And I had no intention of losing.
4
Lamb of God – Sepsis blasts through my headphonesas I replay the riff on my unplugged electric guitar. Every time I’m caught in the heat of inspiration, I pause to jot down a few lines of lyrics for my own thrash metal songs. It really sucks being practically on the other side of the country from band members, but at least we stay in close contact and can hold our practice sessions over Zoom.
My phone lit up, Ez, and I took off my headphones to answer, “Yep.”
“Are you in?” he asked, cutting to the chase.
“Yep. It’s quiet, so it suits me fine,” I replied as I stood to look out the window, but I only saw my own reflection because it’s so dark outside.
“I’ll send you a pic of her,” he added. “Are you coming to dinner?”
“Nah, you know I fucking hate socializing with you spoiled motherfuckers.” I was never backward at coming forward, and Ez appreciated it.
“You gotta eat, bro,” he said, irritating me with his pretend-to-care BS.
“I’m eating,” I snarled. “I’ve got the lemon cupcakes and picked up a TV dinner that I’ll chuck in the microwave downstairs. Stop fussing. You’re pissing me off.”
“You don’t seem like a lemon cupcake sort of guy,” he chuckled and swiped off before he had the chance to say anything else.
I swiped off before he had a chance to say anything else, and I headed out the door to the kitchen downstairs to heat my frozen dinner. Lasagna, I think. There was a grocery store, café, and burger and pizza joints behind that giant castle. I suspect my grandfather was overcompensating for something when he built that tall castle.
We never saw any of his mega wealth as it was squandered away over the last several decades, leaving my mother in poverty. But, hey, we got by. My mother was gifted at making a small amount of money or food go far. I still carry his surname, though, Ashthorn. My mother wanted me to keep it, rather than changing it to hers, so I did.
I heard friendly chatter echoing down the hall as I approached the kitchen and paused to turn back. I didn’t want to make conversation with anyone, least of all, the sons and daughters of the privileged and wealthy who look their noses down at our rotten society and decide that they know what is best for us.
No, you don’t.
Empty vessels who regurgitate soundbites and memes to make them sound intelligent should have no say whatsoever in the lives of the working class. Our struggles are not your struggles.
Once back in my room, I blocked out the world with thrash metal and started writing more lyrics before putting on Knocked Loose and zoning out for a bit. Until hunger pulled me back into reality, and I threw off my headphones to realize I had already eaten the lemon cupcakes but still needed more.
Fine. I’ll ignore them.
Footsteps tapped along the wooden floor, and I cracked open my door slightly to see a swinging black ponytail under a black cap. The girl’s got a black-on-black vibe. Hmm, I like it. AC/DC or Black Sabbath might be on her playlist. Or maybe not.
I took note of which room she went into, number four, “number four,” I grabbed my phone and scrolled back the instructions he sent. Yep, she’s in room number four—the girl Ez and Sickle asked me to watch over. I didn’t see her face, but from the back, it won’t be hard to look at her from behind.
I was relieved the kitchen was empty when I arrived, with a faint lingering smell of salty roast chicken and sweet perfume, which was strangely a tantalizing combination. Her perfume. My dinner was in the freezer with DON’T TOUCH written on it with a black marker.
The freezer and fridge were empty apart from the usual coffee, tea, and milk left by the faculty, and I was pissed that two plates were left in the sink with chicken gravy smeared over them.
Can’t those brats clean up after themselves? Typical. I chucked my frozen lasagna into the microwave to defrost it as I turned the faucet on to fill the sink up to wash their plates. Let the poor boy clean up the slime of the rich, while they wank on about their non-existent problems.
I found a towel in the second drawer to dry the dishes, then rested the plates and cutlery on the bench, before placing mydefrosted meal into the benchtop stove. Number four. That girl, whatever her name is, sleeps in number four, just two doors away from me. So, if I put on Slipknot and turned the volume up, would she mind? Probably not. She’ll come tapping on my door to whine about the noise, interrupting her beauty sleep, and I’ll ignore her.
Once my food was heated, I took it back to my room while Ez sent a message with a picture of my target. Unsurprisingly, it was the girl in number four—long black curly hair, a pretty face, green eyes, or are they brown? It’s hard to tell in this picture. Heart-shaped face. Pretty. Natural.
Her name is Adina Boleyn. Ah, she’s a Boleyn, one of the Warwicks’ enemies. They have several enemies because they’re particularly good at pissing off crime families, just for fun or to grow their wealth and territory. These fuckers need to lay down their arms and retire into a normal life, but they probably don’t recognize normal even if it smacked them in the face.
After about an hour, I started feeling restless and needed to walk in the dark, sticking to the shadows where I felt most at ease. As I was leaving, my eyes drifted to her room down the hall, and I thought about introducing myself so I could get a decent look at her. For research purposes, let’s say.
But being nice to her wasn’t my reason for being here. Instead, I quietly walked to her door, knocked twice, and then ran down the stairs. Jeez, what a fucking chump. Like a damn twelve-year-old trick, but that’s what Ez and Sickle pay me for. They hired a hitman — not to kill her yet, but to terrify her first. I suspect they’ll drag it out, then kidnap her and offer her on a plate to her father for money or territory.
It might not go as they planned because I doubted Mr. Boleyn loved her as much as the boys hoped. What father in his right mind would send his precious daughter to this place, knowing that Leon Warwick sent his sons here? Unless he didn’t know,but I thought everyone with half a brain and knowledge of the criminal gangs did.
I pressed my ear against the wood of the door and heard coughing followed by friendly chatter, but it sounded like she was talking to herself. She’s not the only one. Sometimes talking to yourself is more worthwhile than talking to a bonehead, or a jock, or a swifty. God, anything but a swifty.
