Asher runs his hands over his head. “No, no, you said we wouldn’t start something.”
“I’m not,” I say with mocking innocence. “But there’s just no telling how I’ll react to the shit he spews.”
“Alright, I’ll give you that one,” Asher relents, and turns towards the house. “This is where she was living?”
Nodding, I swallow a lump in my throat. The house looks decrepit. Shingles falling off the sides, shutters barely hanging on, paint peeling all over, the yard is overgrown and full of weeds. Honestly, it looks as if it’s been abandoned. How anyone let a fifteen year old live here, I’ll never understand.
“Do you think anyone actually lives there? Did you put in the right address?” Asher asks skeptically.
I’m about to snap at him that I put it in correctly when we hear yelling from inside.
“You lazy motherfuckers! I’m the only one that does anything in this fucking house! I should throw you two out on your lazy, strung-out asses and see how long you live!”
That’s Mickey alright.
“Oh great, he’s in a good mood,” I say deadpanned and start stomping towards the front door.
“Ty, wait, his parents–” Asher tries to get me to stop, but I came here with a purpose. I’m getting her stuff and I’m bringing it back to her.
I’m getting that drawing even if I have to beat him up to do it.
I step up on the broken porch and my fist pounds on the screen aggressively.
“Frank! I know you’re in there,” I shout.
“Goddamn it, here we go,” Asher mutters behind me.
The old plywood door creaks open, and there in the rancid flesh, is Mickey Frank. Smoking and in what looks to be a freshly washed white shirt, he looks at Ashe and I, unimpressed, and blows smoke in our faces.
“Look at what we have here. That bitch went and cried to you? Tell her she owes me and she ain’t getting out of it.”
Fuck, I hate this guy.
“Actually,” I step closer, pulling open the metal screen door and towering over him. The scent coming from the house is so bad, like body odor and stale smoke. It’s very obvious from the pale green hue to Mickey’s skin that he’s hungover. Must have been a bad night at The Underground. “That won’t be happening. I’m here for her things.”
I push through the door, checking him in the shoulder as hard as I fucking can as I force my way inside. Asher’s hot on myheels and when Mickey tries to stop him, Asher clothes lines him right in the throat.
“I didn’t say it was up for discussion, Frank,” I growl and turn, letting Asher handle him. Mickey’s got it out for me and I can take him if I need to, but right now, getting Roxie’s things is more important. Getting that picture is more important.
Looking around, rage fills me. This place is a shithole.
No case worker in their right fucking mind would let these people foster. What the hell happened?
The floors are dark with dirt, trash piled high in the corners. It’s a small house, but off to the side I hear the buzz of a TV turned up way too loud and someone hacking a lung out in the other room. That must be Mr. and Mrs. Frank.
If I never interact with them, that will still be too soon.
There’s dirty blankets with big rings of shit, piss, sweat, or vomit covering the windows so this whole place is as dark as a fucking crypt. She lived here? She lived in this?
I look around, then look at Mickey. He’s fucking pristine. His hair done, his skin scrubbed clean, clean clothes, and he’s wearing his shoes inside like he doesn’t want to touch anything in his own home. But did she get the same courtesy? The same ability to not touch any disgusting surface around her?
My hands curl into fists at my sides and I force a quick breath out through my nose.
Focus, Ty. Get her stuff, get out.
She said she was behind a curtain, where is it? I turn around. There’s no curtains in the living room. Pushing through the disgusting house, I kick open the first door off to the side where the TV is blasting and two lumps in recliners that jump. The stench, holy hell.
“Disgusting devils,” I mutter under my breath in Spanish, covering my nose with my hand.
