Rising from the chair, I ran my fingers over the small, three-by-five pewter picture frame lying on the floor. I didn’t give a shit about anything else. It could stay a clusterfucked mess for all I cared. Picking up the frame, I wiped the spilled water from the glass with the tail of my shirt, taking care to dry it before it could leak through to the photo.
As I crashed into bed, my vision blurred. The woman in the photo faded from a smiling, onyx haired image, to a clouded memory. The toothless boy wrapped in her arms grinned, innocent and blissfully unaware of the life that awaited him on the other side of destiny.
Chapter Nine
Eden
My stomach roiled as my gaze shifted from the sink that washed the evidence from my boss’s hands, to my brother, draped over the butcher’s block. His face had drained of all color, and his lips turned a bluish hue. Blood poured from almost every crevice of his body. Gripping the steel rods of the cart, I sat up on my knees and forced myself to see what the man I trusted had done to him.
Bile crawled up my throat, burning a hole in the delicate tissue. The tips of Nash’s middle and forefinger on his right hand were gone. The digits were scattered across the block, tossed like meaningless scraps from today’s special ready for tomorrow’s garbage pickup.
I couldn’t take it. Blackness crowded the outer edges of my vision, and my grip tightened.
My big brother. My hero. Nash always saved the day and made sure I didn’t screw up everything in my path. He never did anything wrong. He spoke the truth. He wasn’t a junkie. He dedicated his life to getting inner city kids off drugs.
The shaking intensified, and the more Nash bled, the more I panicked. I couldn’t pass out. He needed me. His eyes fluttered, and a slow trail of blood seeped out of his nose.
I’d already lost everything that meant anything in my life.
If I lost Nash, they might as well kill me too.
Releasing one hand from the metal cart, I swiped the tears and pressed the back of my hand to my lips. The pressure was the only thing that quelled the cries of his name from bursting from my chest.
My brother wouldn’t die alone. I was getting him the hell out of here.
Just as I twisted to crawl from behind the cart, my knee caught the end of the bottom tray. The move was enough to cause it to roll forward into the prep table in front of it with a metal clang. Only a slight noise pinged through the air, but to my own ears, it sounded like a gunshot.
Nash rolled his chin toward me, lacking the strength to lift it any higher. His sullen blue eyes blinked, narrowed, then focused in the dim light. In a split second, I knew he saw me, and everything happened before I could react.
Emilio returned from outside and must’ve heard the noise too, because he immediately turned toward me. Furrowing his dark brows, he wiped the knife on his jeans. He took three steps toward the chef’s cart and paused a few feet away from me. I held my breath, curling my fingers into my palms until my nails pierced my skin.
I wondered what it felt like to have your fingers cut off. Was it quick and painless, or was every slice of tendon and muscle pure torture, until the bone cracked? Vomit curdled in my stomach again, and I let out a small squeak, preparing to run to my brother.
At the same moment, Nash inhaled a rattling breath and yelled across the kitchen. “Hey! Are two fingers enough? You need more? I mean, don’t you need five to jerk yourself off?”
What the fuck is he doing?
Emilio jerked his head around. Darkness glinted in his eyes as his face twisted in anger. “What did you say, asshole?”
Now was my chance to move. Nash gave me the opportunity to take Emilio out. Sneaking a hand to the top of the cart, I curled my fingers around a cast iron skillet. It’d be loud, but if I got a running start, he’d go down before he could turn around.
As Emilio charged toward Nash, I reached for the handle. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Nash’s eyes bounce from his attacker to my movement. With a pained grimace, he shook his head forcefully.
“Gumshoe! Gumshoe, damn it!” The exertion spewed more blood out of his mouth, and he collapsed onto the block, his eyes half closed from pain.
I froze mid-movement.
Emilio did as well, pulling Nash up by his hair. “What the fuck? Get a grip, Lachey! You’re going loco.”
With his head wobbling, Nash held it suspended in midair, and our eyes locked. Mine pleaded with him not to hold me to a pledge between two teenage kids, who thought they knew everything. His demanded I honor a trust we once held more sacred than any promise.
I opened the cellar door and it creaked with the loud moan of a dying man. I might as well blow an air horn announcing my late arrival. The darkness creeped me out, and shadows wrapped around foundation pillars, making my eyes see things that weren’t there. It was the thing horror movies were made of.
The stairs creaked as my sneakers touched them, each one sounding like a gunshot.
Shit! Why were sneakers so loud?
Turning the knob, I slowly stuck my face through and peered through the mud room. It seemed quiet. Dad was in bed, or passed out on the couch. Either option worked for me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door wider and stepped into the bright room.
“Where you going, boy?”
I froze with one leg in the mud room and one still stuck in the cellar. My father’s voice carried from the kitchen, and from the trajectory I knew he was headed my way.
“Gumshoe,” Nash yelled, much louder than necessary. “Damn gum on my shoe. Stay there, Dad, I’ve got it. I think I tracked it in here. You don’t want it on yours.” His voice elevated louder. “Damn, gumshoe.”
Our code word clicked. Gumshoe.
The stupid word from our childhood we used to use during freeze-tag. As teenagers, we morphed it from its original detective meaning, into a code word alerting each other to, ‘stop what you’re doing and hide.’ No ifs, ands, or buts.
Gumshoe had saved my ass more times than I could count.
I climbed back down and waited until Dad had fallen back to sleep to sneak upstairs.
“Gumshoe.” Nash whispered again as Emilio backhanded him. His eyes never wavered from my face. They were serious and hard, as if begging me to do this one thing for him.
Nodding, I slowly crouched back behind the cart. The relief on his face was something I knew I’d never forget. I felt shameful in watching my brother’s pain, yet helpless to stop it.
Mercifully, Emilio ended his torture, dropping his knife back in his pocket. “You know, lucky for you, I’ve reached my limit for today, Lachey.” He checked his reflection in the chrome refrigerator and smoothed back the sides of his greased hair. “My crew will stop by in a few minutes to take you back to your store.” He glanced at the floor and smirked. “Try not to bleed too much on my floor.”
I held my breath as he walked out of the kitchen, and I didn’t release it until the cantina door closed. As soon as the chime rang, signaling his exit, I threw the chef’s cart aside and scrambled on all fours toward my brother. I reached out to help him, then stopped. I didn’t even know where to touch that wouldn’t cause more pain.
“Nash,” I whispered as my voice broke. When he didn’t open his eyes, I panicked. “Nash, answer me!” My fingers clamped around his bleeding wrists, shaking against cold and clammy hands. The more I touched him, the more hysterical my voice became. All the pent-up fear I’d harbored behind the chef’s cart came spilling out in a tirade of anger. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into? Drugs? Fucking drugs, Nash? Jesus Christ, are you’re mixed up with a fucking drug cartel? They cut off your damn fingers, Nash!”