III Frankie
One year later
Behind closed eyes, I heard the shuffle of footsteps, heavy ones, against the noise of the street traffic.
The damn headache pills had put me to sleep again, and the hard concrete made my ass numb.
Someone was close. Without opening my eyes, I shook the plastic Big Gulp cup.
The rattle of coins sounded lighter than they had earlier that morning.
Someone had probably ripped me off. I almost cared.
“Spare change?” I muttered, giving the cup another shake. Fuck, something stank. Then I realized it was me.
“Hey,” said a deep voice. One I recognized.
A sliver of fear slid down my back, and I came wide awake.
Ronan Wentz was crouched on his heels in front of me, the busy downtown streets behind him.
He looked good. His jeans were paint splattered, but they looked new.
Like his work boots. His T-shirt read Wentz hunger was a part of life now, like my limp or the way my eyelid drooped. But Ronan frowned and stood up.
“Come with me,” he said.
I snorted. “I got nowhere to go. No place to be.”
Nothing to eat. Nowhere to live. Nothing. I have nothing.
Ronan rubbed his hand over his jaw. Behind him, I could see the sign for Rare Earth Jewelry.
Of all the places in downtown Santa Cruz to sit and panhandle, near Shiloh’s shop was my favorite.
Not so close that she could see me but close enough that I could watch the steady stream of customers come in and out, most leaving with little white bags with gold writing on the front.
Knowing her store had survived was the only thing I had going for me.
And it wasn’t fucking much.
Ronan nudged my falling-apart Converse with his boot. “Come on, Frankie. Get up.”
I scowled. “What the fuck for, Wentz? I did my time. We got nothing to say to each other.”
He cracked his neck, deadly casual. “Yeah, we do. Unfinished business.”
Shit.
If Wentz wanted to break me in half, he could. I guessed spending a year in the clink for making a false accusation wasn’t enough. I’d been out for three months, living on the street. Maybe Shiloh had seen me after all.
I got to my feet, struggling with my left leg that always felt like it had fallen asleep and was just waking up. Pins and needles, all goddamn day. Nerve damage, the docs had said. Dad had fucked me up good.
I grabbed the trash bag that held everything I owned in the world and followed Wentz to the Pizza My Heart.
He pointed at one of the wrought-iron tables out front. “Sit.”
“I’m not your fucking dog, Wentz,” I said but sat down anyway. Mostly because I hadn’t eaten in two days.
Ronan ignored my comment. “Pepperoni?”
I shrugged. If he was going to feed me before he beat my ass, may as well let him.
“My last meal,” I snickered tiredly.
Ronan returned a few minutes later with two large sodas and two slices of pepperoni pizza each. He slapped a plate down in front of me, but it was the soda I went for first. Cold, sugary, fucking heaven. I drank until my forehead ached, then dug in to the pizza.
Ronan ate too, not saying anything, confident and strong, while I felt pathetic and weak.
But I was used to that feeling. Ever since I was a kid and my dad saw I wasn’t going to be a big football player like Chance Blaylock or Mikey Grimaldi, who, last I heard, had finished his six months for filing a false police report and was working at the gas station down by the highway.
No more football for him.
I polished off my first slice and started on the second, slower now, to make it last.
Ronan, already done, balled up his napkin and tossed it down. He reclined in his chair, his gray eyes—eyes like a shark, back in the day—studying me. I noticed the wedding band on his left hand—black with a vein of gold down the middle.
“Congratulations,” I said, taking a bite of pizza. “Shiloh made that, right?”
Ronan nodded. “Of course.”
“She’s good.”
“She’s the best,” Ronan said, and I knew he wasn’t talking about rings.
“Listen, man—”
He cut in. “Drugs?”
“Huh?”
“It’s noon, and you were sleeping. Are you high?”
“Do I look like I can afford dope?” I asked, indicating my stinking worn-out jeans, shirt, and Dad’s old windbreaker, so faded now it was gray instead of blue.
Ronan shrugged. “You panhandle for money, use the money for drugs. Or?”
“Do other things to score?” I shook my head. “I stay away from that shit.”
I rolled up my sleeves to show him my arms, skinny and white but free and clear of tracks. I didn’t know what the hell I was trying to prove to Wentz anyway. Or why.
“The meds for my headaches make me tired. That okay with you?”
Ronan considered this. “No drugs?”
“No drugs.”
He nodded and jerked his chin at my food. “You done?”
“Almost.”
I took my time finishing my pizza, my stomach feeling stretched from food and sloshy with soda.
When I was done, Ronan threw our empty plates in the trash and gestured to my bag. “Get your stuff. Let’s go.”