Chapter Four
Shai
Four thousand dollars.
I can’t believe Cherry walks around with four grand in his pockets and handed it over so easily—Cherry’s what I’ve been calling him since I don’t know his name.
It’s killing me not to know who he is. I’ve thought about asking around, but what am I supposed to do?
Go up to random people and ask if they know a redhead who drives a BMW and laughs with a gun in his face?
There are probably other ways to go about it, but I’m not always great with words… or people.
But rent is paid for another month, and I have some cash left to spare, so that’s all that matters.
I’ve resorted to carrying a backpack with my money in it since I can’t trust Mom.
Cherry’s gun is in there too. Keeping it is the stupidest thing I could do.
I should wipe my fingerprints off it, toss it in the woods and be done with it, but…
I haven’t been able to do that. I want the reminder of him.
Honestly, I feel powerful having it because there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s powerful.
And the fact that I was able to take it from him…
there’s something sexy and addicting about that.
He’s not the first person I’ve stolen from, and he won’t be the last, but they weren’t like him, and a couple of weeks later, I’m still thinking about him.
“Hey, Shai. You work today too?” Ollie slides into the booth across from me.
I haven’t gotten a handle on this guy yet.
He started talking to me on my third shift, just friendly conversation, something most of the other employees at the Pizza Palace don’t really do.
I see how the rest of them judge me, the way they look at my tattoos, piercings, and messy blond hair and purposefully steer clear.
Not Ollie, though. Despite the fact that we couldn’t be more different—him neat and tidy and studying every spare moment he can—Ollie is nice to me, and I can tell it’s honest. I was annoyed the first time he started chatting with me—I’m not here to make friends, and I didn’t figure there was much we could have in common—but I’m fairly certain there’s a rule out there somewhere that it’s impossible not to like this kid.
“Hey, Ollie. What’s up?”
“Not much. Cillian is off doing…stuff, so I thought I’d come here early and do homework before my shift starts.”
Cillian is his boyfriend, but that’s mostly all I know. One of the staff told me to be careful because Cillian is possessive. He often drops Ollie off and picks him up, but I haven’t seen or met him. Sounds like an asshole to me. Does he not trust Ollie? Possessive as in abusive or what?
“Stuff, huh?” I raise a brow. “You good?”
Ollie frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be good?”
“Just making sure you’re okay.” No good can come of a controlling boyfriend. I haven’t had one myself, but my mom has had enough that I know the person on the other side often comes out of it bruised, battered, and losing a part of themselves.
When Ollie continues to look at me, his nose scrunched up cutely, I add, “I’ve heard you have a, let’s say, protective boyfriend, so I was just checking on you.”
His eyes go wide behind his black-rimmed glasses.
“If you’re worried Cillian might be hurting or controlling me, that’s actually laughable.
He would never hurt me, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me.
It’s nice of you to ask, though. Most people wouldn’t.
We live in a world where people only think about themselves and don’t speak up when someone is in trouble, so it’s cool that you do. ”
I chuckle. “Don’t go thinking I’m a nice person. You just caught me on a good day.” Plus, I like him. I don’t like a lot of people, so that says something about Ollie.
“That’s like something Cillian would say.” He begins pulling out his books and laptop. “You’ll have to meet him sometime. This is my last shift before we head to Michigan for the holiday. He’s meeting my dad.”
He’s so open, which is interesting to me. I’m not the type to ever just offer information, partly because I would never have that kind of news to share, and partly because it’s no one’s business.
“How long have you been together?” I ask because it feels like the right thing to do. He’s holding a conversation with me, so I should do my part.
“Only a few months, but we’ve been through a lot. Cillian is it for me.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” He smiles. “Okay, I get how that sounds. Believe me, I’m not looking at this situation through rose-colored glasses.
I’m very logical about most things, not at all the head-in-the-clouds type.
What Cillian and I have is real. I love him.
And once he decides someone is his, there’s no going back for him. ”
“His?” I cock a brow. “Now I’m gonna worry again that you’re in an unhealthy relationship.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I promise. What about you? Where did you move from again?” he asks, and we have a short—and vague on the details—conversation. “You live with your mom? What does she do?”
“Does drinking count?”
He frowns, his gaze softening in a pitying way that makes me uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? What’s the point? Life is what it is. Being sorry doesn’t change anything. And don’t feel sorry for me. That shit pisses me off.”
Ollie rolls his eyes. “You remind me of our friends.” He doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask, though I do wonder how in the hell someone so obviously good, kind, and smart is friends with people like me. “Are you a musician?” Ollie asks.
I sit up straighter, wondering how he knew that.
Ollie points to the tattoos on my arm—the guitar and music notes.
“Yeah—guitar and piano.” I like talking to Ollie. There’s something calming about him. I don’t have a whole lot of calm in my life.
“Cillian plays piano.”
“Keep talking about your boyfriend this much, and I’m definitely gonna think you’re in an unhealthy, obsessive relationship.”
“I never said we weren’t obsessive,” Ollie teases, giving me another chuckle.
“You’re funny. And not what I expected. I hate most people, and I don’t hate you, so that should tell you something.
” I stand, my break coming to an end. “See you in the kitchen, Counselor,” I tease back.
Another thing about Ollie—he’s pre-law, and I never expected to like someone on that side of the law.
Ollie loses himself in his studying while I go make pizza and hate every second of it.
I only work for two hours with Ollie, and then I’m off and heading home.
Since Mom busted into my closet, I keep my guitar in my trunk, so I grab the case before going inside.
The trailer is a mess, and Mom is drunk out of her mind.
It doesn’t matter if I leave her money or not, she finds a way to get whatever she’s looking for.
If she cared as much about getting her life together as she does drinking or gambling, she’d be unstoppable.
But she’s pretty and enjoys using her body, and there are lots of men willing to pay for it.
“I had a shitty day at work. Thanks for asking,” I grumble when she doesn’t say anything to me, just sits there smelling like alcohol, face in her phone.
“Shai…sweetheart. Why are you always so grumpy? We should go out tonight!”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not going out with you.”
“Please.” She walks over and hugs me. “I’m bored. I’ve been in this house for two days.”
“You’re drunk, and there was no alcohol in this house when I left.”
“I had a friend over.” She grins.
“Maybe you should have considered cleaning up this house first. And it’s not safe to bring random guys here.”
“Yeah, but it’s fun.” She pumps her brows, her words like a wrecking ball to my chest.
Because the thing is, I’m a lot like her.
I do my best to control it when I can. I’m not always successful, but I do like that high of doing something dangerous, things I’m not supposed to do.
It’s why I keep thinking about Cherry, why I was both disgusted and intrigued by him, and why I’m standing here, thinking about that night again when it should be the furthest thing from my mind.
I disentangle from my mom, who is touchy-feely as shit, and go into the kitchen. “I’m not going out with you,” I repeat, then force myself to start cleaning the house because at least it will keep me busy. She pouts, but then goes back to her room, I assume to drink and talk to men online.
It’s late when I finish cleaning, but once I’m in my bedroom, guitar in hand, it’s easy to lose myself in the music. Before I know it, one in the morning ticks by, and the second I set my guitar down, I’m feeling antsy again.
We’re going to need more money at some point…
The Pizza Palace doesn’t pay shit, and it’s not like I can depend on my mom for help. Plus, I deserve this. I should be able to have some fun—even if it is really fucked-up fun.
Not letting myself overthink it, I tug on a black hoodie, make sure my gun is loaded, grab my shit, and leave. I shouldn’t go back to The Dove. That’s too fucking dangerous. But then…isn’t that the point?
So that’s what I do. My nerve endings tingle with excitement, my body almost too jittery to sit still when I’m driving. I park in the same place, sneak closer, see new cameras have been installed. It shouldn’t make me smile, but it does.
I find a different hiding spot, this one behind a dumpster close to the woods but still in the parking lot. When I take one of the guns from my bag, it’s not mine. It’s his. The guy who made me feel more alive than I have in a long time, if not ever.
I’m not as picky this time because I know it won’t be him. When a car pulls up, I tug the mask over my face and sneak over. The guy’s wearing crisp clothes, sneakers, and a baseball cap. Like Cherry, he doesn’t look like he belongs here, but I guess rich college kids hook up or buy sex too.
“Don’t fucking move,” I say from behind him, gun pointed. There’s no doubt in my mind that the cameras can see me. If anyone is watching, I’m fucked. This is irresponsible, stupid, and…fun, though not as fun as last time.
“I don’t have much,” he says, a tremble to his voice that just annoys me. I don’t get the same rush out of this as I got with Cherry.
“I don’t fucking care.” I shove him against the wall, pull his wallet out, and take the money. Two hundred and fifty bucks is all he has, but it’s two hundred and fifty more than I had before.
I don’t hit him like I did with Cherry. Where would be the fun in that? I knew I had a reason to be afraid with Cherry, felt the simmering rage and feral energy vibrating off him.
“This way,” I tell the guy, and he stumbles but catches himself.
“Please don’t hurt me. I just wanted some pussy, man.”
I ignore him, directing him toward the dumpster. “Climb in.”
“What? I’m not getting in there! It stinks! I just got this outfit, bro.”
I roll my eyes at the dudebro. Fucking college kids. “Get the fuck in the dumpster before I put a bullet in your head.”
“I’m sorry. Don’t. I’m going.”
And then I watch as he does what I say. The second he’s inside, I close the lid on him, run back to my car, and I’m gone.
It wasn’t the same, but for now, it’ll have to do.