“It’s not a big deal,” she starts, watching as I slam the door. She calls out my name like she’s known me all my life. Like we’re two friends who’ve shared secrets and worries and happy times. As if this is just a little disagreement we’ll get over later by simply hugging it out. “Use my phone.”
My eyes catch hers as I walk by and head in the direction of the apartment. Just like that she’s in my rearview.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
I’m being rude as hell, but if I look back, I’ll cave to the stress of what’s going on in my life and unleash my wrath. I’m sparing her from the anger flooding my chest. All the shit I’ve been feeling since Finn told me Mom’s debt was up to me to pay and Ifound my nightstand empty. It’ll rain down like a category three hurricane, drenching her. She’ll get caught up in hundred-mile winds she has no business being swept up in.
I can’t do that to her.
I don’t normally take my life out on people because I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a junkie who wants a fix so badly that she could care less how her words slay. I won’t do that to this girl, so I keep my lips sealed.
Even if there is something in the depths of her eyes that tells me she’d understand.
I volunteerfor an extra shift on Saturday, and what a fucking day it turns out to be. I need all the money I can get if I want Finn off my back. He gifts me with reminder texts daily, and it’s as if there’s a fire-breathing dragon always hovering behind me. I understand the consequences that loom if I screw around too much.
I tell him I’m working on it, but I’m not sure how much he believes. I’ve paid debts in the past, so he has to know I’m good for it, but if he wasn’t concerned, would he still be reaching out and pressuring me?
Most likely.
He and his family live for the feel of cold, hard cash in the palms of their hands.
I sigh as I swipe the sweat off my forehead and pack up my locker. My muscles ache again today, but the new hire is doing better than his first day, which prompts the desire for a day off I can’t afford.
Not when I need the money, which is why the idea poofs into thin air as I start in the direction of Gulliver’s after my shift.
I’ve always loved the feel of boxing gloves on my hands. How my body eases from the pressure after slamming my fist into a bag, but this visit is going to be a whole lot heavier than letting my frustrations out by swinging my fists.
There has to be a lump sum of cash somewhere out there with my name on it. I just need to find it. Luck, however, isn’t on my side. It never has been. Since Mom pushed me out of the womb, I’ve been living a life in the hands of Murphy’s Law. Half the time, if something can go wrong, it does. This past week proves that. I spent hours last night trying to figure out a solution that didn’t involve what I’m about to do, but I have no other options if I want to deal with this on my own.
The gym is the only sure place where I can go and secure a stack of dough without robbing a bank. Gulliver’s Gym & Ring is like a second home to me. Perched on the outskirts of Harrison Heights on the north side of the Sycamore River, it’s where I used to go when I first learned how to drive. To earn the money for a car, I spent two summers working in the junkyard with the town’s nefarious Rufus Fritz—a man who, rumor has it, was in deep with the Lincolns in the nineties but pulled himself out and became an honest man.
In the parking lot, I climb into Sebastian’s gray Aviator. The rims are the same color and the leather inside is dark as night. I toss my bag on the passenger seat and press the ignition button, weirded out that there’s no key. I’m not used to driving this kind of luxury, but I’m grateful Sebastian is letting me use it these next few days until I get paid and can get my car out of the garage.
His car is the last one I should be in as I cross the Sycamore Memorial Bridge and head back through town, but what choice do I have? I can’t wait for my car when Finn is on my back. Ineed to get shit squared away before anything else can go south or anyone finds out. This is the fastest way I know how to do that without putting myself in the sights of law enforcement.
Pulling into a parking space, I remember how when it was bad at home, I’d cart my ass here and spend time watching other locals jabbing in the ring. The excitement of one guy knocking another off their feet made me forget about what was happening at home.
Eventually, I traded a pack of Mom’s smokes—the only time I ever stole—for a pair of used gloves from a kid at the gym who was hanging his up. I never asked why he was leaving them behind. I was too enamored with being able to lay my fists into the punching bag without busting up my knuckles. To have a way to get out the aggression was more important than anyone else’s problems at the time.
When Mom would spend forty-eight hours gone, doing God knows what, I found myself behind that bag. When she’d come home, high off her ass, to the point she couldn’t see straight and I had to help her to bed, I came here. When she was too busy looking for her next fix to make sure there was food in the house for me to eat, it was Gulliver’s that kept me sane.
I slip on the sweatshirt I brought, leaving the hood over my head as I get out of the car. It’s no secret that I frequent Gulliver’s, but being that Finn is up my ass, I figure it’s best to make sure no one sees me. The Lincolns have eyes everywhere, and I’d rather they not know what the hell it is that I’m doing.
Then again, if Finn followed me before, there’s no saying he wouldn’t again.
Gulliver’s isn’t enormous by any means. The place could use a facelift, but it has this charm to it that I doubt the owner, Llewellyn Cosgrove, would ever want to cover up with remodeling. And honestly, I kind of dig it. I like its old-schoolappearance, the over-used equipment, and the ring at the back of the place with its fraying skirt.
Heading to the check-in counter that’s right inside of the entrance, I look out over the floor and note how quiet it is. Part of me wishes I walked in on two guys sparring. Anything to distract me from the real reason I’m here.
Off to the side is boxing equipment: punching bags, head gear, used gloves that Llewellyn started stocking my senior year of high school for guys who can’t afford their own.
The door behind the check-in counter opens, and out comes the man himself. It never gets old seeing the guy who, strangely, was the only positive male figure I had on this side of the river when I was a teen. Aside from Uncle Thad, who was always busy as hell traveling for work, Llewellyn was who I relied on when shit felt too heavy.
Bald head, sharp jaw, and two cauliflower ears confirm all the years he spent trying to go pro after his time in the service. He’s not huge, but stocky; his shoulders are some of the widest I’ve ever seen.
He does a double take, and a grin splits his lips. “My boy.” He rounds the check-in counter. When I put a hand up, he grasps mine and pulls me into a hug, giving me two pats on the back. “How the hell are ya, kid?”
