I should’ve expected to see him crawling out of the woodwork after my lack of communication. The Lincolns are the cockroaches of Harrison Heights. They’re there.Alwaysthere. There’s no shaking them. The strongest repellent couldn’t ward them away, but I thought I’d have more time before he followed me into Chatham Hills, for fuck’s sake.
He knows this, which is why he grins. Just as I know him, he knows me, and that fact nearly kills me because it means he knows my biggest weakness.
We were in some of the same classes before the real world clutched us in its greedy palms. See, back then, Finn and I were kids, our biggest worry showing up to school so our parents weren’t hit with truancy fines. But those times are long gone, replaced by the aftermath of our fucked-up childhoods.
There’s a no-nonsense tone in his voice when he asks, “Where have you been, Moore?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nic over there,” he hitches a thumb back at his muscle, “went looking for you the other night. Wanted to make sure you heard the message loud and clear about the ten grand, but you were nowhere to be found. Janie came and went, but no movement by you.”
I scoff. “You have your people looking for me?”
Jesus Christ. I’ve only been out of Harrison Heights for a few days.
He shrugs. “Ten grand is a whole lot more than the nickels we used to collect from kids after lunch.” He says we like it’s something we did together. I never robbed classmates of their leftover lunch money. I knew what it was like going without eating and I never would have put someone else in that situation. That was all him, his cousins, and the bad crowd he led.
Not much has changed in that aspect. The lot of them are still taking money off people, just on a much larger scale.
“It’s being taken care of.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“And when can I expect those Benjamin’s in the palm of my hand?”
That’s a question I can’t answer. I’m taking as many extra shifts as I can. I pawned some of my belongings the same morning I moved in with Sebastian to pull together a measly fraction of what he’s owed, but it’s nowhere near enough. I’m just thankful I have it stashed in my locker at work so my mom can’t get her hands on it, though it’s possible I might have to dip into it until I can get back on my feet.
I refuse to answer him because it’ll only cause a problem when it’s not what he wants to hear. I also don’t want to admit that I have next to nothing to offer. Not yet. I look over his shoulder where his beefy crony stands looking like an innocent spectator. He’s anything but. The shit he does on the daily could probably put him away for life.
When I don’t feed into his question, his fist impales my gut at the speed of lightning. It catches me off guard and has me doubling over trying to catch my breath.
What the fuck?
I sputter out a choked cough before lifting and squaring my shoulders. A woman that works on the line down from mine catches my eyes across the lot when I straighten. I ignore it, hoping like hell she doesn’t mention what she’s seeing to our boss. My palm presses into my diaphragm, becausefuck, that hurt. My stomach drops all over again at the menacing look on Finn’s face, and it’s like my body is collapsing in on itself. I know better than to bow my head and let the humiliation sink in. I remain stoic, keeping my features blank so he doesn’t feed off my pain like I know he would if he had the chance.
“I don’t like being ignored, Colson. We both know that she’s never going to stop. This relationship you and I have, well, you’re going to have to get used to it. You know how Clyde is about his money.” I disregard the way he refers to his father by his first name and wait for the ball to drop. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because we grew up together. That, and Ireally fucking love money too. More than cleaning up a bigger mess that might not be necessary. You understand?”
I hang on to each of his words, though I’m screaming in my head. Yelling and raging against the truth behind every goddamn syllable he speaks.
“She needs help,” I tell him, hoping like hell he’ll grow a heart and understand that my mom doesn’t even understand the weight of what she’s done. This is Janie Moore, a bonafide drug addict that we’re talking about. She’d cut a limb off to feed her habit and keep on walking until she bled out. She’s done shady shit over the years, all to quiet the cravings that shout to be fed, and she doesn’t care who she screws over to make it happen.
A humorless laugh tumbles out of Finn, and it’s not a surprise. He doesn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body. He thinks he’s better than Clyde, but they’re cut from the same cloth. The apple didn’t fall far. It dropped to the ground below to rot in the shade. He’s a spitting image of the man who continues to feed Mom’s addiction by allowing her access to ‘product’ she has no means to pay for. “I don’t give a shit what she needs. You want to know what I care about?”
I think we already know the answer to that.
“Your money.”
“Bin-fucking-go. Not my problem your mom did fuck all with what she was given. Ready for the best part?”
Hardly.
I swallow down the thickness at the back of my throat and ignore my hoarse voice along with the lingering pain in my diaphragm. “What?”
“My patience is dwindling fast.”
“It’s been a few weeks. That’s not enough time to gather that kind of money.”
