The thug pulls back, eyeing the sudden entourage Oscar has. For Oscar’s part, he doesn’t look perturbed at all. He’s still wearing that shit-eating grin like nothing in the world bothers him. I know that’s not true now, but it’s the image he likes to display for the world.
“Is it true?” Blue bandana wearing a-hole asks. “My boy dead?” He doesn’t wait for an answer like he’s only interested in hearing himself talk. “We’re supposed to be kept safe. Chill and shit. Now word is we got a retaliation killin’. My boy,” he adds, pumping his fist against his chest.
“Calm down, T,” Oscar says, bored. He kicks off the telephone pole he’d been leaning against when the guy got in his face and approaches him. “You know what it’s like in the Crew. No one ever sugarcoated it for you. Your boy is dead. Taken out by people with no regard for human life. That’s why we need to be in the Heights, and all the other pieces of shit competitors stay where they are. You feel me?”
“But Farmingham, man? It ain’t right.”
“It’s not, but bitching about it won’t do us any good either. We stopped recruiting him. He shouldn’t have been on their radar, but those pieces of shit didn’t give a damn about that.”
Whoever this T is grinds his jaw. He doesn’t go to our school, not that I’ve noticed, anyway. He looks older. Mag’s age or even older than that. He’s got a tattoo of a tear coming off the edge of his eye.
I see why. He’s a whiny bitch.
“Now,” Oscar says. “You good?”
The guy’s jaw ticks, but he’s done complaining. He nods, hiking his pants up his hips.
“Good.” Oscar’s fist flies through the air, clocking the guy in the jaw. The guy stumbles until his back hits the side of the building. The guy’s eyes round as Oscar stalks after him, suddenly taller and getting in this guy’s face as a red mark brightens his skin. “Don’t ever get in my face again, T.” He takes the collar of his shirt and throws him back. T’s head hits the brick wall behind him. Fury ignites in T’s eyes, but he stays where he is, gaze darting to the rest of us surrounding our friend. Oscar runs his hand over his face. “Your fucking drunk spittle hit my cheek.”
Oscar steps back, and the guy takes it as his cue to leave. He does so in a hurry, holding his jeans up as he goes, otherwise he’d be showing us his ass crack.
I put my hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”
He shrugs me off him, sending me a warning look over his shoulder.
I back off, only because we’re in public. I hate seeing him this angry, whether he’s putting on a show for the Heights or not.
“Did you talk to everyone?” Mag asks.
Oscar slowly turns. His hard mask is on, the one that grows wary when we’re alone, but is stuck messing up his perfect features when we’re anywhere else. “People are afraid. First Kyla, now Farmingham.”
“K will make it right. He always does.”
I can only imagine what that means. More bloodshed. Bringing someone in and killing them at the dinner table like he did with Dunnegan. Shooting someone point blank in the face. Someone will pay for taking out Farmingham. That’s how Big Daddy K runs this place.
Oscar starts to walk away. His bike is parked up ahead, pulled right up onto the sidewalk.
“Where are you going?” I call out.
“Someone told me my mom is passed out a couple of alleys over. I have to get her and drop her off at home. Is that okay with you, Princess?”
My blood boils underneath the surface. I stalk after him, calling out over my shoulder. “I’m going with Bat.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Mag says, jogging up to meet me by Oscar’s bike. “What are you doing?” he whispers, gaze darting around.
“Oscar needs help, so I’m going with him.”
Oscar looks at me with a challenging stare, eyebrow raised. He wants me to come with him. He’s practically salivating for it even though he’s trying as hard as possible to look aloof.
“Johnny…” Mag starts.
“I’ll deal with Johnny,” I tell him. He told me Oscar and Mag are watching over me. I’m sure he didn’t mean like this, but I’m not technically wrong. Besides, before the fight that never happened, Johnny was getting used to the idea of other people around us. I suspect he was even beginning to like it. I don’t know what a month of being isolated with his father has done to him, but I don’t think he’ll freak over this. Oscar is perfectly capable of taking care of me. “I’ll see you guys later?”
Brawler and Mag both look resigned as Oscar holds a helmet out to me. His sly grin jumps as I slide in around him. I pull him tight, tight enough that he expels a breath. “Remember where we are,” I breathe.
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Just to look for your mom and then back to the tower,” Mag orders.
“Yeah, Pops,” Oscar says, his chest rumbling with laughter at the look Magnum sends his way. “He’s touchy,” Oscar says to me as he starts the bike, the engine gunning to life underneath us.
“It’s hot as hell,” I deadpan, sliding my gaze to Jacob’s.
“Hold tight, Princess. I’ll show you hot.”
Oscar takes off, shooting down the dead city streets. People are likely staying in after what happened to Farmingham. No one wants to be the next easy victim.
A sickening feeling twists my gut. Farmingham had to be sleeping in the warehouse. I wonder if he was homeless. Or if he was just trying to escape something.
But also, who knew he was sleeping there? Or was someone following him?
A lot of unanswered questions flip through my brain as Oscar hits the side streets. He slows as we keep our eyes peeled for his mom. She wasn’t the nicest person the last time we met. In fact, she straight up scratched my face, but that was the drugs in her system. I don’t know what we’ll find today, if we find her at all.
The first couple of alleyways are a bust. There’s nothing. No one is out and about, except for a few homeless men living in cardboard boxes lined with newspaper. Oscar bypasses them, the roar of the motorcycle kicking up around us and echoing back tenfold as the noise bounces between the buildings surrounding us.
“Fuck,” Oscar roars. Under my hands, his heart beats fast, pounding out a frantic rhythm. Now that Gregory has retreated, I wonder what’s happened to her. The streets are worse than the upstairs room in Candy’s. If she’s here, maybe she isn’t being prostituted out anymore. That should be a relief, but somehow, it doesn’t feel that way.
Oscar guns it, and I hold on tight, my arms snaking around his abs to get a better grip. He takes a few more turns before we slow in front of a corner grocery I recognize. Oscar lives above the store with his mom, even though I get the feeling his mother isn’t there very often. He stops the bike and turns it off, the vibrations of the engines cease, but my muscles are like Jell-O. I swing my leg over, hopping off the bike while Oscar helps guide me. He gets off next, much more gracefully, and opens a metal-corrugated door next to the door to his apartment. Inside, there’s a small storage room. He walks the bike in and then holds out his hand for the bike helmet I took off. He watches as I run my hands through my hair and then locks the place up again.