Page 68

An engine rumbles behind me, announcing ‌the same busted piece-of-shit truck Eric Ness has had as long as I’ve known him. When he pulls in, it’s with too much speed, a move meant to intimidate me. Or just plain make me scared.

He stops with his bumper about six inches from me. I keep my face neutral, but for a minute I’ll admit I can’t feel my hands.

I’m considering it a win that he’s alone. It’s not without risk, me being big and Black in rural Georgia. Last thing I need here in the middle of nowhere is to have to square off against a bunch of good ole boys.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean’s dad jumps from the cab of his truck with one of those cheap gas station cigars clamped in his teeth, which are stained worse than the shirt I was wearing the time toddler Ella threw her pasta at me.

“Figured you and I should talk.”

I cross my arms over my chest, waiting. The old man looks a little out of it, but then again, he often did. He could be drunk. Gambling is his biggest vice, but Eric Ness never really met a bad habit he didn’t like. Dean’s father is what you get when a person not only squanders their potential but goes all the way around the bend to useless leech.

“Don’t got nothing to talk to you about.”

“You sure?” Pulling the envelope out of my back pocket, I hold it up where he can see it. It’s thick enough to make it clear what’s inside, and when he pauses mid-stride, I know I have his attention. “You’ve been contacting Dean, asking him for money.”

“Yeah, well, he fucking owes me after the way he blew his shot at an education.”

Right. “So, in this fantasy of yours, you have something to do with him getting a basketball scholarship? Because he told me how you used to get fucked up, or disappear at a card game all night, and forget to take him to school. Forget to pick him up from practice. If he owes anyone, it’s Coach Fordham, who drove him home after school.”

“Coach isn’t the one who fed him and kept a roof over his head.”

“That roof?” I point to the busted trailer.

“Fuck you. And fuck off.” In spite of his protest, he’s still staring at the envelope. Inching closer.

Returning the cash to my pocket, I say, “I have a deal for you.”

The man balls his hands into fists. I’m sure he’s thinking he can take it from me. He’s taller than I am, sure. Dean comes by his height honestly. But I’m stronger and faster than this beer-bellied old man by a country mile.

And this shitty acre of land Dean’s mom left behind when she skipped town, it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere. The nearest neighbor is a field full of cows.

Nobody to hear him scream.

“How much do you owe?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The man’s trying to circle around me now that the money’s in my back pocket. It’s almost tempting to make a joke about how he can’t take his eyes off my ass.

“Look, I’m short on time here. Let’s skip the part where you pretend you’re not in it up to your neck with a loan shark or what-the-fuck-ever and just give me a number. You wouldn’t be hassling Dean otherwise.”

It’s a pattern I noticed back when Dean and I were roommates. The man would go quiet for weeks, even months, and then there would be a desperate plea for money in the bank account, or worse, a threat-laced demand for Dean to throw a fucking game.

“Ten grand,” the old man grumbles.

Good. That’s good. I did some guesstimating on how much to bring, and in the end my limit was practical. I had some cash in a safe, but a withdrawal too large would’ve caused legal issues I didn’t want.

That’s when he launches himself at me. He’s older though, and slow. It’s easy to dodge his punch and throw one of my own. I’m not sorry to see him lose his balance, twisting his ankle on the way down.

I’m remembering the time Dean came back from a weekend when he’d needed to pick up some clothes. Someone had used his ribs for football practice. I give Dean’s dad a good kick in the ribs, to pay him back.

I’m keyed up now, and my heart is racing. The adrenaline flooding my system is urging me to keep on knocking him down until he stays down. He’d deserve it for everything he’s done.

Dean wouldn’t like it.

Backing toward my Volvo, I pull the envelope from my pocket again. Once I’ve reached the car door, I toss it on the ground. A few feet away from Old Man Ness’s grabby hands; enough that he’ll have to crawl for it. Not nearly as fun as Dean crawling toward me, but still gratifying.

“There’s fifteen. Take it and leave Dean the fuck alone. He won’t be responding to your messages again, and if you keep pushing it, I’ll make sure whatever you get is worse than any two-bit loan shark. Got it?”

In the end I don’t even know if this will fix anything. I can only hope, because any alternatives I’ve thought of are worse.