Page 130 of Twisted Knight

I glance over to the young kid standing on the sidewalk looking in my passenger window. He’s about twelve or thirteen with big brown eyes and a head of shaggy dark hair. His green shirt is worn enough that I can see his shoulder through the stretched seams of the fabric.

“Not lost, no.”

His eyes roam around the inside of my car. To my hands. Stutter on the Rolex on my wrist. To my wallet visible in the cupholder. To the black gym bag on the front seat.

“Sorry, man. We don’t want any. If you go four blocks down and take a left, that’s where people go to buy whatever it is you’re selling.”

I bark out a laugh. The little shit thinks I’m slangin’ dope. That’s fucking comical. “I’m not selling shit, son.”

“Do you need directions, then?”

“Nope. I know where I am.” I stare at him for a beat before exiting the car. Those big brown eyes of his track my every movement as I walk around the hood of the SUV to lean my ass against its fender.

I take in his oversized jeans. Notice the two cans of spray paint in his back pockets. See the stain of its colors on his fingers.

He studies me too, looking me up and down, thinking his puffed-chest bravado masks his wariness. But I see it. I used to be the same way. “You don’t look like you know where you are because if you did, you wouldn’t be here.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Why? I don’t want nothing to do with whatever it is you’re here to do.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re thinking like that. It’ll keep you out of trouble. Your name?”

His look says he doesn’t trust me, but his answer says he does. “Leo.”

“Nice to meet you, Leo. I’m Holden.” I hold my hand out and he stares at it for a beat before shaking it reluctantly. “And how old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Do you live here?” I ask, lifting my chin to the apartment complex at his back.

“Close to here,” he says, and if it weren’t for the dart of his eyes to the green bike lying on its side on the porch behind him, I’d believe him. But you don’t leave bikes on porches in this neighborhood unless you want them stolen or you’re nearby to watch them. “Why all the fucking questions?”

I shrug, my eyes constantly surveying what’s going on around us. Knowing your surroundings around here is a matter of life and death in some instances. It’s amazing how that habit comes back without it being a conscious decision. “Just curious is all.”

“What-the-fuck-ever, man.”

“Just a word of advice. You might want to chill out on saying ‘fuck’ so much.” When he goes to argue, I lift a hand to stop him. “You seem like a smart kid. You keep dropping f-bombs when talking to adults, they’re going to immediately look at where you live, where you go to school, and write you off. Give you a label you don’t deserve.”

Fuck you, Rhett.

He angles his head to the side and stares at me. “Let’s be real. No one fucking cares about me. Don’t act like some three-piece-suit-wearing motherfucker like you does.”

Guess he means me.

“No one?” I ask. “Mom? Dad? Grandma?”

“Dad’s who the fuck knows where. Gotta chase the next high, you know.” He shrugs but I know that look. I still feel that look some days. “Mom’s at work. Always at work.”

“Isn’t that because she does care? Her working so much? Trying to give you every opportunity she can?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“You an artist?” I ask and love the startled look on his face.

“Fuck no, man.”

“But you carry paint in your pocket.”