He stops restocking supplies and stares at me with those black eyes. The resting bitch face he usually sports slowly morphs into a little smile, and he closes the distance between us and gives me a fist bump.
Gabriel is the only person I trust in this world other than my adoptive brother, Tobias. We haven’t told each other everything about our pasts, but we know enough to understand what the other one needs and when.
It’s usually distance.
“Ready for some shitty coffee?”
He smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. Each morning, we get a cup of coffee and a donut atMaggie’s Diner,one of the few restaurants in the Patch. Maggie is tough as nails but funny as hell and never charges us for the donut.
Gabriel pulls his black hoodie over his head while I snag my leather jacket from the hook next to the front entrance. I tap against the breast pockets, making sure I’ve got my gun and my cigarettes. I keep a gun on me at all times. I may be turning over a new leaf, but I’ve made a lot of enemies while I was with the Hellcats.
A nod to Gabe, and we’re off.
The rev of the motorcycle’s engine ripples through my body,shaking off the last remnants of my hangover. The sky above is grey, and the dilapidated houses paint a dismal picture as we soar down back roads and side streets.
People lugging worn-out belongings in carts trail down the sidewalk like zombies—even the little kids waiting for the school bus look tired. Not sleepy. “I’m too young to have seen this much already,”kind of tired.
I know the feeling, kid.
The red fluorescent lighting ofMaggie’s Dinercomes into view, and I sigh with relief at the small glimmer of something bright in this crappy neighborhood.
Maggie’s Dinerisn’t just a cheap coffee and a free donut for me. It’s the first part of a well-crafted routine that I follow each day.
Because, without my routines, the devil inside me might wake up.
When my hands remember things my mind tries to forget, like the feel of the blade in my hand or the blood on the walls, I latch onto my routines.
Because I can’t let that happen again.
Chapter 3
Felix
My father has a Napoleon Complex—which is a polite way of saying small-dick syndrome. Like my bedroom, his office is plastered in gold leaf with gaudy chandeliers and lighting fixtures. The entire mansion looks like an Elvis-themed wedding chapel with a dash of Marie Antoinette. When he was elected Mayor, a fortune was spent redecorating the Mayor’s Mansion to compensate for his fragile ego.
He drums his fingers against his oversized desk while looking at me with disdain.
The feeling is very mutual.
A team of psychiatrists sits on either side of him, bracing themselves for our bi-weekly check-in because nobody ever knows how to start these meetings.
After I found my mother, I spent the two weeks following oscillating from hysterics to full-throated rage. It was when I wandered into the garden and dug a six-by-six-foot hole that a cavalry of doctors was summoned.
Yes, I admit, the spectacle was a bit on the nose, and I regret my lack of originality, but it wasn’t like I was at my creative best, forGod’s sake.
I remember the house staff slowly exiting the mansion and watching me fulfill my mission. I can’t tell you why digging a giant hole in the backyard felt correct, but it just did. The pain and rage were boiling within, and I knew if I didn’t do something with it, I’d end up exploding.
My father blew a gasket. The only words I could make out from the hole, which I’d hopped into by the time he came barreling out of the house, were, “The media!”
Naturally, he’d be more worried about the story getting out than the fact that his son was literally digging his own grave.
The groundskeeper lifted me from the hole, and twenty-four hours later, the team of doctors that sits before me was summoned.
“How are you feeling today, Felix?”
Doctor Franklin speaks slowly, as if speaking at a normal pace would startle me into a Victorian fainting spell.
Fetch the smelling salts!
