Chapter Four #2
His head hurt like a hangover, but he hadn’t drunk anything. Sweat trickled down his temples, but chills rose over his forearms and down his spine.
His body was not his own, his mind was still sharp, but operated as if it’d been rewired.
He smelled things at a higher degree, could hear footsteps passing through the entrance. His veins pulsed like live wires, the muscles in his legs twitched with a need to move, and there was no off switch.
He checked his cheap phone for the time and saw it was two in the morning. He’d been sitting there lost in his thoughts for eight and a half hours.
He tried to push his mind anywhere else, onto anything else, but of course, it still went to the one place he didn’t want it to.
Gage Harrington.
Blind and bruised, but ten times stronger from the enhancements.
He’s fine, he told himself.
Yeah, Gage was soft, protected, and always had someone looking after him on the block, but he’d somehow survived a few months in the joint, so surely he could handle making his way out of a barn in Bumfuck County.
He’s definitely called Roz by now.
That name came with a face he didn’t want to picture.
Roz, the 13th Ward lieutenant who’d taken a liking to Gage, but Scar didn’t know why.
Gage just all of a sudden appeared on the scene, clueless and curious. Amazed and scared. Wanting and needy.
For a while, he thought Roz was fucking Gage. But, over time, he’d learned that was far from the truth.
Roz just liked him. It was as simple as that. And he’d allowed the pretty boy to play thug on the weekends but kept him out of the real dirty work. No gun runs, territory fights, or drug pickups.
Fridays and Saturdays, he’d see Gage rolling with the 13th Ward and wearing their black-and-white colors as if he belonged on the streets.
One Saturday night, Scar followed Gage from a party at Roz’s house to a quaint single-family home in the Oak Park suburbs.
Scar was already disgusted, but he’d camped outside overnight and seen that motherfucker walk out of his front door at eight a.m., wearing loafers and a navy suit, with a matching tie.
His perfect mommy had been clutching his arm as he helped her into the passenger seat like a good little son.
Scar went from repulsed to livid as he followed their Buick to a large brick church on the corner of Randolph and Wicker.
Gage had stood in the doorway to the right of his father, nodding, shaking the men’s hands, kissing old ladies on the cheeks, and smiling politely as they presented their wholesome-looking granddaughters to him.
It was the kind of double life that made Scar bristle with fury.
Why flirt with a life that could chew him up and spit him out?
Scar had lived on the streets since he was twelve years old. He knew real hard times and dog days.
Gage was a fake, pretending to have to survive, all while being fed with a silver spoon.
He knew his justification for loathing Gage was warranted. If he hadn’t been tucked under Roz’s protection, he would’ve taken the pretty man and wrecked him long ago… after he enjoyed him.
He hoped a cow had trampled him, or the farm owner found him trespassing and shot him in his dumb ass.
A couple of hours later, the overhead system announced his boarding.
He tugged his beanie lower, pulled the sweatshirt’s hood up over it, and kept his eyes on the stained floor as he made his way toward the parking lot.
He made a quick stop at the coffee stand, hoping the pastries weren’t too old and it was early enough for the coffee to be fresh.
With his cup of Joe and two blueberry muffins, he took a seat at the rear of the bus where the restroom was close and the driver couldn’t meet his eyes.
The dark brew felt good going down, black, bitter, and hot enough to burn away his thoughts of Gage.
The bus was a quarter full, but that would probably change with the hundreds of stops it’d make along the way.
On the fourth hour of the trip, he tried to sleep, but his brain said no.
He reclined the seat, stared at the bright clouds, counted the telephone poles, and cataloged the sounds around him.
The sputter of the engine when the accelerator was pressed, the loose hum in the heating panel, the giggle of a woman two rows up as she read her book, the driver clearing his throat every eight to ten minutes.
Outside, the country unrolled, state by agonizingly slow state.
Billboards for legal representation, signs where to buy fireworks, and advertisements for the best steakhouse, ribs, crab cakes, or buffets in town took turns at each mile.
Scar caught his reflection in the window and stared into his own eyes, which were a lighter color than they’d been six months ago.
I made it this far. I’ve done more with a lot less. If the Ravens killed me and took my identity, fine. I’ll come up with a new one.
He pictured his South Side block and what it might look like now.
The boys who’d matured into men by making their first kill. The familiar faces who would still be there and the disappearance of the ones who’d become victims to the violence they lived and were now ghosts.
He contemplated what kind of welcome he’d receive…and the tests that was sure to follow.
He replayed his speech as to why he wasn’t rotting away in a jail cell until his eyelids got heavy.
The coffee was long gone and so were his muffins.
He tugged his hood down to the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and did his best to let the road lull him to sleep.