12. Chapter 8
Sidewalks
Rain
Call me basic. But after fleeing Lou’s office like the coward I am, I spent the rest of the day wandering around The Neck until I found myself right back at McDonald Park.
There, I stared at the written contract until it got too dark to see the damn words.
Or maybe my eyesight just isn’t as good in the dark as it used to be.
Maybe I need glasses. Great, another thing I can’t afford.
I already know I’m going to sign it. I don’t have a choice.
If I go back to Trey’s without a promise of money coming in, there’s no telling what he might do.
He’s always had a temper, but I never thought he’d turn violent.
Then again, I had never seen him react like he did the other night when he found my little savings stash.
Thinking about the flurry of bills, about the threat in Trey’s voice, all of it makes me so angry that I take advantage of the fact that it’s nighttime and that apparently no one other than me uses this place to throw my head back and scream.
All the rage and frustration I’ve kept bottled up. All the words I wanted to say to Cohen Brady today and couldn’t, all the anger at Dutch and Dallas for siding with him over me, all of it comes bursting out of me in a string of curses that must last for at least two whole minutes.
When my lungs finally give out, I don’t bother trying to re-cage my fury. Instead, I let it fuel me, let it push me into doing something I should have done the second Trey tried to take my money.
The apartment is dark and empty when I get there.
I flip on the lights as I move through the hallway towards the bedroom, searching for any sign of Trey.
With both of us working nights, he usually tries to catch a few extra hours of sleep during the day.
Yet the bedsheets are still rumpled on my side. Just how I left them this morning.
My old-ass alarm clock flashes red on the milk crate I use as a bedside table. The bar is due to open any minute, so he should be here. Or at least downstairs. Though I don’t spare that thought more than a single second. I don’t have any more time to waste on Trey.
I move like a blur. First, to the tiny hall closet, where I keep an old carpet bag, one of the last things I own that belonged to Grams. Pathetic as it makes me sound, that one bag is big enough to hold all the shit I own.
My next port of call is the beaten-up dresser we bought second-hand.
I yank open drawer after drawer, ripping my clothes from each one as I go before stuffing them into the bag.
Lastly, I hit the bathroom, where I take damn near everything.
Trey won’t miss any of it. He uses the same all-in-one generic man-wash with some bizarre name, an attempt on the brand’s part to make it sound like only the manliest of men use their products to wash their balls.
My lip curls in disgust. I’m not sure why, but something about Trey washing his junk with the same soap he uses in his hair always grossed me out.
Even though I don’t own a ton of makeup or even a ton of clothes, the bag is still packed to the brim and bulging at the sides.
I don’t know where I’m going or what happens now, but I know I can’t stay here, in The Neck, at Flynn’s, or with Trey.
Not for one second longer. Nor can I take anything else with me, so with one last look around the place I’ve called—well, not home—but where I’ve lived for the past two years, I slam the door.
From there, I race down the stairs, my bag bouncing against my shoulder, and out the back door, ready to be done with Trey, this job, and this place.
Except my bag has other ideas, as the shoulder strap snags on the door handle.
I hear the tearing fabric before I feel it.
It was already years old when I used it to pack up the last of Gram’s belongings.
Now it’s ancient, so it shouldn’t surprise me that it rips so easily.
And because my luck is consistently in the shitter, it also shouldn’t surprise me that my clothes, underwear, and everything else comes tumbling out and lands squarely in a puddle.
But it does.
It catches me totally off guard.
And it’s the last straw for my already frayed patience.
The sight of an old pair of cotton panties lying in what is probably half water, half garbage juice from the bar’s dumpster has my eyes threatening tears.
I’m no cryer. No point in getting sad when it doesn’t fix fuck all, not like anger. Anger is productive.
I wipe my eyes and start to pick up my shit, scattered as it is. I’m bent halfway over, with a soaking wet T-shirt hanging in my grip when I hear the tiniest squawking sound.
Barely audible over the standard sounds of The Neck at night, it’s followed by another small mew.
I follow the sound to the dumpster and there, tucked behind one of its big rubber wheels, is the smallest, blackest kitten I’ve ever seen.
Its eyes are as bright a shade of green as mine are violet, and when our gazes meet, it mews again, a little more forcefully this time.
“Hello,” I whisper because I’ve clearly lost my mind and am now talking to a cat, like it’s going to answer me back.
Weirdly enough, it does.
“Meow,” it squeaks.
Like an idiot, I answer, “Hi. Who are you?”
Obviously, it’s a kitten and can’t answer my dumbass question, but it does come crawling out of its hiding place.
The poor little thing looks about as rough as I do.
Its fur is matted in places and missing in others.
Even though the concrete is wet and my shit is still all over the place, I kneel as it gets closer until my jeans are as soaked as the rest of my clothes.
None of which stops the creature from climbing up my thighs and settling across my legs. I knew it was young, but now that I can feel how slight its weight is, I can’t help but wonder how it has survived out here on its own. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I haven’t exactly been thriving lately.
Hold it.
Fuck that.
I haven’t thrived since that night so many years ago.
Not really. It’s been nearly ten years of struggle.
Ten years of dragging my ass through life.
Ten years of fighting every hour, every minute, every second to survive.
And all I know is that neither this innocent kitten nor I deserve to live that way any longer.
My phone clings to the wet denim of my back pocket, but eventually I manage to extricate it without disrupting the animal, who seems moments away from falling asleep. Single-handedly, I dial, and even though I’m the one who called, I nearly jump when the line connects.
“Hello?”
Lou’s voice is smoothed over, oil-slick, even.
“Lou. It’s Rain. I need your help.”
He sniggers before sighing. “I’d love to help you out, but you know…”
“I’m going to sign, Lou. We both know it. In fact, I’d sign right now if I could, but since that’s not really an option, how ’bout you record this call?”
I don’t tell him; it’s not an option because in the midst of fleeing my apartment, I’ve somehow lost track of the contract and am way too chicken shit to go back for it. If I walk back in that bar, for even a second, I’ll stay. I’ll give up.
He barks a laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, I record all my calls.”
“Great,” I drawl, “In that case, consider this my confirmation that I’m going to sign your damn contract on one condition. I need some cash and a place to stay for a while.”
“That’s a big ask, Ray-Ray,” he says.
I shiver. It’s not exactly mid-winter, but the Calder nights in April are still cold enough that I should probably have thought ahead and brought a jacket. Not that I own a proper jacket.
“I’ll owe you, Lou.”
I can hear the pleasure in his voice. It makes me shiver all over again.
“Well, in that case, I think I can help you out. I’ll send a car.”
I tell Lou where I am, to which that smug bastard replies, “I figured,” and then the call ends.
I look down at where the tiny, helpless thing seems to have fallen asleep in my lap.
I don’t know what comes over me, because I can barely take care of myself most days, but I reach for one of my old zip-up sweatshirts and put it on before tucking the kitten inside against my stomach.
It’s thin but helps to shield us both against the worst of the cold.
When the black town car pulls along the alley, the driver is polite enough to get out and greet me, “Ms. Gamble?”
A single nod of my head, and he opens the back door for me without so much as a sneer.
I gather the rest of my shit, doing what I can to stuff the wet clothes bag into the torn bag.
The driver actually helps, taking Grams bag from me so that I can climb into the back seat without wrestling with it.
His politeness catches me off guard, enough that I stumble over the words, “Tha…umm…I mean…thank you.”
If he notices the way I cling to my lower belly as I take my seat, he doesn’t say anything about it.
He just waits until I’m settled before handing me the bag and closing the door.
Neither me nor the tiny creature I’m holding utter another peep as the car starts moving.
The neon sign in front of Flynn’s briefly casts the backseat in a reddish glow.
But I don’t look up and don’t look back as we pass it.
For the first time in a while, I’m looking ahead, as the car carries me away.
To what? I’m not sure, but it can’t be worse than what I’m leaving behind.