He laughs dryly. “Come on, name your price.”
“Not happening,” I repeat. “So if you’re looking for pussy, look somewhere else, buddy.”
I go to walk around him, but he grabs my wrist to stop me. I snatch my arm away, scowling, and turn to him, stepping right up to him. “Don’t touch me.”
“Sorry,” he says again, this apology not at all genuine, a small smile tugging his lips, like I amuse him. Like me being upset that he touched me is in some way funny. I want to smack that look off his face, but it wouldn’t make a difference.
Wouldn’t change what I know he’s thinking.
Would probably get my ass locked up on an assault and battery charge tonight, really, which would lead to a whole host of other problems for me.
Big problems.
Can’t risk it.
I take a few steps away when I hear him chuckling under his breath, mumbling, “Pussy probably isn’t even that good, lady.”
“Nice one, Slick Rick,” I call back at him as I keep walking. “Your bitterness isn’t showing at all there.”
“Fuck you,” he says.
“Yeah, you wish, asshole.”
I hear the music in Mystic cut off, the DJ’s incoherent mumbling replacing it. Closing time. Four o’clock. Shoving my icy hands in my pockets, I walk away, my feet painfully tingling, in that place right before numbness where everything just stings.
It’s only a few blocks back to my apartment building, on the same street as the cheap bar, Whistle Binkie. My footsteps are hurried as I watch over my shoulder, making sure I’m not being followed. My shoes are gone when I reach the corner, no longer were I kicked them off. Figures.
What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?
Chapter Four
“There’s no place like home.”
The little girl swung her feet as she whispered those words, tapping her bare heels together, but it wasn’t working. Maybe she needed a pair of Ruby Slippers, like Dorothy. The house was big like a palace, so it might’ve been Oz, even though the road hadn’t been yellow bricks leading to it. No, they had been normal streets, with so many cars, and so many people, none of them Munchkins singing songs, not even a pretty pink witch in a bubble.
Just a bunch of flying monkeys.
They belonged to the Tin Man. He didn’t have the monkeys in the story, but he did in real life. Her mother called them that sometimes, which confused the little girl, since they didn’t have wings. But whatever they were, she didn’t like them. They were all loud, and they laughed like everything was so funny, but it was the kind of laughing that sounded mean. They said ugly words and called people bad names, and they didn’t like girls, although they claimed they did. They kissed them on the mouth, like the Tin Man had kissed her mother, but then they pushed them around like they meant nothing.
The little girl didn’t like it there, in that big palace, sitting on the stool at the bar in the kitchen, her legs so short they just dangled.
“There’s no place like home,” she whispered again, barely hearing herself over the loud chatter, knocking her feet together.
Still not working.
“What are you doing, kitten?”
The little girl raised her head, eyes lifting from her lap, meeting the Tin Man’s gaze across from her, the only other person sitting down. His eyes were like metal, cold and gray like clouds.
“I wanna go home,” she whispered.
He stared at her. “You are home.”
She shook her head.
“You are,” he said again. “This is your home, kitten. This is where you belong.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You will get used to it.”
“I want Mommy.”
“No.”
His voice was sharp as he barked that word, silencing everyone in the room. No one liked the sound of it, not even the flying monkeys, who didn’t think it was funny when the Tin Man got angry.
Tears stung the little girl’s eyes, her gaze on her lap again as her bottom lip trembled. “Please.”
She could feel so many eyes on her, everyone watching, waiting to see what would happen. A moment passed, where nobody reacted, before the Tin Man crooked his pointer finger beneath her chin, raising her head up with it to make her look at him.
“You do not need her,” he said, not a hint of emotion in his words. “I am all you need.”
“But—”
Before she could argue, his hand enclosed around her chin, palming her face, his strong, inked fingers digging into her cheeks, squishing them.
He gripped her tightly, leaning closer. “You will not speak of her to me again. Do I make myself clear?”
The little girl nodded, tears streaming from her eyes.
He shoved her face away, nearly knocking her from the stool.
“And stop crying,” he demanded, standing up to walk away. “She is worth your heartache no more than she was worth mine. We will both get over it.”
The little girl didn’t believe that. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She might face her fears and wipe her tears, like her mother had taught her, but she would never get over it.
Chapter Five
A white split-level house in south Queens.
There’s even a picket fence surrounding it.
It’s fit for a picture-perfect family: Mom, Dad, two-point-five kids and a golden retriever, living happily in quiet suburbia. Four bedrooms. Three bathrooms. There’s a library downstairs. It’s in a neighborhood typically free of crime.
No murders.
No robberies.
No fun at all, quite frankly.
Just call me Ward Cleaver. Leave it to fucking Beaver. The house is all mine. I’ve found the American Dream.
I’ve got to say... the shit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Snow covers the sidewalk that runs along the front of the house. The streets have been plowed since it started snowing, but everything else is doused in a layer of stark white. Standing at the foggy front window of the house, I stare out into the cold morning, watching thick flakes fall from the cloudy sky.
The monochrome tone is pretty consistent with how I’m feeling.
Monotonous. Drab. Tedious.
Fifty other fucking words you’ll find in a thesaurus.
I’ve only lived here for a few months but I’m already itching to move again. Since coming to New York just a few years ago, I’ve stayed in eleven different places, most of which I hadn’t exactly had permission to move into. I see an opportunity and I take it, whether it’s acquiring a house or, well, a job position.
What can I say? I’m resourceful.
Can’t fault me for that, can you?
“Is it still snowing?”
I turn at the sound of the voice behind me, watching as my little brother steps into the living room. Leo—or Pretty Boy, as I’ve always called him—is sixteen years younger than me, in his early twenties, while the thirties knocked on my door long ago. We’re nothing alike. He’s young and hopeful. I grow bitter as I age. He’s got a lot of heart. I’ve been told a time or two that I’m a bit of a callous prick.
He loves this house, this neighborhood, and this dream...
The only thing I love is, well, maybe him.
Everything else is just a fickle fondness that I tend to grow tired of real fucking quick.
“Of course it’s snowing,” I say, strolling over to the black leather couch to sit down. “I’ve got things to take care of, so naturally it’s going to snow all damn day and make everything as difficult as possible.”
Leo steps by me to take the spot in front of the window. “Such optimism.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us can be sunshiny all of the goddamn time.”
Truthfully? I’m in a pissy mood. I’ve been home for hours, long enough to witness the sunrise, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been an insomniac most of my life, which is probably why I’m so paranoid. Sleep evades me and people aggravate me, making my trigger finger a little twitchy, if you know what I’m saying.
Usually, I handle it better, the lack of sleep, but today it has me on edge for some reason.
My attention shifts to the coffee table in front of me. The red high heels sit in the center of it, side-by-side. I pick one up, running my fingertips along the red sole. The heel is long and thin, curved a bit, maybe six inches, and sharp enough that, in a pinch, she could’ve easily taken my good eye out with it.