“I’m in trouble.”
My first instinct is to scan him from head to toe, searching for an injury. His face is pale, but I can’t tell if that’s due to the lack of light or something else. There’s a wild look plastered on his face, untamed and charged with an unpredictable energy. His gaze darts back and forth into the surrounding shadows of the street. With a feral sheen in the whites of his eyes, I almost have the urge to reach for my gun again.
“M-my boss. The one from Alabama while I was there”—his voices drops to a whisper—“he’s coming here.”
My brain teeters on the edge of understanding and sheer confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
He twitches, sniffing, then drums the pads of his fingers against this thumb. He’s got to be high then. Or perhaps jonesing for a fix? The slight twitches in the muscles of his face tell me something’s going on.
“I need a thousand bucks … it’ll get him off my back for a day or two until I can come up with some extra cash.”
I scoff, and he doesn’t take well to that. He grabs me, wrestling with the fine collar of my sweater. It bites into my neck as I’m yanked forward, my balance disappearing the instant he tugs on me. Instinctually, I grip his wrists.
“This isn’t a joke!” His breath is hot and pungent against my cheek, and his voice dips low and rough, unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him before. Usually, he’s pleading with me for money, not demanding it.
I force him off me and shove him back while Max aggressively barks from the truck. I grab for the handle ready to let him out at my command.
“Get it together, or I’m going to let Max out. He doesn’t take too kindly to people attacking his partner.” My lips curl, and the malice in his expression turns to fear as he raises his eyebrows, almost as if he’s realized how far he’s gone.
I swallow, hard, worried my trembling hands betray how rattled I am. I don’t want to hurt him. I owe him.
Brent backpedals, lifting the baseball cap off his head and dragging a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. “I—shit, man …”
The light on the lamppost flickers along with the realization that this, with Brent, will never end.
At first, they were subtle—an offhand comment, a casual reminder of that day he took the fall. Now, they’re excessive, harsh.
I’ve carried the guilt for years, but the more he uses it, twists it, leverages it—I hate how trapped I feel. If I’d just taken the six months prison time with him, this wouldn’t have happened.
“When is he coming? Why is he coming?” I ask.
He shuffles on his feet, looking at me with something unspoken, like he sees he has the upper hand. My stomach churns the multiple bowls of chili.
“Soon. I owe him. Not enough for him to come himself and collect, though. There’s something else drawing him here. He’s agitated and anxious. They say something’s thrown him off.”
“Well,” I say, feeling resentful and ashamed at the same time. “I can stick by you when he comes. He won’t mess with you.”
Brent throws up his hands, fisting his hair with a growl. “You don’t understand. He’s not going to ask nicely. I-I’ve been smoking what I’m supposed to be selling. These guys don’t have patience for this. I need the cash, Noah. Don’t make me resort to pulling out the evidence from all those years ago, man.”
I snarl—stuck in this invisible contract I never signed but can’t escape. The thing is, I’m almost certain there’s a statute of limitation, but I’m not a lawyer, and because I’m in law enforcement, the whole thing would be a blemish on my record I can’t afford. Nor can my mother.
This shadow looms over me, making the whole night seem darker, corrupt. The worst part? I’m not sure how to call him out without proving him right—I let him take the fall.
“Five hundred bucks. That’s all I have on me. I’ll have to get the rest to you.” My mouth is dry, the words barely willing to leave my mouth. I want to punch Brent in the damn face. I don’t have tons of extra cash to be supporting his habit or paying off his boss. Anything extra goes to support my mom and pay for the medicine she needs to stay comfortable.
“That’s my man,” he says, holding his hand out while the other twists at his tattered shirt.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my wallet and count out all the cash I have on hand to give him. He snatches it from me.
“We’ll meet up next week,” he says.
“No more creeping in the shadows. Next time text me, or you’re going to end up hurt.” I don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, I open the driver’s side door and hop in my truck, speeding off before he skulks back into the shadows.
Max whines after I make it onto the main road headed toward Yosemite and my cabin. I scroll through my options in my head: pay him more money, refuse and he spills our history, or talk to Paul about Brent’s predicament. It doesn’t matter what I come up with, it all leads back to my mother being impacted, and I sure as hell don’t want that.
My mind wanders to Lily, and for some sick reason I want to talk to her. This odd notion that she’d understand me, my situation—it hounds me. Her insight regarding my mother was unexpected, her perspective refreshing. For some reason, I crave to know how she would handle this. What is this girl doing to me?
