“The pigs would’ve arrested me by now if they had anything on me.” He slings his arm around my shoulder, urging me to start walking again. “You need to chill, Pres. All this worrying will give you wrinkles.”
I thump him in the arm. “You’re my brother.”And a known criminal. “Of course, I worry.”
“And you’re my little sister. It’smyjob to worry aboutyou. To protect you.”
I roll my eyes.What is it about guys and their constant need to protect?As if we’re not able to protect ourselves. “I’ve been living by myself since I aged out, and I’ve held down a full-time job since I graduated high school. I know how to protect myself.”
“You still got that gun I gave you?” he asks while I look left and right before we cross the road.
“Nope.”
Air expels from his mouth, and a muscle pops in his jaw.
“Don’t do that. I’m not keeping an unregistered weapon in my possession. I bought my own handgun. It’s legit, and yes, I know how to use it. I haven’t forgotten.”
After I left the foster system at eighteen, one of the first things Clay did was teach me how to shoot and how to defend myself physically. He’d been living by himself for four years by that time, and he’d already gotten heavily involved with The Vipers, the main gang who controls the streets of Mattapan and other neighboring towns. He’d seen enough shit go down to know I wouldn’t survive living around here without the ability to defend myself. I work out a few times a week at a local gym to keep myself fit, and I do refresher self-defense classes every couple years to ensure my skills are sharp. I carry my gun everywhere with me, thankful I’ve never needed it.
Most people around here know Clay and I grew up in the same foster home. That we’re as close as blood siblings, so no one gives me any trouble.
We arrive at the triple-decker I call home, and Clay follows me up the stairs to my second-floor one-bedroom apartment. I open the door, turn off the alarm, switch on the overhead lights, and walk into the open plan kitchen-slash-living room, dropping my bag and my portfolio on the kitchen counter. “You want something to eat or drink?” I ask him, sticking my head in the refrigerator. “I’ve got beer.”
“Gimme a beer.” He flops down on my couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.
I pop the caps off two beers, toeing off my shoes and padding barefoot into the living area. I hand him a beer before shoving his feet off my table. “Don’t be an ass. I eat off that table sometimes.”
He chuckles. “This place is a dump.” He waves his hands around. “Why do you even care?”
Hurt blossoms in my chest, quickly replaced by anger. “Don’t be a fucking jerk.” I drop down beside him, pinning him with a glare. “It’s not a dump. It’s just a little dated, but I’ve worked hard to make it a home. I take pride in where I live, especially because it’s the first place I’ve called my own since aging out. I don’t give a fuck that it’s not modern or that I don’t have the latest, most expensive furniture.”
I scan the homey room with a lump in my throat. “I carefully selected every single thing in this apartment, and it’s a representation of who I am to my core.” I rub a hand over the ache in my chest. “This place means something to me. You can’t disrespect it just ’cause it’s not to your liking.”
I’ll admit it’s not the world’s biggest apartment, and it definitely needs modernization, but it has character, something a lot of newer places lack. Plus, it’s clean and tidy. The muted gray walls are freshly painted, and I sanded and stained the original hardwood floors myself last year. The furniture might not be trendy, but it’s in good condition, and I scoured the consignment stores to find hidden treasures that perfectly fit the vision I had for my first proper home since my parents died. Most of the drawings on the walls are my own, and I painted the colorful mural on the back wall in my bedroom. I even sewed cushion covers and made the matching drapes.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says, looking mildly sincere. “It just frustrates me you won’t take me up on my offer. You could live someplace better. You just have to say the word, and I’ll make it happen.” He swigs from his bottle, removing a pack of cigarettes from the inside of his worn leather jacket.
“I’m not taking your money, and I’m not arguing over this again.”
“Let me pay for a nicer place.” He squeezes my knee, and his eyes are pleading. “Come on, li’l heartbreaker. It would make me happy, and I know you want to.”
Clay is so pigheaded when it comes to getting his own way, and it pisses me off that he can’t see things from my perspective. I don’t want his drug money, which is why I refuse all offers of financial help. I’m saving my hard-earned money to pay for art class and my apprenticeship. There have been occasions where I’ve been sorely tempted to give in to him, but I’m glad I stuck to my guns.
My future plans include setting up my own tattoo shop, and I want everything to be legit. I don’t want anything from my past crawling out of the woodwork to ruin my plans. So, I keep on saving, and I reckon within the next year I will have enough to cover my years of apprenticeship and the courses I’ll need to attend.
“Wow, you haven’t called me that in forever.” I’m deliberately deflecting, and he knows it. I’ve never admitted part of the reason I don’t want handouts is the fact it’s dirty money because I could never outrightly hurt him like that. Not after everything he has done for me. I owe Clay so much, and he’s the only person I can truly count on to always have my back. Thoughts of ever losing him make me break out in a cold sweat. He might not be my blood sibling, but I doubt I could love any brother more.
“Break any hearts lately?” he quips, happy to leave the heavy stuff aside.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“You should get back with Lync. He was crazy about you, and I liked him.”
“Don’t you read the tabloids? He’s enjoying fame and all the perks that come with being a rock star. We broke up two years ago, and he’s forgotten all about me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
I shrug, because it makes no difference now. “I haven’t regretted ending things when he got his big break. I’m not cut out for a long-distance relationship, and I’ve heard enough stories of life on tour to know he’d never stay faithful.”
“He might have.” Clay waggles his brows. “I bumped into him in New York a couple weeks ago, and he asked me if he should call you.”
