Flawed Page 4

  The garage is empty, which means May and Donald Hayes aren’t home. Can’t say I’m disappointed. I always feel awkward around Tyler’s parents. The few times that I’ve met them, I felt like they were each silently studying me with their medical minds and coming to the silent conclusion that I wasn’t quite right for their son but unable to say much on the matter because Tyler had them wrapped around his finger.

  Walking across the frostbitten lawn, I make my way to the back of the house. The shed isn’t so much a shed as it’s a smaller version of a pool house Tyler had been given to renovate and make his own. And this is a prime example of just how overindulged Tyler is and the lengths his parents will go to see that he is a happy, well-adjusted teenager. They’d been strict at one point, according to Tyler, and it had taken a fake suicide attempt on his part to make them ease up. Now they take the “open” approach to parenting, which essentially means that Tyler is free to do anything he wants so long as he promises not to off himself. And Tyler takes full advantage of the situation. It’s all completely fucked, but it apparently works for all parties involved so there isn’t much for me to say on that subject.

  Entering the shed is always a sensory overload and today proves no different as I’m greeted with the heavy sounds of Dubstep blaring from the surround system. Sliding the glass door close behind me, I step inside and it takes me a minute to adjust to the pungent odor of weed in the air. Tyler is nowhere in sight so I set my bag on the floor by the door and follow the direction of white smoke. I find him in the back of the open-spaced living room, seated in front of the massive screen hanging from the wall in front of him, a game controller in his hands and a joint between his lips. The headset over his ears prevents him from hearing my entry.

  The coffee table in front of him is topped with junk food, and near the half-emptied liter of Coke is a small pile of herb and four rolled joints. “Watch your back, motherfucker, I’m coming for you.” He’s talking to someone over the headset as his player sneaks into an empty room, rifle aimed and a grenade in hand. I roll my eyes and double back to the front of the room to grab my backpack.

  “Booyah, eat pussy, bitch!” I return to his triumphant roar over the grating tempo of the song currently playing. It takes me walking around to the sound system and locating his iPhone to lower the volume before he finally notices he isn’t alone.

  “Hey, when’d you get here?”

  I flop down on the couch next to him and reach over the table to grab the bag of popcorn. “Just now. What level are you on?”

  He gives me a shit-eating grin. “Just cleared the weapons room. Some asshole and his crew tried to ambush me.”

  “Not anymore, get me a controller.”

  “Fuck yeah, I knew you wouldn’t let me go at this alone.”

  For the next two hours, I lose myself in the inane world of Black Ops, gunning down people, securing buildings, gathering supplies, and forming a safe haven for me and Tyler in our post-apocalyptic world. By our tenth mission, we managed to ambush several other groups and steal their food and weapons, putting Tyler in a very good spot.

  “All right, I’m done,” I say, on the third hour, setting the controller on the table. I blink a few times to let my eyes readjust to the now considerably dimmer room. It’s only five, but looking outside you would think it was far later. I stand, stretch, and head to the corner wall to flip on the lights.

  “Hit?” He offers me a joint when I come to sit next to him, and he grins crookedly when I shake my head. “Right, you don’t do drugs.” No, I most certainly do not do drugs, but that doesn’t stop the people around me from using. I slide down to the carpeted floor and push aside the junk food, making sure I have enough room to work before pulling out my books and notebook. I make myself comfortable on the floor and sit on top of my folded legs. Tuning out Tyler and everything around me, I concentrate on my French homework.

  “Heather’s a fucking bitch.” That unexpected remark made roughly an hour later, finally breaks through my concentration.

  “Nothing new there,” I murmur.

  “She can’t fuck worth a damn either.”

  Now that’s new. I peer at him over my shoulder and I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. “You…you and…” I can’t quite get the words out.

  “Grady’s party, two weeks ago. She was faded as shit. She pulled me into a corner, pulled down my pants, got on her knees, and…”

  I hold up a hand, “Jesus, spare me the details, Ty.” I don’t want to know. Even the thought makes me gag a little. I don’t know what bothers me more. The fact that Tyler has slept with Satan’s spawn or that he’s kept it from me until now. I mean, seriously, two fucking weeks and he’s telling me this shit now? Granted, we don’t tell each other every freaking little thing that happens in our lives, and honestly, I prefer it that way. But, come on. This is something he should have told me the day after it happened. He knows how much Heather and I despise each other. What does this even mean? Are they dating now? Is this the end of our friendship?

  “It was a onetime thing,” he adds, reading my thoughts before I can voice them. “It won’t happen again.”

  He doesn’t need to explain himself to me. It’s not like we have anything going on between us. He can sleep with whoever he wants. The problem however, is that if he’s going to be sleeping with Heather, then our friendship needed to end. Like now. Dealing with Heather and her crew of twats is one thing, if Tyler joins the fray—well, that will be something else I will have to deal with right?

  “I’m sorry she’s such a bitch to you. I’m sorry about a lot of things, Lace.” Hooded, steel blue eyes glance down at me with a strange expression on his face. I chalk it up to the high, refusing to let my mind wander any further. “You don’t deserve any of the shit you have to deal with.” When I finally avert my gaze, he curses under his breath and laughs quietly. “Shit, I’m fucked…”

  The vibration of my phone keeps me from replying as I plunge a hand in the front pocket of my coat that’s on the couch to retrieve my cell. It’s an unknown number, more than likely a john and I’m prepared to let it go to voicemail but the niggling feeling at the pit of my stomach forces me to answer.

  “Hello?” Casting a quick glance in Tyler’s direction, I find his eyes closed but I don’t want to take the chance of having this conversation in front of him if it’s a john. I jump to my feet and hurry to the front entrance for a little more privacy.

  “Lacey?” It’s not a john. The female voice on the other end sounds vaguely familiar but not someone I can immediately place.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Lacey, it’s Sasha.” Sasha has been Dante’s on and off again girlfriend for the last five years. She was nice enough to me when she’d been around. Five months ago had been the last time I saw her after she and Dante got into a heated argument over another one of his stupid antics. He’d gotten arrested for domestic violence that was later dropped because Sasha had refused to press charges. She’d bailed him out, though, and they’d been doing pretty good for a good second before shit hit the fan again and she’d left. It’s not a good thing that she’s calling me now.

  Even before she speaks, I know Dante is in trouble. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s at Pops. He’s okay for now.”

  For now.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Lacey…”

  “What is it?”

  “Bring…bring money.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say again, hanging up the phone before racing back inside.

  “What’s going on? Where are you going?” Tyler asks, watching as I frantically shove books in my bag and come to my feet soon after. He reaches for me but comes away with air, his slower reaction time no match for my hasty movements.

  “Something’s come up.” It’s not much of an explanation, but I don’t have time to give him more than that.

  “Are you coming back?”

  I stop at the threshold and turn back with a
shrug. “Not sure.” All that matters is making sure Dante is okay. I’ll worry about myself later. He throws something at me with a noticeably bad aim but I catch it before it hits me in the face.

  “Now you don’t have an excuse.”

  I leave him with a small smile before I run to the front entrance, the key he tossed me held firmly in my fisted hand.

  I drive like a bat out of hell to get back to Forest Corner. Pops is located between one of the five liquor stores scattered the length of five blocks and a rundown Laundromat that’s rarely used at night. The main reason being that Pops hosted a multitude of illegal activities in the basement but masqueraded as a Caribbean restaurant on the top floor. Everyone in the neighborhood knows about it. They also know that it’s run by the 314 gang. It’s not the sort of place decent people visit at night unless, of course, they’re really stupid or incredibly desperate. Dante’s two for two.

  It takes several trips around the block to find an empty parking spot. Parallel parking isn’t my strong suit so the car in front and the one in the back of me suffer a few bumps in my attempt to fit the Corolla. The noticeably low temperature outside doesn’t prevent the usual suspects from loitering around storefronts. I pull up the hood of my sweater over my head, trying to look a little less female as I run across the busy street. There are two older men standing by the door of Pops’ case of roti, and while I’m praying they won’t say anything to me, I get a few jeers about my parking. Other than that, they let me go in without incident.

  I’m hit with all sorts of smells the minute I enter the warmth of the restaurant, but none of them stands out more than the sweet smell of curry. My stomach tightens a little, but my noticeable hunger is for another time. The set-up is sparse because it’s not meant to be a dine-in sort of establishment. Four small round tables are placed sparingly around the room with an uneven amount of chairs. There’s a sneeze guard buffet table in front of me and a kitchen just beyond that. It’s the staircase to the left of that kitchen, where the raucous laughter and music emanates that interests me. There isn’t anyone around to stop me when I make my way for the stairs.

  The wooden staircase is old and worn so it makes a noticeable creak and groan as I steadily make my way into what feels like the bowels of hell. There’s someone at the door. A big, burly black man who I’m thinking is positioned in this exact location because of his frightening face and the fuck-off air he’s giving off. He’s not the sort of guy you want to meet in a dark alley, let alone at the bottom of a staircase. He sizes me up like I’m another dude.

  “The fuck you want, nigga?” It’s difficult pretending not to be scared shitless when faced with Goliath himself, but I have a PhD in bullshit.

  “I’m here for my brother, Dante.” I don’t blink as I meet his gaze from my considerably lower height.

  “He ain’t here. Fuck off.”

  Okay, so it’s going to be one of those situations. Fucking difficult as usual. “Listen, I’m not leaving until I get in there. So I suggest you move your overgrown ass out of my way, or else...”

  “Or else, what?” One step forward and he has me by the front of my sweater. He has me on the tips of my toes with one hand and as he drags me closer, my hoodie falls off and my curls tumble around my shoulders. “How bad you wanna get in there, bitch?”

  "Dice, put her down, she’s with me.” It’s Sasha to the rescue, but I can’t see her around the human boulder holding me hostage.

  Dice doesn’t react immediately but continues to stare at me like I owe him money. “Dice…come on, baby, she’s a friend.” Maybe it’s the “baby” that does it, because I’m lowered to my feet none too gently moments later. Once I sidestep the mastiff named Dice, I find Sasha standing behind him and her expression does nothing in alleviating my concern.

  Sasha isn’t particularly pretty but stacked at she is, her cosmetic challenges are easily overlooked. She’s currently poured into a pair of booty shorts, a black tube top that puts her abundant cleavage of full display, and knee-high hooker boots that gives her a three-inch height advantage over me. “Where is he?” I ask quietly, following behind her as we make our way down the dark hallway.

  “Wait.” She stops short and turns to me. “You brought money, right? He owes the house close to two grand. Junior’s been cheating and I tried to warn Dante, but you know your brother.” Yeah, I know how much of a stubborn ass he is. “I had to call you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

  Sasha nods with a sigh. “You’re the only one he can depend on, Lacey.” And wasn’t that just my cross to bear?

  Loud rap music coalesced with a thick, milky cloud of smoke hangs over the surprisingly crowded main hall of the basement. There are ten or so consecutive poker games going on at one time, ten people per round table, while a few others hang around watching. With Sasha in the lead, squeezing and elbowing her way through the throng, I follow close behind until we arrive at one of the main tables in the far back corner of the room.

  I notice Dante right away and he looks like shit. I could blame the fine sheen of sweat gleaming off his golden brown skin on the repressive heat in the room, but I know it’s there for a far more unpleasant reason. The tension at this particular table is far edgier than the rest. I wriggle through the throng, fighting to get to Dante’s side. He’s holding a pair of cards in one hand and while everyone around the table has a decent stack of chips in front of them, Dante has only a few meager chips.

  “I’m all in.” This comes from one of the players around the table, seated three chairs from Dante. A shit-eating grin pulls at his lips as he pushes a stack of green and blue chips to the center of the table where there’s already a huge pile of chips. The three open cards already on the table reveal a Jack of hearts, a Queen of hearts, and a ten of hearts. Any idiot can see that the man either has the straight in his hand from the flop or is chasing the flush. And while everyone else around the table folds, Dante fails to do the same.

  “I call.” I hope to God my brother is holding a straight, or at least that his cards are better than the fucker putting him all in. Everyone seems to hold in a collective breath as the dealer slaps down the turn. Two of clubs. The river is an Ace of hearts and a very careful assessment of Dante’s face tells me he lost. I’m proven right when the other player opens his card to reveal the straight flush and all Dante’s cards show is a fucking pair of pocket Aces. They all laugh, their jeers rubbing salt into the giant wound as Dante brings the nearly emptied bottle of rum at his side to his mouth. He’s downing it when I finally approach him.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  I feel him jump as he lowers the bottle and turns to look at me, “Cece?” I hate that nickname. He stares at me like he doesn’t really recognize me, with green eyes shot through with red veins. “Shit…how’d you…how’d you find me?” he slurs as he attempts to straighten up, his breath soaked with alcohol.

  “Never mind that, Dante. Let’s get the hell out of here.” I pray he doesn’t make this difficult for me. I can already feel people staring. Thankfully, he comes to his feet with Sasha’s help.

  “Nigga I hope you ain’t thinking of leavin’ here without giving me my money,” says the man seated next to the winner. He’s speaking to Dante but his gaze lands on me. “This yo’ new bitch?”

  “Nah, Junior. She’s my baby sister.”

  “For real, nigga, where’ve you been hiding her at? Come have a seat right here, baby girl, I’ve got something I want to show you.”

  “You can keep it.” The response garners laughs but I don’t notice. I’m more focused on getting the hell out of here. I slip a hand inside the pocket of my jacket and wrap my hand around the rolled cash. “How much does he owe you?”

  He stares at me for a long moment before smiling slowly, “Two grand.” That’s literally everything I have on me. Everything. But I don’t hesitate. Hesitating will bring on an insurmountable amount of resentment. So I don’t think about what I’m giving up when I set the
cash on the table. I only wait for the span of the small eternity it takes for him to count it before I turn and walk away. Dante stumbles behind me.

  “Cece…”

  “Don’t,” I say, through gritted teeth. We make it out of Pops without further incident, but it doesn’t mean I’m any less angry at my shit-for-brains brother. I’m so mad that I can barely keep myself from shaking. I don’t even want to look at him. I don’t want to talk to him. I keep my gaze locked on the road while gripping the steering wheel for dear life. I’m driving like a madwoman, my foot barely leaving the gas pedal until we near the apartment. It’s the fear of confronting Red that finally makes me come to my senses, but even then, I refuse to speak to Dante as I park and jump out of the car.

  In a conscious effort my gaze darts around the rear building parking lot, searching for the black Honda Civic that belongs to Red. It’s a very distinct car; the details he’d undoubtedly paid good money for made it stand out from the rest. It would’ve been pretty hard to miss if he’s here. I hurry inside for good measure and practically run up the stairs.

  “How long are you planning on giving me the silent treatment?” Dante asks, closing the door behind him and walking after me.

  The apartment is empty, the darkness that greets me is my first indication that they’d cut off the electricity.

  “You didn’t pay the light bill?” If he could see the glare on my face right now, he would’ve been a pile of fucking dust at my feet. I don’t say anything, completely ignoring him as I wade through the darkness and feel my way to the kitchen. In the bottom right-hand drawer, close to the sink, I search blindly for a few minutes and find the Dollar Mart candles I’ve used far too many times before. There are a total of three and I light each one with the automatic lighter I fetched in the process. I leave two of the candles in the kitchen and pick up one. To keep the kitchen candle from toppling over, I drip a good amount of wax on a small plate, adding further balance to the candlestick before walking out of the kitchen.