Chapter 2
Two
Ronan
“Ronan?”
I turned toward the sound of my name, scanning the baggage claim crowd, and there he was—Nelson Wentz. My only living relative.
My heart slammed in my chest at the resemblance.
Uncle Nelson was a preview of how my dad might’ve looked had he made it to middle age—mid-fifties, wearing old jeans and with a gut pushing out of his windbreaker.
Nelson’s dark hair was mostly gone, and his eyes were gray, flat, and empty.
Like a shark’s when they roll back for the kill. Same as Dad’s.
Same as mine.
“Hey, Uncle Nelson.”
“Just Nelson,” he said. “So you’re him, eh?
” He scanned me up and down, taking in my torn jeans, black T-shirt, and the tattoos inking my skin as if I were cattle at auction.
“Looks like they been working you hard on that farm. Good. My back’s not what it used to be.
I’m gonna need you to do most of the heavy lifting. ”
I hefted my ratty backpack higher on my shoulder. “What for?”
“We’ll get into that on the ride down.” He jerked his flabby chin at the luggage carousel. “You got a bag?”
I nodded, trying to ignore the disappointment that bit at me.
So he’s not throwing you a welcome parade. Get over it.
We waited in tense silence for a scuffed, oversize duffel to come around. I hauled it off the carousel, and we headed out the sliding doors toward the San José Airport parking.
When I turned eighteen in March, I aged out of foster care and was on my own.
I did odd jobs to survive, the last at a dairy farm in Manitowoc, Wisconsin.
The gig ended with the summer, and I would’ve been homeless, except my social worker called me with the news that after ten years, an uncle had finally made contact.
My dad’s brother was willing to take me in.
I’d move to Santa Cruz, California, live with blood instead of with strangers.
Maybe finish school. I’d have a family again.
I glanced at Nelson.
I have family again.
My instincts, honed from years of being on my own and trusting exactly no one, warned me to slow the fuck down.
I had to be ready to let go at any time.
Survival depended on it. But while waiting for the light to change, I took a second to breathe.
Different air. Different sun somehow. It was only my fucked-up childhood talking, but Wisconsin’s heat had been stifling, the winters heartless.
Now I was in California. I could start over.
Maybe leave the bloody ghosts of my past behind.
Nelson coughed and hawked a wad of phlegm onto the sidewalk. Beneath his bulk, Nelson had Dad’s build. Tall with muscles lurking beneath the flab, large hands with calloused knuckles that could ball into huge fists…
So much for leaving the ghosts behind. I’m about to get into a car with one.
He led us out of the gold California sun and into the cold of the parking garage to an old Dodge pickup in faded red. I tossed my duffel in the flatbed filled with junk—stacks of musty coats, folding chairs, and a cardboard box that held a tennis racket, coffee maker, and chipped mugs.
“Eviction,” Nelson said with a nod at the box. “You won’t believe the crap they leave behind. You’ll see.”
I brushed balled-up tissues and fast-food wrappers off the seat and sat down with my backpack in my lap. More wrappers littered the dash, and plastic bottles of Mountain Dew rolled around my feet.
Nelson squeezed himself behind the wheel, and soon, San José Airport grew small in the rearview. The winding road—a sign said it was the 17—took us deeper through green forest, southward to Santa Cruz. Mountains rose up on all sides, looking like a miracle after the flatness of Manitowoc.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Nelson asked after a few minutes.
“Not much.”
“Fine by me. I don’t need anyone jabbering my damn ear off.” His shark-eyed gaze slid to me and back to the road. “You look like him. Russell. Not your mom so much.”
“I know,” I said through a tight jaw.
“Shameful what happened,” Nelson continued. “A waste. Russ had so much going for him. Until he met her.”
A red haze dropped over my vision, and I gripped the coarse material of my bag, making fists.
“Damn shame.” Nelson shook his head, eyes on the road. “Women will do that to a good man. Fuck with his head. Make him crazy, and then he gets the short stick when it all finally blows up.”
“He beat her to death with a baseball bat,” I gritted out, my voice made of stone.
“Russ was no angel, but what did Norah say to piss him off? Wore him down is what she did. He didn’t start out wanting to hurt nobody. That’s what no one talks about these days. Takes two to tango, doesn’t it?”
An image rose up like a flare: my fist flying, punching my mother’s name out of Nelson’s stupid mouth.
I fought the rage—my dad’s rage—that boiled up in me and turned away.
The California scenery flashing outside the window was a blur.
But in the window’s reflection, I saw her.
Crying and huddled in a corner of our shitty kitchen with its cracked tile and the dinner he didn’t like splattered all over.
Not one particular night. Could’ve been any night.
“You’re not like him, Ronan,” Mom whispered, her tears mingling with the blood on her cheek. “You’re better than him. Remember that.”
I sucked in a breath, forced my hands to uncurl from tight fists, and tried to believe her.
“We gotta talk about the terms of our arrangement,” Nelson said.
“Okay.”
I hadn’t known there was an arrangement. I thought I had an uncle who wanted me. A chance at a family. A normal life.
I should’ve known better.
“I own two buildings, ten units each,” Nelson said. “I live in the Bluffs Avenue complex. You’ll be in the one on Cliffside.”
I glanced over. “I’m not living with you?”
He frowned. “You’re eighteen, aren’t you? I was on my own and had a job at fourteen.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You been in California for a hot minute and already dreaming about lazing around on a beach all day? Typical.”
I gritted my teeth. I’d been working since I was eight—either on juvie work programs or doing chores for whatever foster family would take me in for a few months. The gig at the farm in Manitowoc was thirteen hours a day under a boiling sun and shit pay.
Don’t talk to me about lazy, asshole.
“What’s the job?” I asked.
“Apartment management. Maintenance. Handyman-type stuff. You ever do any carpentry?”
“When I was sixteen, I was placed with a family who owned a construction company. I learned a few things.”
“Good. What about plumbing? HVAC?”
“Not much.”
“Not much to know,” he said. “I’ll teach you. I like to do repairs myself. Keep costs down. Keeps me from being ripped off by overpriced, so-called professionals who don’t know a quarter-inch pipe from a hole in the ground.”
I shifted in my seat. My uncle wasn’t interested in a family reunion. There weren’t going to be any meals at the same table. No watching the game together. I was manual labor. Nothing more.
My stomach felt hollow, as if I hadn’t eaten in years and wasn’t about to anytime soon.
“What about school?”
Nelson frowned. “What school?”
“I got one more year.”
He snorted. “Really?”
“I missed a grade when…all that shit went down. I want to graduate. Get a diploma.”
“Take the test if it means so much to you. You’re not going to have time for school.
It’s a lot of work. When someone moves out—or gets kicked out—then we got to clean up their mess and get it ready for a new tenant.
We have to advertise a vacancy, vet the applicants.
Then there’s rent to collect, and that’s a whole other ordeal.
You’d think I was running a charity, the excuses I hear. ”
My uncle droned on while a memory surfaced. The last time I really talked to my mom, only three days before she died.
“Finish school, Ronan,” she said, handing me a freshly washed dish to dry.
“No matter what happens. Don’t be like me.
I dropped out, and it’s been nothing but doors slamming shut in my face ever since.
The end of the road.” Her clear blue eyes turned shadowed, then she beamed at me.
“You’re smart. Don’t let anyone tell you different, and don’t let anyone take it away from you. ”
“Take what?” I asked, stacking the dish on the counter.
“Your future.”
I turned to Nelson. “I want to finish school.”
“That’s not the deal.”
“What is the deal? You want to put me to work.”
“In exchange for a roof over your dumb head.” He raised his brows at my stony silence. “You got other options? How about that farm, mucking cow shit and sleeping in a barn? If you want to go back, by all means, tell me to stop the car, and I’ll let you out right now.”
Like leaving a dog on the side of the road, I thought as every hope I’d had burned up, one after another. I was on my own again. So fucking be it.
“Pull over.”
Nelson frowned. “Huh?”
“You heard me. I said, pull over.”
“Now, hold on—”
“Stop the fucking car.”
Nelson flinched, his hands twisting on the wheel. He slowed and pulled over, trees rising on both sides of the winding road. “This is the middle of nowhere. Look, Ronan, maybe I spoke too soon—”
“Thanks for the ride.” I climbed out and slammed the door behind me.
Nelson rolled down the passenger window and drove the car at a crawl to keep up with me, desperation in his voice. I guessed he needed me more than he let on.
“You going to leave all your shit in my trunk?”
“Yep.”
“Be smart, Ronan. You got nothing here.”
I’d always had nothing. I kept walking.
He leaned across the passenger seat, his tone softening slightly. “Look. I wouldn’t have been no kind of parent to a little kid. But I’m here now, and we’re family. This situation works for both of us. Right?”
Family. That damn word again. I stopped walking.
“There you go,” Nelson said. “Now get in and—”
“She was going to leave him.”
He blinked stupidly. “Huh?”