that's like asking a guy if he wants to be able to eat or breathe.”
“Not everyone gives a shit about their kids.”
Right. My parents are decent examples. They tried, but they could barely manage caring for themselves.
My throat sticks when I try to swallow. “I’m not letting her down.”
He nods. “Kids are expensive. You'll need a place to live. Diapers. Formula.”
“The hospital says they'll give me some samples,” I say stupidly. Even I know those won't last long.
Dread sweeps through me when he unsnaps the gun at his hip and holds it out. “What if I told you to take this piece and go handle someone for me. You'd do that? For you kid?”
Ella's little face fills my head. The last time I saw her she was bundled up like a little burrito in the nursery, pink pursed lips against light brown skin, eyes all wide and intelligent like her momma's. She’d had her forehead scrunched into a frown as if she already knew by looking at me that she'd been dealt the short end of the stick.
“Anything,” I say more to myself than the man in front of me.
I reach for the gun.
He yanks the weapon away as I reach out, laughing. “Just fucking with you man, Jesus.”
I rub my palm against the side of my face. “You're a real piece of shit, you know that? Here I am with my life in fucking pieces and a little girl who needs me, you're sitting there making jokes?”
“You have options, you know. Find a shelter. Give her up for adoption. Go and live your life and let her go to a family that can give her what you can't.”
“Screw you.” I'd spit at him if I didn’t think he might shoot me. The problem is, he's right. The hospital sent a social worker to talk to me, and she laid it all out. Letting Ella go to a good family would be the sensible thing. Probably the best thing.
I can't do it though, I just can't. When Billie called to tell me she was pregnant I promised I'd help her, that I'd look after them both, and on one count I've already failed. I can't fail at this too. What if wherever she ended up, they didn’t’ love her the way she deserved?
And shelters? Those are risky.
I'd storm out if I thought I could. I intend to, in fact, but I'm awfully dizzy. For a moment, I think I might be sick.
“Okay, look. Chill. I was only trying to take your temperature.”
I'm not really sure what that means.
But then his hand goes to his zipper. “I wanted to see if you'd really be willing to do anything.”
“Oh.”
He inches his fly open one quiet click at a time. Each one makes my heart beat faster.
“I've got a new business venture going. Girls, but I've had a lot of requests for guys. You've got a nice body, pretty blue eyes, all that golden skin. You can make some good money. More importantly, so can I.” He pops his button open. “Come over here and show me what you got, golden boy.”
“Here? Now?” I glance at the door.
“That's right, someone could come in any second. Better get to work.”
Maybe he's fucking with me again?
But no. Guy's actually pulling his dick out.
All the times I've been in locker rooms with other men, I've never looked at another guy's willy. This one's big. Long. Kinda red and angry looking at the tip, which I guess fits.
Jesus, it's tattooed.
If you'd asked me this morning what I'd end up doing at the end of the day, staring down a dick that says “Bite Me” would have been dead last on the list. But again, I picture that tiny thing upstairs with her wide eyes and rosebud mouth.
My little girl.
I gave up my only shot at college for her. Lost my best friend. When I reached for that gun, I was sure as fuck willing to kill for her. I can do this, too.
Slowly, I step closer. Sometimes people are intimidated by my height. I'm standing over this guy now that he's seated on the counter, but he looks the opposite of bothered. He's smiling the way a person does when they know they've got something in the bag, and he'd be exactly right.
Nodding my head at the money, I ask, “No fucking around this time?”
“No fucking around. Get me off, the money's yours. There'll be plenty more of it where this came from. I’ll even hook you up with a place to crash while you and your kid get on your feet.”
Acid swirls in my stomach. I'm still dizzy. But I've played through pain before.
“Okay.” I brace my hands on either side of his hips, staring at the weeping slit. The stack of hundreds tickles my fingertips, and I curl it into my palm to be sure he can't back out.
The door creaks open. “Dean are you in her—what the fuck are you doing?”
When I move to pull away, the man whose name I still don’t know puts his hand to the back of my head. “Hang on there, buddy. You know him?”
My head bobs against his hand. All I can see is a dark brown hand on a doorknob, but I don’t need to look to know it’s Michael standing there. My former friend. My former roommate. Billie’s brother.
“Who are you?” Michael demands.
“Name’s Brennan.”
Oh. At least now I know that much.
“Your buddy here’s applying for a job. Good money.” Out of the corner of my eye, Brennan’s free hand moves. Sounds like he’s sliding the gun on the counter. Or picking it up. “You want to put in an application as well, you’re free to stick around. Otherwise, get the fuck out before I shoot you.”
My shoulders tense, even more when seconds pass and Michael doesn’t move.
Then Brennan’s fingers tighten, tugging at my hair some. Surprisingly gentle, considering. “You get to work,” he murmurs almost right into my ear.
The shiver that runs through me is one hell of a surprise. I try to look over at Michael, but I can’t see much aside from the hard set of his jaw. The way his lips press together in an angry line. The same way he’s looked for months now. Since his family heard about Billie being pregnant.
Why the hell isn’t he leaving?
“Offer won’t be on the table for much longer,” Brennan says.
Fuck.
At his reminder, I take a breath. I lower my head.
And I get to work.
—
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