Sawyer
“Look,” the guy says, holding up both of his hands, palms facing me. There’s not much room to run in his cheap rental house. “It’s not that I wasn’t going to pay Domino. My car broke down, man. I had to—”
“It’s a little late for your bullshit.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You’ve owed him his money for a month. How much longer did you think he was going to wait?”
His jaw slides from side to side, teeth showing, eyes wide. This asshole—a kid, really—should be able to get through college without buying drugs from a notorious drug dealer with a street name designed to make people think he’s a warm and fuzzy guy.
“I had to get through finals,” he says, his voice almost a whine. He’s skinny, tall—not quite tall enough to be awarded a basketball scholarship, but almost. He might have six inches on me, but I could level him. There’s no doubt in my mind.
That’s why I’m here.
“And you got through finals. You got through finals with help from all the oxy generously provided for you by our mutual acquaintance.” I smile at him now, showing all my teeth, flexing so that my coat bulges over my muscular arms. Those are what people’s eyes go to first when they’re in this situation, and it’s a situation in which Domino’s customers too often find themselves.
I try not to overdo it at the gym and look like an out-of-proportion fool, but Domino pays me a lot of money to look intimidating as hell. I have to keep up appearances.
“I did.” The kid takes in a deep breath, and somewhere on the lower story of this house, a door opens and then slams shut. It’s too hot in this room. I’m guessing that Paul doesn’t have any extra money to pay for an air conditioning unit.
Not when he owes Domino.
“We both know it’s not free.” I step a little closer to him in the small room, and he backs up, knees hitting the edge of his bed. There’s nowhere else to go.
I’ll rough him up if I have to. One solid hit to the face, even if I half-ass it, will be more than enough for ol’ Paul.
I’m a little surprised he hasn’t caved already.
I’ve been here for fifteen minutes, which must seem like an eternity, and most people who have to deal with me don’t last ten.
So either Paul doesn’t have the money, in which case I’ll have to dirty my hands, or he’s holding out to see if I’ll offer him a lower price.
I’m not going to do that.
I’ve been with Domino almost since I got to this part of the city, which is an hour by train and a lifetime away from where I grew up.
I don’t know what he was doing lurking around the bare-bones martial arts studio I’d found to work out all my angsty aggression when I was done with whatever shitty job I’d find for the day.
I did whatever was available—dishwashing, shoveling snow, assembling furniture for one shady company after another—and then I’d come to the studio so a guy named Manuel, who was missing one of his front teeth, could teach me how to throw a vicious punch.
Other shit, too, like how not to take someone apart if they threatened you, but it was the violence that did something for my shriveled soul. I’d had enough years of my dad beating the shit out of me. I needed a chance to turn it on somebody else.
Domino was probably looking for his next talented heavy.
He found me.
It’s been five years since I left Greenville, and three since I started working for him.
I’ve got my own place now—small, but not a shithole—and I’ve been putting money away.
For what, I don’t know. Maybe someday I’ll pick up and go somewhere across the country, where nobody knows my name, and I’ll get a job that doesn’t involve breaking noses.
But that would require me to be less of a worthless asshole, and that’s probably not going to happen any time soon.
“Listen, Paul.” He shivers at the sound of his name.
“I don’t have all day to play around. Give me Domino’s money, and I’ll be on my way.
” I give a little shrug. “Or we could do this the hard way.” It’s a clichéd as shit thing to say, but it gets through to people.
They know that when someone says that in the movies, it’s not going to be a pretty scene afterward.
“I don’t have the money.”
I move quickly then. Take two steps toward him. Fist his shirt. Shove him to the side and back against the wall. Hard.
He’s looking down at me, chest expanding under my hand, but he doesn’t seem to realize he’s taller.
He knows he doesn’t have a chance. His pupils expand, swallowing up the gray of his eyes.
“You don’t have the money, Paul?” I say it through gritted teeth, right into his face. “Are you sure about that?”
Right then, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket.
Fuck.
I forgot to silence it. Paul’s eyes flick downward, toward my pocket. “Are you—are you going to get that?”
I punch him in the face, two swift, hard blows that snap his head to the side. Paul’s hands go to his face and when I let go of his shirt he slides down the wall all the way to the floor.
It’s not enough to clear the shadows from my mind. Not nearly enough to whet my appetite for violence. But it’s enough to keep him on task.
Now I can answer the phone.
One glance at the screen, and my heart sinks. It’s my aunt’s phone number. My favorite aunt. I haven’t seen her in five years. My stomach turns over. I’m not ashamed of this job. It’s perfect for a scumbag like me. But the thought of answering in the middle of this situation makes me ill.
So does the thought of not answering. She only calls when it’s important.
“Get off your ass and get the money.” Paul looks up at me, eyes wide, hand clapped against the bruise already blooming on his cheek. “Get it right now.”
Then I raise the phone to my face, swipe the screen to connect the call.
“Hello?”
“Sawyer?” Aunt Linda’s voice is tense, tight with emotion. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I haven’t changed my number.”
“It’s your Aunt Linda.”
“I know.” I regret being so terse with her. “Are you—is everything all right?”
“Sawyer, it’s your dad.” I can hear her swallow over the phone. “He’s dying. Can you—can you please come home?”