Chapter 5
FIVE
Tav
I tried to make myself as small as possible, which had never been easy, and hunkered down into the shadows on the front stoop of an out-of-business bookstore. There was still tape on the windows, but it was mostly peeled off now, so the declaration of Books looked more like Euuls.
I couldn’t count how many times I’d hid here over the years.
There were a couple of crescent shapes in the caulk on the window, where my fingernails fit perfectly.
Because I dug them in time and time again when I got a glimpse of my sister.
It was the only thing that focused me so I didn’t shout to her.
I rounded my shoulders and pulled up the collar of my coat.
My thighs trembled, because I’d just completed a workout at the gym, and I’d gone a little too hard on leg day.
I blew into my hands to warm them and waited.
Being alone had never bothered me much. Sometimes it was nice to blank out, not have to focus on anyone or anything.
When I fought, I had to be alert every second.
Face neutral, never show weakness. Hands up, protect the head. Hit hard, knock him out first.
I should have been thinking about my strategy for the fight coming up, but my mind wasn’t on blood-stained concrete floors.
My mind was in Conrad’s apartment. I missed him.
That was a big admission for me, those three words, but they were true.
I missed his voice and his hands and the way he took care of me.
The way he looked at me and the way he fucked me.
I ached to go see him with a pain that only intensified the longer I waited.
It’d been over month since I walked out of his apartment on silent footsteps, and I’d felt every day, every hour, every minute of that month.
I’d almost gone to that end of town just to gaze at his fancy-ass apartment building, but I’d come to my senses and stayed away.
Con was… well, he wasn’t like me. He lived a nice life with purpose.
He drove a Bentley for fuck’s sake. I wouldn’t drag him down into the cesspool I was involved in.
And something told me if I saw him again, he’d demand more from me.
More than one syllable of my name. And I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t let him get attached to a husk.
But more than that, more than wanting to protect him, I wanted to protect me.
Letting myself have what he offered, have him, was too much.
I had to remember my place. Sometimes, I forgot how shitty my life was, because I couldn’t remember it being any better.
The remembering was bad. Stupid. It was going to get me killed.
Or worse, it was going to ruin the entire reason I was doing this.
A familiar joy-filled shriek pierced the cold air, and just like that, my focus narrowed to my reason.
Amara had cut her hair. Last time I saw her, her dark hair had hung down to the middle of her back, but now it brushed her shoulders as she walked out of the front doors of the studio.
At her side was her son, Holden. He was four now.
He wore a black gi with a white belt tied tightly around his small waist, and a long puffy coat hung down to his knees.
I’d spied on one of his jiu jitsu classes one time, something I rarely dared to do in case Amara ever saw me.
And he was good. Tough. And he smiled the entire time.
I figured Amara took him in honor of his dad, because he’d been a fighter back when he was alive. Even though I was the one with formal training, and that fucker had been a poser and a cheater. But Holden didn’t even know I existed.
I gripped the window, dug my fingernails into the caulk and watched as she straightened his jacket and fixed his hat on the sidewalk.
I would have given anything in that moment to walk up to my sister and my nephew.
To hug them, touch them, tell them I loved them.
But what I wouldn’t give up—their lives—was why I couldn’t do that.
They were safe, though. I made sure of that. I checked their apartment obsessively. Their deadbolt had been shit, and I threatened the landlord if he didn’t do it, I was going to shove that shitty lock down his throat. Next day, they had a new deadbolt.
She worked as a secretary for a small law firm so I know she did okay, but money was still tight.
I didn’t want that for her. I’d never wanted it for her.
Back when I’d thought I’d sign a contract with a professional fighting league, I had dreamed of buying her a house somewhere warm, like Florida.
But I never got that chance. Never would.
Even if I could walk up to her, she wouldn’t want to talk to me. She thought I was a murdering junkie, and it was important she continued to think that. Only half of it was true.
Your skills, for their lives.
The decision had been simple. But the payment was taking its toll.
Amara’s eyes scanned her surroundings, which made me smile.
Street kids never forgot that skill. She certainly hadn’t.
I stepped back into my hiding spot and watched as they walked down the street, little Holden’s legs moving quickly.
His sneakers were new, shiny and white against the dirty sidewalk.
With each step, small lights along the sole flashed.
His hair was dark, like mine, and he had the tan coloring of his mother. Also like mine. His dad had been a redhead. I hated he had any of that shithead’s genes but knowing he visibly didn’t favor him was at least something.
When they were out of sight, I leaned back against the window, then let my knees buckle, my back sliding down until my ass hit the cold concrete. I hung my head, my hands between my knees, and breathed in and out, fighting the pain that was wreaking havoc in my chest.
I shouldn’t torture myself like this. I shouldn’t come to see them. But I couldn’t stop. I had to make sure they were okay. I’d spent my whole childhood looking out for Amara. It was a hard habit to break.
By the time I hauled myself to my feet with a groan, the sun had set. I hobbled toward my apartment, already dreading climbing the stairs, smelling the stink of weed from about five different apartments, and listening to the couple above me who fought like cats.
I ran a hand over my hair, thinking I needed a cut, but also loving the memory of the way Con had tugged on it as he kept me between his legs.
And fuck, there I was again, right back in his apartment, my ass plugged and my balls aching from the cock ring as I savored the feel of a thick cock in my mouth.
Con’s cock. I could almost taste his skin on my tongue now, salty and musky.
Clean and in control. I hadn’t even had a chance to taste his cum.
He’d used a condom too, which I should have been grateful for.
That was the right thing to do, but a large part of me wanted the filth of leaking with him the rest of the day.
I groaned and rubbed at my face. I needed to wake the fuck up.
I had to recall the memories of Con without wanting more. I could not want more.
I blinked as I stood in front of my door.
I didn’t even remember getting here as muscle memory carried me all the way from the jiu jitsu studio to my apartment.
As if on cue, something slammed into a wall the floor above me.
I sighed and opened my door before shutting it behind me and engaging all three deadbolts. Couldn’t be too sure.
I checked my phone and was relieved to see no messages.
At any time, I could be called for some random odd job from my handler.
Could be anything from driver to muscle.
I hated it all, but this was my price to pay.
I was at the mercy of a criminal kingpin, and I would be for the rest of my life.
And with the way things were going, I wasn’t sure that would be much longer.
I filled a glass of water from my sink and gulped it down before staring at my apartment.
It was one room, with a small kitchenette, a futon where I ate my meals, and a TV propped on a box.
My mattress with a box spring and simple frame was the most expensive thing in the place, and that was only because my previous shitty mattress fucked up my back.
And I couldn’t have a fucked up back when I was fighting for my life.
Con’s bed had been a dream. The most lush thing I had ever touched, and I’d barely relished it, mostly because I was either getting drilled into the sheets or passed out.
His bathroom had been incredible with a massive rain shower and a whirlpool tub.
Hell, his whole apartment was like something out of a movie.
I’d looked in his fridge too before I left, just to be a nosy fuck.
He had all these labeled meals with words I didn’t recognize.
I almost stole one but then felt guilty and left with just my clothes and a sore hole.
In the days following, I’d tried to recreate that feeling, with my fingers, with a toy, but nothing could replace the fullness of his cock nailing my prostate like he’d aced a test on my body.
I just had to forget, was all. I just needed more time.
Another month. Another punch to the face.
Maybe I’d lean into a hit, force a concussion.
Because I was starting to worry only brain damage was going to be the way I forgot the sound of Con saying my name and the blissful tug of his hands in my hair as he fucked me to sleep.
I forced myself to make dinner—just chicken and rice with a side of broccoli.
I didn’t control much of anything in my life, but I could control my body and my health, so I took my diet seriously.
I ate as clean as I could and had taught myself basic cooking skills thanks to the Food Network and cookbooks from the local library.
I’d even had a sourdough bread phase with a starter I’d named Gertrude.
She had been great until I’d dropped her jar on the ground, splattering her guts all over my dirty floor. RIP Gertrude.
I ate without really tasting the food and fell asleep to my TV flickering with the nightly news. Nightmares haunted me, like they always did, but the TV seemed to take the sting out of them, mixing the gasping death rattles in my head with the joyful voices on the screen.
Sometime later, an alarm jerked me awake. I blinked as I searched my sheets for my phone and managed to jab at the answer button. “Yeah,” I rasped, sleep still tugging at the edges of my consciousness.
“Cleanup,” said a familiar voice. “Thirty minutes.” He rattled off an address, and I fumbled for the pen and paper I kept on a box by my bed.
I jotted it down just as the call disconnected.
I dropped my phone on my chest and rolled over with a groan.
It would take me at least twenty-five minutes to get to the location, so that meant I had five minutes to dress myself and grab a protein bar.
In three minutes I was dressed, chewing on a chalky peanut butter bar, and out my door.
My motorcycle rested on the curb. It was nothing to write home about—the paint had dulled long ago, and sometimes it didn’t always start.
I sure hoped it did today, or I’d be paying for it.
Luckily, it rumbled to life with a key turn.
I shoved my helmet on my head and took off.
Three hours later, I was back at my apartment, the noxious fumes of bleach in my nose as I stumbled into my shower on shaky legs.
My head pounded as I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw.
I brushed at my nail beds until they bled.
I managed to hold down my dinner, which was an accomplishment.
Five years ago, the first time I’d had to do cleanup, I’d vomited until I passed out.
I fought against the waves of nausea and crawled into bed naked, still dripping from the shower.
And then from under my pillow, I pulled out the one comfort I allowed myself.
A worn T-shirt that I had stolen from Con’s dirty laundry.
I hated myself for it. I only let myself sleep with it sparingly, because it was the only thing that staved off the nightmares.
And I didn’t deserve the respite. The nightmares were my penance.
As I bundled up the fabric and shoved it into my face, my senses calmed enough for sleep to pull me under.