He jumped up from the couch like his ass was on fire. “I’m gonna take a shower. Watch whatever you want.”
Her eyes widened in surprise but he didn’t wait for her answer. Wolfe bolted for the bathroom, cranked the water to Arctic freeze, and went back to the nuns.
He needed to get his shit together.
VINCENT SOLDANO PUSHED THE lump of cash deeper into the hole of his mattress. Soon. A bit more and he’d take his chances.
He didn’t have much time left.
Carefully folding the stained sheet over, he lay back down and turned his iPod on high. Spaces between the highs were getting shorter. His mom used to occasionally make dinner, do some shopping, and once in a while be sober. Those moments were better than anything he could imagine. Brown eyes soft, sometimes she’d stroke his hair, call him her baby boy, and put her arms around him. Even though he knew he wasn’t a baby anymore and didn’t need his mommy like some kind of pussy, his heart still kinda ached. For a little while, his mind was quiet, and his body relaxed. He’d pretend she was clean, and they’d be together as a team against the world.
But that never happened.
Instead, he watched her staring sightlessly at the wall. She rarely bathed. Her hair hung limply and greasy around her face, and her clothes, if she was wearing any, were mostly stained and hanging off her bony body. The welfare checks used to buy a few groceries to keep them afloat. Now he didn’t see a dime. The men got them first, and used the money for more drugs.
He was worried she was going to die. If he left, she probably would. At least he made sure she ate, and he’d clean up her bruises and bloody lips when the men went away.
But he had no choice. She couldn’t protect him any longer, and many of her drug pushers stared at him like a commodity, a sick lust glittering in bloodshot eyes. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Mostly he slept in the woods if the house was full, but winter was nearing again and he needed a plan.
He was so fucking tired.
How many times had he been ready to call a cop or social worker? Just press 911 and he’d be out of the hellhole. But his gut said he’d be trading one nightmare for another, and then his mother would go to jail and die from not getting the drugs. He was trapped, so he needed to run.
“You in there, boy? Open up! Your mama needs you.”
He closed his eyes and tried to bury himself in the music, but the door began to shake so hard he knew the lock would break. Vincent grabbed the makeshift knife and slipped it into his back pocket. Just in case.
Then opened the door.
It was the man he feared the most. He worked his mother the hardest, liking to slap her around for a sick appetizer before he gave her the drugs. He liked to watch, too. He was short but strong, with huge biceps and tattoos covering both arms like sleeves. A bulldog face with lots of facial hair, dark eyes, and thinning hair. Scars crisscrossed his right cheek.
Vincent scowled at him. He knew showing fear was the worst. Bulldog liked it, and tried to get him to cry or beg when he threatened him, but Vincent hadn’t broken yet and never intended to. “What do you want?”
A quick backhand whipped across his jaw. Stars exploded in his head, but he fought through the pain and kept glaring. “Your mama needs something and you better give it to her.”
She stood behind him, wringing her fingers, a desperate tentative smile on her lips. His stomach twisted hot and acidy and he casually glanced at the front door. He might have to run. She was far gone and wouldn’t be much help.
“I need money,” she said. Her voice was thin and wheezy. Her left eye was still swollen from yesterday’s events. “Bad, baby, real bad. You gotta get some for me.”
He remained calm even though his heart pounded like crazy. “Got no money. You used the last of it for smokes and beer.”
Bulldog sneered. “I think you’re lyin’, boy. Been noticing a few bills missing here and there, and I think you’re stealin’ from me.”
Vincent shrugged. “Think what you want, I never touch your stuff.”
Bulldog peered into his face for a long time, trying to probe for the truth. Then he smiled real slow. “Guess you won’t mind if I look for it, then, huh?”
Vincent blocked his door. “Not my room. You keep your shitty hands off my stuff.”
The blow caught him in the head this time and bashed him against the wall. He heard his mother cry out, but Bulldog was already tearing through his room, which he liked to keep neat and tidy. Tears pricked the backs of his lids from the ache in his temple and the way Bulldog trashed his precious stuff, little knickknacks collected, a book or two, his iPod, a photo of him and his mom when she wasn’t high.