One
September 29, Wednesday
Shiloh
“Physical capital,” I mumbled as I scrubbed the burnt remains off the bottom of a pan. “The knowledge and skills…the knowledge and skills…fuck.”
I glanced at my textbook propped on the counter.
“Knowledge and skills acquired by a worker through education and exp—”
My ramblings were cut short. The swift movements of someone pushing their body weight into mine trapped me against the counter. My hands froze in the soapy water as cold metal pressed against my throat. The attacker pulled my collar until I was pinned back against their chest. I resisted my body’s instinct to scream and reached for their arm, my heart racing wildly. I tried to drag their hand away, to get the knife as faraway from my throat as possible, but my hands were slick and they were strong.
It was only a few seconds before the metal sliced open my skin. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep breath—cologne and honey-vanilla fabric softener—before stomping my foot with as much force as possible onto his shoe. He grunted, his hold around my throat loosening just enough to give me room to slam my head backward into his chin.
“Verga,” he hissed, his arm leaving my body as he stumbled back.
I scrambled for the kitchen knife I knew was at the bottom of the sink to use as a weapon. A shocked hiss left my lips as I yanked my hand from the now cold water.Fuck.
“Puta madre, Shiloh,” he chastised with a sigh, the switchblade snicking closed. “What the fuck was that? You should’ve heard me come in the room before I had a chance to slit your throat. You’d be fucking dead if I was anyone else. And how many fucking times have I told you not to hesitate?”
I released a shaky breath to stabilize my heartbeat. I glared at the floor between us, unable to face my older brother as he spun my body around and began wrapping my cut hand with a dishtowel.
“I know,” I grumbled. I was pretty positive that I was more disappointed in myself than he was.
He sighed heavily with frustration and continued to apply pressure to the cut on my hand so that it would stop bleeding.
“How the fuck am I supposed to trust you to be alone here when you can’t even get out of a fucking chokehold? What if I was one of dad’s friends, huh?”
“It won’t happen again, Javi. I promise.” My eyes traced the familiar letters stamped permanently into the tan skin of his knuckles: PAIN. “Let me prove myself. Let’s do it again.”
Javi tapped his foot impatiently. I looked up to study his face.
“No,” he said, flicking his eyes to the small, burning cut on my throat. “You’ve already made a mess of yourself. I’m not risking you getting seriously hurt when you’ve got school tomorrow.”
I ground my teeth with annoyance, swallowing the urge to scream. He didn’t believe me. He didn’t think I was strong enough to do it right.
“What’s got you so distracted, anyway?”
“I was studying for my Econ quiz tomorrow.” I scowled at the pale pink dishwater.
He clicked his tongue and peeked beneath the towel at my cut with the flicker of a smile on his lips.Smug motherfucker. You won’t win next time.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked after he removed the towel and dropped it on the counter. Javi turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a frozen tamale from a party two years ago. I couldn’t help but smirk at his choice of ice pack as he pressed it against his chin.
“What?” Javier asked, raising a groomed black eyebrow.
Must be fucking someone new who does his brows, because they sure as shit don’t look that neat naturally.
“Nothing,” I said. I was proud that I had hit him hard enough to warrant an ice pack. At least I did something right, even if I hadn’t escaped the chokehold. “And I dunno. He left a couple of hours ago. I think it was Mickey who picked him up. Probably heading for happy hour with Kush at Velvet Room.”
I watched as he grabbed his phone from the pocket of his slacks and quickly tapped away on the screen, a grimace on his face. He always looked fresh with a crisp black button-down shirt, his black hair perfectly gelled, stud earrings and a watch. It was ironic that his job required him to look the exact opposite ofhis profession. As if drug dealers in street gangs needed to dress and act so civilized.
“I gotta go,” he suddenly said, looking up at me as he shoved his phone away.
I bit my lip to prevent myself from saying something I would regret. He gave me a‘what now?’look, and I shook my head.
“Just say it, Shy.”
