Chapter 17
Once we got onto the highway it wasn’t quite so bad. Going through the town… I may have jolted once or twice.
Asher also kidney punched me the second time because his whole body slammed into mine and it probably looked like he was humping me.
I laughed, he didn’t.
The four hour ride was long as hell, but on the bike, it was freeing at the same time. Because I didn’t have music and I couldn’t talk to Asher, I was alone with my thoughts. And all of my thoughts were on the hell I was bringing to Mickey’s doorstep.
I’d put the directions in my phone and was–very precariously, I might add–watching the GPS from where my phone was duck-taped under the small protective glass covering. I’ll have to get a phone mount at some point.
I slow down and lean as I turn onto the street where that asshole lives. My hands tighten on the handlebars as I feel the anger coursing through my views turns into adrenaline. I downshift to slow down, slowing down until we arrive.
Pulling to a stop right in front of the house, I kill the engine and kick the stand down after Asher jumps off. We pull off our helmets at the same time and he groans.
“My fucking god, man. I’m going to be sore for days,” he says as he stretches out his back like an old man before setting the helmet down on the bike. “Riding on the back is harder than I thought it’d be.”
“All you had to do was hang on,” I say as I roll my eyes and set my helmet down on my seat.
“Yeah, and I couldn’t stretch out or sit up or anything. For four hours.” He holds up his fingers in my face as if I wasn’t there right with him, enduring the same discomfort.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath in Spanish. “Come on, let's go handle this.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I’m going to gently ask that he let’s us the fuck inside and points me in the direction of her things before I not-so-gently send him to the ER.”
Asher runs his hands over his head. “No, no, you said we wouldn’t start something.”
“I’m not,” I say with mocking innocence. “But there’s just no telling how I’ll react to the shit he spews.”
“Alright, I’ll give you that one,” Asher relents, and turns towards the house. “This is where she was living?”
Nodding, I swallow a lump in my throat. The house looks decrepit.
Shingles falling off the sides, shutters barely hanging on, paint peeling all over, the yard is overgrown and full of weeds.
Honestly, it looks as if it’s been abandoned.
How anyone let a fifteen year old live here, I’ll never understand.
“Do you think anyone actually lives there? Did you put in the right address?” Asher asks skeptically.
I’m about to snap at him that I put it in correctly when we hear yelling from inside.
“You lazy motherfuckers! I’m the only one that does anything in this fucking house! I should throw you two out on your lazy, strung-out asses and see how long you live!”
That’s Mickey alright.
“Oh great, he’s in a good mood,” I say deadpanned and start stomping towards the front door.
“Ty, wait, his parents–” Asher tries to get me to stop, but I came here with a purpose. I’m getting her stuff and I’m bringing it back to her.
I’m getting that drawing even if I have to beat him up to do it.
I step up on the broken porch and my fist pounds on the screen aggressively.
“Frank! I know you’re in there,” I shout.
“Goddamn it, here we go,” Asher mutters behind me.
The old plywood door creaks open, and there in the rancid flesh, is Mickey Frank. Smoking and in what looks to be a freshly washed white shirt, he looks at Ashe and I, unimpressed, and blows smoke in our faces.
“Look at what we have here. That bitch went and cried to you? Tell her she owes me and she ain’t getting out of it.”
Fuck, I hate this guy.
“Actually,” I step closer, pulling open the metal screen door and towering over him.
The scent coming from the house is so bad, like body odor and stale smoke.
It’s very obvious from the pale green hue to Mickey’s skin that he’s hungover.
Must have been a bad night at The Underground.
“That won’t be happening. I’m here for her things. ”
I push through the door, checking him in the shoulder as hard as I fucking can as I force my way inside. Asher’s hot on my heels and when Mickey tries to stop him, Asher clothes lines him right in the throat.
“I didn’t say it was up for discussion, Frank,” I growl and turn, letting Asher handle him. Mickey’s got it out for me and I can take him if I need to, but right now, getting Roxie’s things is more important. Getting that picture is more important.
Looking around, rage fills me. This place is a shithole.
No case worker in their right fucking mind would let these people foster. What the hell happened?
The floors are dark with dirt, trash piled high in the corners. It’s a small house, but off to the side I hear the buzz of a TV turned up way too loud and someone hacking a lung out in the other room. That must be Mr. and Mrs. Frank.
If I never interact with them, that will still be too soon.
There’s dirty blankets with big rings of shit, piss, sweat, or vomit covering the windows so this whole place is as dark as a fucking crypt. She lived here? She lived in this?
I look around, then look at Mickey. He’s fucking pristine.
His hair done, his skin scrubbed clean, clean clothes, and he’s wearing his shoes inside like he doesn’t want to touch anything in his own home.
But did she get the same courtesy? The same ability to not touch any disgusting surface around her?
My hands curl into fists at my sides and I force a quick breath out through my nose.
Focus, Ty. Get her stuff, get out.
She said she was behind a curtain, where is it? I turn around. There’s no curtains in the living room. Pushing through the disgusting house, I kick open the first door off to the side where the TV is blasting and two lumps in recliners that jump. The stench, holy hell.
“Disgusting devils,” I mutter under my breath in Spanish, covering my nose with my hand.
“Who the hell are you?” Mickey’s mom, based on the stained “Mom” shirt she’s wearing.
I watch with wide eyes as she hacks up a loogie and spits it to the side where there’s a wet spot already filled with snot.
His dad doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge that the door was opened or that there’s anything different. His dead eyes never leave the screen.
What the fuck is happening?
Instead of answering the question, I close the door quickly and keep moving.
There’s another door right there. Turning the knob easily, I push the door open.
It’s insanely clean, like a breath of fresh air–literally.
The wood on the desk shines in the broken light from the window.
A queen-sized bed perfectly made, vacuum lines on the carpet, a whole computer set up that’s free of dust completely.
“Get the fuck out of my room!” Mickey roars, stomping over to me and shoving me back into the doorframe. “Get out of my house while you’re at it.”
“Where’s Roxie’s things?” I snarl.
“You think I kept any of that?” He laughs sinisterly. “I got rid of all that shit the moment I saw it was you that took her that night. She wants you to play knight-in-shining-armor and run away from her responsibilities, her debts? Then I took what she left as payment for her indiscretions."
Asher steps forward, but he’s too late. My hands dart out, pushing Mickey hard into the wall and grabbing his shirt. His head snaps back, smacking against the wall hard enough it leaves a dent in the drywall, and I drag him back up.
“I’m not going to ask again, Mickey.” My jaw clenches as I grind my teeth in frustration and the restraint it’s requiring of me to not hit him. “Where is her stuff?”
He says nothing, but his eyes dart to the side quickly before he realizes that he slipped.
“Asher,” I say calmly, dropping my hands and turning my back on him, “watch him while I search his room.”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Hernandez!” Mickey’s face turns red with frustration, but I step back with a cocky smirk. I know how to hurt him and not betray Roxie’s trust.
“Shut the hell up.” Asher smacks him on the back of the head, grabbing both of his arms and twisting them behind his back. Mickey doesn’t cry out, but his face scrunches up in pain so I know Asher isn’t holding back.
“You keep a clean room, Frank. You keep a clean room, but let the rest of the house be a shithole?” Walking deeper into his room, I take in all the meticulously cared for surfaces.
“Do you have some aversion to dirt? Interesting, since every single inch of the other areas is filthy. Barely livable.”
“Well, I don’t live out there, do I?” He mutters, one side of his lip curling up in a snarl.
I turn on my heel and look at him. “But you made her?”
“She had a spot.” Mickey shrugs, but Asher tightens his hold and Mickey hisses.
“Ah,” I say darkly, my eyebrows raising and I tilt my head to the side. “You hear that Asher? She had a spot.” I cross my arms over my chest and my eyes narrow at Mickey. “Where was it?”
“Yeah, Mick. Where was it?” Asher asks tauntingly.
“I took it down. You said it yourself, she’s not coming back here. I didn’t need to keep a space for her any longer.” Mickey tries to sound confident, but I see the fear in his eyes. He’s trapped, on his own turf, and he knows it.
My nostrils flare as I inhale sharply and my fists curl against my biceps.
“You got rid of her space. Got it. Now see, I know you’re a selfish, greedy, manipulating, rapist son of a bitch, so I’m willing to bet that you kept her things. You needed trophies, didn’t you?”
I know I’m right when his eyes tighten and his mouth presses into a thin line.
“Asher, if you were a sick freak where would you hide your grossness?” I say the words toward Asher, but my eyes never leave Mickey’s. He’s smart and patient, but he doesn’t have much of a poker face.