Page 10 of Bloody Quarter

The problem with hot guys offering coffee was that they always wanted more than coffee. I knew his type all too well. Fuck, I dated one. The all-American jock, most likely football, who was the stud in school and was looking to relive his glory days. He was the type who got whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. That meant he didn’t understand when people told him no, and that was deadly. Guys like that didn’t know how to take rejection. What was worse was that they didn’t know how to take responsibility either, so what would happen if the moment of fun turned into ‘Oh shit, I’m pregnant’? I was already homeless, with no future to speak of, and more than one demon that gripped my ankles like shackles. The last thing I needed to do was bring an innocent child into the chaos.

But that wasn’t the only reason I didn’t want him near me. He had an energy around him that felt off. It clung to him like a darkness that was as captivating as it was fatal. My stomach tightened, and my heart fluttered like it did whenever I wrapped my hand around a bottle of tequila, and that told me all I needed to know. Stay away. Stay very fucking far away.

I heard the back door to the bakery open and wished myself invisible. He swore under his breath, and the hair stood on the back of my neck, but I didn’t flinch. Long after the sound of his shoes had disappeared down the alley, I remained in my hiding spot. Dusk came and went, and finally, the cover of night arrived. Only then did I move from behind the narrow space of the dumpster. My arms and legs were weak and shaking from holding myself in such an awkward position, and one sniff of my sweater told me that I now smelled like garbage. Great.

Not only did I not find anyone else hiring, but I would have an issue with a bed again tonight. Shaking my head, I picked up a light jog and kept watch for anyone following me. Did everyone live this paranoid? This couldn’t be normal.

I froze as I turned down a street and realized where I was. So lost in thoughts, my feet had a mind of their own, and now here I stood in front of my old home. The light was on inside, and a beat-up shit box of a car was in the driveway, which meant my mother was home. Pulling the sweater tighter around myself, I stared for what felt like days as I replayed memories like an old movie: spraying Evie with a hose when we were supposed to be washing my mom’s car and the two of us walking around the block at night when my mom worked late. It was the only time I ever felt like I could be vulnerable.

Evie’s smile lit up any room we walked into. She was the clear favorite. I never resented her for that, and yet I was the one who sabotaged her entire life. I introduced her to partying and drinking and showed her how to sneak out of the house. It was my fault that Evie didn’t have a future.

It had been three years since my release, and my mother still wouldn’t accept my calls, but it was time. I had to look her in the eyes. Each footstep up the driveway to the front door felt like another life sentence. I could still hear the gavel from the judge bang down as I was sentenced to prison. My mother had sat watching, tears in her eyes, but the tears weren’t for me. They were for the child she had lost.

Raising my hand, I knocked. My heart pounded like a drum inside my chest. Chickening out, I turned to leave just as the door opened.

“Hello, may I help you?”

My heart stopped and started again as my stomach twisted into a giant knot. Slowly turning, I looked up and saw the spark of recognition.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, my voice no more than a croak.

“Alora?”

I held the sweater tighter around my body to hide my shaking hands. “Yeah, it’s me.”

My mother stepped outside. There was no warmth or compassion as her eyes narrowed into a glare a second before her hand connected with my cheek. The slap rocked me sideways, and the sting caused tears to prick my eyes. I grabbed at my face as I stepped back from the shock of the blow.

“How dare you come here. How dare you step one foot on this property. I told you I never wanted to see you, and I meant it. I didn’t lose one daughter when Evie died. I lost two.”

“I know there is nothing I can ever do to make up for what happened, but…don’t you want to know how I am? Even a little bit? I’m still your daughter. I still love you.”

She held up her finger and stepped toward me, but instinct had me stepping back. “There is no but. No, I don’t want to know because I don’t care. I cleaned out your room the day of your sentencing and gave all your shit away or burned it. Just like I tried to burn you from my mind. You’re no longer my daughter. You haven’t been for eight years, and if I never see you again, it will be too soon. Go to hell, Alora, and this time stay there,” she growled before stepping into the house and slamming the door in my face.

It shouldn’t hurt. I knew what was coming and that this would happen, and yet there was no stopping the tears from falling. Covering my mouth, I walked away from the house that I’d spent most of my life growing up in, that I had every good and bad memory in, and that I’d avoided coming to since my release. I was a sucker for punishment. That was the only explanation as to why I thought this was a smart idea. That I’d think maybe time had dulled her hatred.

I’d always felt like an outsider and an outcast, but now I realized I was nothing more than a ghost of my past floating along, waiting for the day that this guilt and pain would be over and I could finally join my sister. Maybe then I’d be at peace.

Fuck, I needed a drink.

Greyson

If I ever wanted to give up my day job, I’d make a great fucking detective. So far, I’d figured out through old newspaper clippings and an obituary that Evie Dubois lived about a thirty-minute walk from the bar. She died when she was fourteen, but I already knew that from the dates on the crypt. What was truly interesting was that she was survived by her mother, Janette, and her older sister, Alora.

“Alora,” I said, sounding out her name and rolling it around like candy in my mouth. They may have moved, but I was going to start there and see what else I could find.

“Fuck me, man, I thought I was a morning person. You were in that same spot when I went to bed. Did you even sleep,” Lennox asked as he wandered out from the bedroom, running a hand through his messy hair as he yawned.

“I got a couple of hours. The coffee’s brewed, and I ordered a box of biscuits from that place you like. They’re on the counter.” I did keep odd hours and would grab a nap here or there, but I never slept more than three at a stretch. Glancing at the time, I had a few errands to run before I could stalk my prey.

“Did you get gravy?”

“Of course.”

“Forget women. I should just marry you,” Lennox said.

“We’re practically already married, but you couldn’t handle my cock,” I teased, looking over as he poured his coffee.

“Fuck you, that shit is the other way around.”