Chapter Two
Malik
“Hello, Mama Murthi.” I donned my sunglasses as I stepped into the brilliant mid-afternoon sunshine.
Creed’s mother—who was all of five-foot-nothing—glared. “You, child, are going to be the death of me. I thought my son was bad. Then he brought you home.” She wagged her finger at me. “You’re a bad influence on my baby.”
I held back the laugh—barely. Her baby was five years older than me and had gotten into way more trouble than I ever had. Or even planned to. He would point to his misadventures and would advise me not to travel down that pathway. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
At her insistence, I called her that. Her discovery that I was an orphan—if one could be considered an orphan at twenty-five—propelled her into full mama mode.
Creed’s term, not mine. Or it hadn’t been.
At first. Now I knew how to recognize when her caring nature was pushing through.
At the moment? More like legal-aid pit bull.
“I’m sorry.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared.
“Really.”
“Do you promise to never do it again?”
I put one hand over my heard and held the other out as if I were taking a solemn vow. “I promise to never chain myself to the Lion’s Gate Bridge again.”
Easy promise to make—that had been part of my condition of release. The cops weren’t going to charge me—but they were super annoyed with me. Not that I could blame them. Anytime you caused someone to need bolt cutters wasn’t a good day for either of you.
Creed slung an arm over my shoulder. Despite his mother’s lack of stature, he was a few inches over me.
I gazed into his dark-brown eyes. “Take me home?”
“Not to your home.” Mama shook her fist at me. “You come to my house. I feed you samosas, roti, and French fries.”
She pretty much had me at samosas, but French fries sealed the deal. “My favorites?”
“I bought a bag just for you the other day. I told Creed that you’d need them sooner or later.”
Creed, who still lived at home, grinned. “She bought me pierogies.”
Mama rolled her eyes. “I try to raise you right, and your go-to comfort food is Ukrainian?”
“Uh, I think pierogies are Polish.” I squinted as I gazed around to see if any members of the press or fans might be around.
I’d asked to be allowed a quick detour to the bathroom.
Ostensibly to piss, but I’d ensured my hair was perfect, and I wasn’t too sweaty.
I should’ve been frozen, given the Arctic temperatures in that building.
Except that cop had me believing her partner was preparing charging documents for the Crown Prosecutor as we sat here.
More fool me. He’d been doing a Starbucks run.
He’d even brought me a black coffee and had warned me not to pull another stunt like that because no way was the Vancouver Police Department going to let me go second time.
Then he’d advised me an angry Indian woman was waiting for me and I better show some contrition because he knew Ms. Murthi, and she was not to be trifled with.
Aside from the exceedingly rapid trip to the restroom, I’d hustled.
To find Mama just as pissed as the officer had promised.
“Creed drove us so he’ll take us home.” She eyed me. “You have everything?”
I held up my coat. “I traveled light.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You planned on getting arrested.”
I shrugged.
Creed snickered.
Mama shook her finger. “You want to go do that thing down in—” She snapped her fingers.
“Black Rock.” Creed was quicker than me to supply that. “Rocktoberfest.”
“Right.” She rolled her r. “Well, if you get arrested, you can’t go to—” She flailed her hand.
“Nevada. United States.” Creed’s glare directed at me matched his mama’s.
Oops.
A consequence that hadn’t occurred to me while I’d been busy chaining myself to the rail of the bridge. “Well…” Nope. Couldn’t come up with a single good excuse. I would’ve been fucked if they’d charged me. And that had never occurred to me.
“You used to be such a nice boy—before you hooked up with my Creed.”
I’d never actually hooked up with her son. We’d sized each other up, confirmed we were both tops, and had become friends instead. That was nearly two years ago—just after I left the orchestra. As I was beginning my rebirth.
“I want to say your parents would be disappointed except I didn’t know them—God rest their souls—and that would be a cruel thing to say.”
And yet she’d thought it…which showed the depth of her disappointment.
“I’ll do better. I promise.” How hard could it possibly be? Just because the higher ups at TLIO were sticks-in-the-mud, didn’t mean I couldn’t be inventive. “Hey, is that a news camera?” I pointed toward a van with a television logo on it.
Creed snagged my arm and forcefully pushed me in the opposite direction.
“Hey!”
“You want roti and French fries?”
“Yeah—”
“Then walk quickly to the car, get in the back seat, and for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut. She was having a bad day before you got brought into the police station. It hasn’t exactly been looking up since.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” I kept walking.
“You didn’t have any way of knowing.” He sighed. “You can be self-centered, Malik. You know I’m saying this because I love you, right? Just…maybe think about other people now and again?”
I hated when someone couched something harsh with because I love you.
Creed did love me. We were as tight as brothers.
Mama did love me. She wouldn’t take the time to try to improve me if she didn’t.
But those loves just weren’t enough. I’d been an only child—completely doted on by my parents. That gaping hole—that gaping wound—just was never going to be healed. No matter how many people claimed to love me, and there were many, it didn’t satisfy the needy child who felt abandoned in the world.
Or so my therapist told me when I’d spoken to her about this.
Mama had insisted I go when I was having a rough time last winter.
The psychologist offered some insights and gave me things to try—but she hadn’t been able to fix what was really broken inside me.
I allowed Creed to shove me into the back seat of his Nissan Sentra—which was way too fricking small—while his mother settled herself in the front.
He hotfooted around to the driver’s seat, and we pulled out of the parking spot and into traffic with absolute ease.
Disgruntled, I snorted. I was never able to navigate traffic the way my friend was. Whichever way I chose—that was the slowest route. If I tried to squeeze in as the last car on an advanced green, I wound up blocking the intersection and making everybody mad at me.
Which I didn’t want to do.
I was sensitive that way.
If I drove up Granville Street, I was guaranteed to catch every red light.
Creed could make the same drive and hit every green.
I tried to see if our speeds were different, but I couldn’t tell.
He was bold, yet cautious. I was forceful, yet disastrous.
Somehow, I’d only gotten into two fender-benders.
Neither my fault. I stopped. The guys behind me didn’t.
They hit me. More frustrations dealing with the insurance company and repair shops.
“Smile, Malik. You avoided a clusterfuck. Hey!” Creed exclaimed the word after his mother whacked him on the shoulder. “I’m just being honest.”
“Don’t use that language around your mother.” She met my gaze in the rearview mirror.
I noted she didn’t say not to use that language at all. She knew her son.
She knew me.
Twenty minutes later, Creed parked his car in front of his family’s home in the Champlain Heights district in Killarney—the most southeastern part of Vancouver.
During rush hour, the drive was almost twice as long because this was as far from the cop shop as pretty much any two places could be in the city.
Mama Murthi was the first out, and she hustled up the walkway.
I was slower to get out of the car. “You need a bigger ride.”
Creed grinned. “I’m just fine—in the driver’s seat. Your ride still at your house?”
“Yep. Figured it would be safest there.” At the house I inherited upon my parents’ death in the tonier and more affluent Arbutus Ridge.
More house than a single man needed, but I couldn’t bear to part with my legacy.
Plus, one of the very few owned by a Black family in that neighborhood—something I never forgot.
“You know she’s going to make you pay for this clusterfuck.”
I rolled my eyes. He was right. Of everyone in the world, his mother most had the ability to make me pay for things.
Because disappointing Mama wasn’t just hard on my heart, it was bad for my health.
I only ate junk food at home. Here, in the Murthi household, I got fresh fruits, vegetables, and other healthy fare. “She’s not really that pissed, is she?”
He snickered. “She’s feeding you…so I’d say you’ll eventually be forgiven.” He sobered. “She’s right about the States. You want to follow in Grindstone’s footsteps, right?”
“At least two years at Rocktoberfest? You bet.”
“Well, getting arrested will bar you from visiting the States. No Nevada. No Black Rock. No Rocktoberfest.” He slammed his car door. “Look, I get where you’re coming from. The pipelines across tribal lands are—”
“Immoral? Inhumane? Cruel?”
He closed one eye—a guarantee he was deep in thought. “I was going to say wrong but sure, let’s place even more significance on the actions than they deserve.”
“More?” I sputtered. “Pristine wilderness destroyed. Water polluted forever. Animals forced from their homes. Treaties violated.” I stopped to take a breath.
My friend merely stood there.
“I get it. They aren’t even my lands. These aren’t my disputes. I’m just some city-dwelling guy who doesn’t have a bone in this fight.”
“All that is very true. But you’re allowed to be passionate—just not at the risk of getting arrested. What will you do if you can’t tour in the States? How will we get a good record deal?”
“Lots of bands are avoiding the States these days. Traveling is just dangerous.”
He pursed his lips. “Sixty percent of our sales come from the US. Sure, we’ve got a big following in Canada. As well as in Europe—Latvia in particular. Can you explain that to me?”
As he well knew, I could not explain why Latvians loved our sound so much.
Who could explain anything these days? Things felt perpetually out of kilter.
Like nothing made sense. Much of that had to do with losing my parents.
A lot of it, though, had to do with geopolitical unrest around the world.
The experts might claim we were living in the most peaceful time in all of human history—but it sure didn’t feel like it. “Samosas?”
Creed rolled his eyes. “You bet. I’ll even make that yogurt dessert you like so much.”
Which took very little effort, but I wasn’t going to point that out to him. He was a good friend, and I appreciated that.
Mama stood on the threshold to the house. “That cute reporter guy is interviewing another cute guy, and I think you’ll want to see this.”
I blinked. “Huh?”
“That Indian dude she adores. Probably. That would be the cute reporter guy.”
We headed toward the house.
“No clue about the other cute guy. You know Mama—she’s always wanting to set you up with a nice respectable man.”
“Isn’t the reporter married?”
“And more than twice your age? Yes. So I’m thinking the other guy is the reason she’s hustling us.”
Since one didn’t keep Mama waiting, we hustled into the house and straight into the living room with the large-screen television.
Much larger than Mama would’ve chosen—but perfect for Papa whose vision wasn’t so good these days.
For watching cricket, football, and darts—lawn, though, not the kind at bars.
The Indian reporter, with his tan-colored skin and threads of silver at his temples stood and spoke to—
“Son of a bitch.”
“Malik.” Mama glared.
“What? That’s Spencer Wainright. He’s the figurehead of This Land is Ours. But he never does anything. Why are they interviewing him? They should be interviewing me.” I nearly stomped my foot.
Wanting to be invited back in the future kept that impulse in check.
“Why do you think chaining oneself to the railing of the Lion’s Gate Bridge is an ineffective tool of protest?” Gorgeous Indian silver fox asked the question.
“Our organization believes in grass-roots movements—and we did hold up traffic for a few minutes this morning to get our point across. But inconveniencing a few commuters for a few minutes is very different from causing traffic chaos for an extended period of time. That we don’t approve of.”
“So Malik Forestal isn’t part of your organization?”
“We have many members who join us. Who attend our rallies and demonstrations. We did not approve, nor do we condone, what Mr. Forestal did today. He was looking for social media likes and clicks. Our organization’s goals are much deeper than that. More…substantive.”
I saw red.