PROLOGUE
Rule
Eighteen years ago…
“What the fuck’s keepin’ you here?” I muttered to myself, staring at the parking lot across the street.
The question was philosophical. One I’d been pondering since I turned eighteen just fifty-seven days ago. Each time I asked myself that, I came up with only two reasons, both weighing heavily in the pro column, for why I should pack up my shit and move on from this dusty little town.
First, I had no family.
Not since the bio-parents dropped me off at the local police department lobby and high-tailed it outta Dodge when I was two.
Second, I had no friends.
Not since Creed left, getting the hell out of Oklahoma the first chance he got.
If I were smart, I would get the hell out, too. I had options. I could head south to the little college town Creed now called home. Last I heard, he was settling in nicely. Learning how to fight, of all things. Professionally, I mean. The asshole knew how to fight because I’d taught him. I’d learned my lesson on more than one occasion not to fuck with him.
The thought made me smile.
Creed had been a scrawny little fucker with his nose stuck in a book when I came around. The kids picked on him like he was the only nerd in the bunch. Didn’t matter that he’d shot up a foot in a year. They’d treated him like he was four feet tall, not over six feet before his junior year.
Then again, size didn’t matter when you cowered and let them beat on you, which was precisely what that fool did until I taught him how to throw a punch and explained that throwing the first one was the only way to win respect.
It was just one of my many rules. Hence the name. I had a few dozen that I was known for in this tiny little shit-hole town, and one of them was to never back down from a dare. So when some jackass at school dared me to legally change my name, I did. I mean, it wasn’t like the one I’d been given was sentimental or anything. When the cops picked my diaper-clad ass up off the floor of their lobby, they hadn’t known what to call me. After two weeks of trying to find out where I came from and coming up empty, they’d been just as clueless, so some social worker who felt sorry for me gave me a name. And the day I turned eighteen, I gave it back and chose my own, ignoring the sideways sneer of the woman who processed the application. No, I didn’t have a last name because I didn’t fucking want one, thank you very much.
Too bad finding a job and a place to live wasn’t as easy as changing your identity. At eighteen, I had neither. Not since I’d been kicked out of Purgatory, the group home I’d been sent to when I was twelve. Although I wouldn’t go back there if someone paid me, I wouldn’t deny it had been easier when I was there.
Yeah, we referred to it as the place sinners went to repent for their sins, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as we all made it out to be. There were three squares a day, a room with a television, and beds to sleep in. Granted, when you’d been shit on by the world, you tended to think of everything as your own personal hellhole. At least at Purgatory, there’d been someone to entertain me—generally, the stupid assholes who ran the place.
There’d also been structure. Out here in the real world, I was ambling around aimlessly. Even with two jobs, I had too damn much time on my hands. Then again, night stocking at Walmart and part-time stocking at Dollar Tree weren’t exactly mentally stimulating. I made just enough to keep the rent-by-the-week room at the local no-tell motel while scarfing down three meals a day via the dollar menu at McDonald’s.
It would’ve been easy to hitch a ride south and find Creed. I could probably find tons of shit to keep me busy in the college town he landed in. But no, here I was, trying to do something good.
“Come on, man. Don’t be a dick. Just let him be,” I muttered, shaking my head when the redheaded asshole stood tall and pointed at the kid coming out of the convenience store.
I wasn’t sure why I even bothered to play guardian angel to the kid, but for some stupid reason, I couldn’t help myself. Clearly, I wasn’t doing it for thanks because the kid I’d been keeping an eye on would just as soon put a bullet in my head for trying to interfere with his life. Or it was possible he wanted to hug me. Truth is, I didn’t know the first thing about what was going on in his head. And since he didn’t talk, no one else knew, either. But that was Jinx for you. Rumor was he could talk. He merely chose not to. Again, no one really knew for sure.
Not that I was interfering so much as keeping tabs. And it was a damn good thing I was. That fucking kid found trouble everywhere he looked. And just like Creed had, this one never fought back. I’d tried to teach him how to throw a punch, even incited him enough to make him want to hit me a time or two, but he never took the bait.
He wasn’t taking it now, either.
I pulled the squished red and white box from my back pocket and popped a cigarette out of the pack. I stared at the scene across the street, wondering if it would escalate quickly or continue like this—with two assholes talking shit while the kid stood there and took it—for another half hour. Something had to give soon, or I was going to go over there and punch the kid myself.
I put the cigarette between my lips, wishing I could hear what those fuck-ups were saying. Not that it mattered. The kid wasn’t going to respond. He never did. I’d never heard him speak a single word in the two years I’d known him. According to the counselors at Purgatory, he was mute. As for whether it was a medical condition or a personal preference, I didn’t know. I didn’t give a shit, either. For the life of me, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing here now.
I dug my lighter out of my pocket and lit the cigarette, taking a long, deep pull and letting the nicotine ease the chaos in my head. It worked, although I knew it was merely another lie I told myself to find some comfort in this world. The nicotine did nothing for the racing thoughts or the constant mental calculations, but for a few brief moments, I could focus on something else. With every puff, I’d trained myself to ignore everything but the cigarette. Bad habit, sure, but it was a vice I couldn’t kick. It was the only reprieve I had because my brain worked overtime to process everything I saw and heard, keeping track of it even when I would’ve preferred to forget forever.
Some cocksucking asshole who called himself a school counselor said it was an eidetic memory and that I had a gift. Ass kissing bastard. That same motherfucker had spent the better part of three years with my dick in his fucking mouth. He’d wanted to pick my brain and learn what made me tick—under the guise of offering me guidance and helping to prepare me for college—and I’d wanted my dick sucked, so it had worked out well. Provided you didn’t figure in the fact that I’d been fourteen the first time he put his fucking face in my crotch. At the time, I hadn’t given a shit that he was nearly thirty or a fucking pervert with a penchant for boys. I’d used that fucker’s mouth for all he was worth. For three solid years. Right up until he was hauled away in handcuffs when the principal walked in and caught us.
As for his diagnosis, no, the photographic memory wasn’t a goddamn gift. It was a fucking curse. My intelligence level had made it impossible to blend in with the other pathetic losers who’d ended up in Purgatory with me. Instead, I had that fucker keeping tabs, exploiting me every chance he got.
For the year after he was arrested, I found a bit of peace. It was during that downtime that I met the kid. He’d been the newest guest at Purgatory—number eight at the time—and from the first day he arrived, I knew he would have to fight to survive. The staff called him Chester—which didn’t help the ridicule—but I called him Jinx. I still remember the day I’d given him the nickname.
“Did you get your homework finished?” Tony asked, hand on his hip as he stared at us.
I glanced at the kid sitting beside me on the couch, wondering if this would be the time he finally spoke.
