“Couldn’t do as he was told,” he’d said, blowing a smoke ring and then poking his finger through the middle of it. “Mack here knows he’s supposed to make a drop on Tuesdays. If he doesn’t make a drop on Tuesday, we run low on product for the rest of the week. I don’t wanna be scrambling to keep customers happy just because one of my employees can’t follow simple instructions or get up off his lazy ass to do his fucking job. You understand, right, kid?”
At the time, I nodded, kept my mouth shut, and put Mack’s fucking fingers into the Ziplock without flinching. I recognized the situation for what it was: a test. Monty had wanted to apply a bit of pressure, to see how I’d react to the sight of such flagrant blood and violence. What he hadn’t realized was that I’d used that evening as a fact-finding mission, too. I learned a lot as I listened to him talk.
Monty reached down into hell and plucked me out of the darkness. He saved me from being assigned to yet another shitty foster care situation that was bound to go bad, and I was seriously fucking grateful for that. But I quickly discovered that he had a vindictive side. He didn’t like being disobeyed, and he didn’t like the people he considered his property acting like they had a mind of their own. When someone did that, it inevitably ended in bloodshed. Almost immediately Monty established himself as an unforgiving benefactor, whose punishments were nothing short of swift and ruthless.
It's with this knowledge in mind that I formulate a three-word response to Monty’s text—one that I know is going to irritate the hell out of him.
No. Fucking. Way.
I like my fingers. I like the way they’re attached to my fucking hands. I need them to play guitar and make Silver come. And I didn’t just forget to make a run on a Tuesday. I handed a bag that was very precious to Monty over to a man who Monty apparently hates. God knows what was really in that stupid fucking bag, or why half the criminals in the state of Washington were trying to get their hands on it. Honestly, I don’t even think Monty knew what was so valuable about it. He just knew that everyone else wanted it, and he was willing to do whatever it took to make sure he got it before anyone else could.
I fucked up his entire powerplay, and for that Monty’s gonna want my head on a stick. He can tell me ‘this doesn’t need to be a thing’ as many times as he likes. This is most definitely a thing for him, and if I’m stupid enough to step foot inside his office, I might as well resign myself to the fact that I won’t be leaving with the same number of appendages that I walked in with.
My cell buzzes in my pocket again as I hurry down Main Street, hiking the strap of my gig bag a little higher on my shoulder. I’m not interested in Monty’s response, but I check the phone anyway, more out of habit than anything else.
Silver: You nearly here? I’m two seconds from walking out…
I smirk to myself, imagining the anxious look on her face. She makes a point of radiating this unstoppable, self-possessed, fierce attitude all the time, but every now and then I get to see an uncertain side of her and it’s frankly fucking adorable. It makes me want to wrap her in cotton wool and protect her.
Me: Arriving any second. Cold feet?
She replies immediately.
Silver: FROZEN
When I enter the diner, rushing in out of the cold, the bell above the door jangles, announcing the arrival of a new customer to the five or six people seated in the booths. Silver looks up from her phone screen, her nerves giving over to relief when she sets eyes on me. The black Billy Joel t-shirt she’s wearing looks new; I don’t think I’ve seen it before. Her thick, gorgeous hair is down for once. She’s wearing a touch of make-up, too—just a little lip gloss and some mascara. Evidently, she made an effort to look presentable before she left the house, which makes me feel shitty since I definitely did not.
The ripped jeans and the plain black t-shirt I snagged from my clean laundry pile two seconds before I ran out of the apartment just now have seen better days, and my zip up hoody has gotten so thin that it barely counts as an extra layer of clothing. For the first time, I regret not making more of an effort to look good for a girl. I make a mental note to order some new threads online. It’d be quicker and easier to just bite the bullet and head to Bellingham to pick some stuff up from a store but fuck that noise. Shopping makes me break out in hives.
“Hey.” Silver slides over in the booth, chewing on her thumb nail. I dump my guitar on the opposite bench next to hers, then sit my ass down beside her, taking hold of her wrist and forcefully guiding her hand away from her mouth.
“They serve food here, y’know. No need to resort to autosarcophagy.”
“What the hell’s autosarcophagy?”
“Self-cannibalism. People are weird as fuck.”
Silver whimpers, grimacing as she slumps against me, hiding her face against my chest. “I think I have tennis elbow,” she groans.
Running a hand over the back of her head, petting her, I disguise my smile in the waves of her hair. “No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do,” she argues.
“Try again, Argento.”
She pinches my side, growling like a feral tiger cub. “Fine. Mom asked me to look after Max. Sounded important. If I don’t head over to her place now, she’s probably gonna lose her job.”
“You really think I don’t know your mom’s still in Toronto? You can quit mumbling weak excuses into my t-shirt. They aren’t gonna get you anywhere. We told Cam we’d do this, so we’re doing it. End of story.”
Across the other side of the diner, Harry spies us sitting in the booth and waves, beaming from ear to ear. He makes a beeline for us, carrying a gargantuan basket of fries. “This is gonna be great, kids,” he says, setting down the food. “We haven’t had live music here since Wesley Daniels quit playing the harmonica on account of his asthma.”
I like Harry. He’s the kind of guy to include me when he calls a group of teenagers kids. It makes me feel wholesome, which is really fucking entertaining. Wholesome is something I have never been. He’d probably come up with another less generous name for me if he knew the fucked-up, dark shit that goes on in my head. Or the fucked-up, dark shit I do to the sweet, innocent-looking girl sitting next to me in the booth, for that matter.
I reward his endearing naivety by giving him a genuine smile. “We’re honored that you’d have us.”
“Actually Harry, I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I’m not feeling we—”
I clamp my hand over Silver’s mouth, widening my smile. “Don’t listen to a word that comes out of her mouth. Silver’s been stuck down by a bout of nerves. She’s gonna be fine once she gets up there and starts playing.”
Silver groans through my fingers, which makes Harry frown worriedly. “You’re sure? I mean, you don’t have to play if you don’t want to. It’s not a problem. If you don’t think you can do it, the juke box is fine.”
I’m not planning on uncovering Silver’s mouth but she sticks her tongue out, wetting my hand, and it feels fucking gross, so I release her. “Parisi,” I warn. “What’s the big deal. You’ve played for me before. Your students, too. There’s no one here.”