I’m alone.
This is my adventure.
Dropping Bloomberg Businessweek onto the leather, the next magazine in my hand is Rolling Stone. I glance nonchalantly at the cover image of four young men, all in varying stages of undress.
Muscles, ink, and hair assault me. Just another rock band. Music no longer interests me. It hurts too much and holds too many memories. At most, I’ll listen to classical or jazz to relax.
Ready to toss the magazine aside, I give it one more look and as if zapped by electricity, I shudder, transfixed by the glossy cover picture.
Tall, dark, and inked.
He stands above the others, the darkest of them all. Brooding and haunted, he grabs my soul like fingers stealing around my insides. My heart spasms, wildly kicking and leaping into my throat.
It can’t be. He’s dead.
Before
From the moment I saw her I knew this one was worth a broken heart. – Atticus
Another kind of hustle
Fifteen years ago
Freshman/Sophomore year
JARED
A bubble-gum pink dress, a rain of raven hair, and skinny limbs blaze a path down the middle of the street. She’s a butterfly on fire. Colors burning, a fervent blur, as she stumbles, shoving her tangled hair out of her face and twisting to look over her shoulder. He’s on her tail.
The tall, gangly boy nips at her heels. His scrawny legs eat the pavement and he’s closing in on her, close enough to say something but not enough to tag her.
Nowhere near, I can’t hear or even guess what he says, but whatever it is, he’s cocky about it. Her features and body tighten, and she pushes her muscles that bit more, her desire to get away even more alive. The burst of energy isn’t enough.
The gap between them narrows, and a car pulling up in front of the house draws my attention away from the chase. Grudgingly, I abandon the girl to her fate as Ike saunters across the lawn, his shoulders square and upper body taut, failing to hide his unease. He shouldn’t be here, and yet he came as a favor to me.
“Let’s jet.” He slaps my shoulder, vigilantly sweeping the area for trouble.
I inhale the last of my cigarette, my curious gaze once again on the flying girl. Why is he after her? Did she steal something?
Long black hair whirls in the wind like a tornado devouring her petite frame, and warm, pungent smoke fills my lungs. Hand now gripping her shoulder, the boy effortlessly spins her tiny body, and the acrid puff lodges in my throat. She cries out, tumbling to the ground.
“Fucking asshole.” The faint grey smoke billows from my mouth and I push off the side of the house.
“What’s wrong?” Ike follows my line of sight, barely looking at the two in the middle of the road. “C’mon, fuck this. These people ain’t gonna be your family.”
Impatient, he strolls to the car, muttering under his breath. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t be here. I’d have left the system months ago when he did.
Today, he’s my getaway, if I need one. I’m not so sure I do. This neighborhood isn’t so bad. The homes look decent enough, almost cared for. And the house at my back, soon to be my home, looks well kept. The grass isn’t green, more a dry yellow, but it’s tidy and trimmed, and there’s a small garden lined with flowers and shrubs. It feels like a home.
I could do worse.
I have done worse.
Maybe it won’t be so bad this time.
Damn, who am I kidding? Even the nice homes turn out to be rotten.
People let you down.
People hurt you.
“J, you comin’?” he hollers from inside the high-end SUV as his fingers drum the steering wheel, eager to leave.
The car is hot, and any minute now Brenda, my bleeding-heart social worker, will call me in to meet my foster parents. What will this be? Thirteen homes in seven years. I’m not ready for the street. The system is bad, but on the street, it’s another kind of hustle. Never close your eyes, turn your back, or trust anyone.
Ike wants me to follow in his footsteps. He has plans for us—a life of money and girls. He’s dreaming big and we both know that’s all it is. A dream.
Reality is, we’ll be Milo’s errand boys, taking all the risk and in jail by twenty-five, if not sooner. I’m no angel—I’ve had my run-ins with the law—but I don’t want that to be my life, even if my mother didn’t bother to give me a starting chance.
I just haven’t told Ike my plans aren’t the same as his. Let’s see this one out. Not too long now and I’ll age out of the system. At least for now I have a bed and a roof over my head.
The girl sits on the pavement, legs folded to her chest, glaring at the pimple-faced boy. Instead of defeat or useless tears, she is furious. Her black eyes are thin slits, lips twisted, and hands tiny balls of rage.
Shooting to her feet, she glares and the dumbass leers, bending his head to hers. They are so close it looks as if he will kiss her. His mouth opens to say something, but he never gets the chance.
Her fist connects with his face, knocking him onto his ass, and I snort, laughter bubbling from my throat.
Firecracker.
Not knowing when to back down, the punk gets up, face tomato-red and mouthing off some more. She ignores him, wiping at the dirt on her pink dress, and the jackass fumes, nostrils flaring, before once again shoving her onto the pavement. Fuck that.
His cruelty lights an all-too-familiar fire within me and my fingers curl into tight fists. I’m best friends with my anger. People are always quick to use their strength, power, or whatever else they have against those who are lesser, smaller than them.
I hate bullies.
Both the butterfly and punk are strangers to me. I shouldn’t care but I do. I will beat the shit out of that fuckface. He’s easily my age, fifteen, maybe a year younger. He wants a fight. Let’s see how he does with someone his own size.
“Jared!” Ike yells over the purr of the engine, and I recognize his tone. He’s done waiting.
Waving him off, I flick the butt onto the grass and immediately bend to pick it up. The yard doesn’t look half bad. Maybe if I try, make a good impression, this time will work out.
My best friend shakes his head, disappointed, but hides it behind stony indifference. Growing up in the system, we learned quickly to never show weakness or emotion.
Never.
We go way back, living in some real shitholes together. He’s out now and wants the same for me, but today isn’t the day to run. I can’t explain it and want to see where this house, this family, leads. Who knows, this time might be different. Better.
The car peels from the curb, burning rubber, and I smirk—he can be such a sulky bastard—and march toward the pair on the road. The fair-haired boy observes the car driving away, stalling when he sees me.
Today is a good day to kick ass.
Maybe he isn’t as dumb as he looks. Something about me must spook him because I’m still several feet away and haven’t uttered a word when the pussy takes off.
Chickenshit. I want to hunt down his ass and smash his face, but he isn’t worth the effort. The girl, grim-faced on the ground, eyes me warily as I crouch before her.