Page 42 of Hustle

Shocked, I look over at his weathered face. “No, Dad,” I say. “It’s fine. I’m glad I could help.”

“Don’t argue with me.” Both of his hands are on my shoulders now. “Sometimes things are more simple than you think.” I notice his fingers are stained with tobacco as he pats my face. “Tell her what you want. Maybe you both want the same thing.”

I go to reply, and he stops me. “Ah! No. Stop thinking. Take a break, Seamus. You know what it is that you want. You just have to be brave enough to let yourself get it.”

With that he walks back into the bar, leaving me to process. I think about Evi’s Tarot cards. The Lovers. The world. Is that what I want? I’m pretty sure it is.

Evi had wanted the truth from me. The truth is that I know our relationship would be difficult as hell. The truth is that we’re opposite in ways that could doom us from the start. The truth is that I don’t fucking care and I want her anyway. I want us to happen. Not because I feel bad for her, or see her as a burden, but because she makes me feel alive.

I pull out my phone, thinking of texting her, when I see a message from Julia.

“I found the records. Interesting stuff. Give me a call.”

14

Evi

It’s past the deadline Finn Carney gave me to accept his help. I took the coward’s way out and just never responded. I couldn’t bear to say no, but I couldn’t bear to say yes, either. It’s not like me to back away from a fight, and now I was going to lose everything. Even with the settlement I’d get from the city, it wouldn’t be enough to afford both rent on a new tattoo shop and a place to live. Not in Boston, where the sky-high rents forced little businesses like mine out on the regular.

I’d have to move out of the city. I roll over on my side and look at Hank.

“How do you feel about the suburbs, Hank?”

God, I can’t imagine. My artists are talented, and could easily find new places to work in, but the thought of losing my chosen family makes me sick to my stomach.

Chosen family. Like the Doyles. I’d been the one to ask Seamus to leave this time. I did it to protect him from my messes, from adding to his sleepless nights, but I’ll never forget the hurt in his eyes.

Sighing, I scratch Hank under the chin and he leans into my hand, purring. I am such a goddamn wreck right now. Maybe it would be okay to have a fresh start, away from all the painful memories of this place. Though I had to admit there were some good ones, too. That night with Seamus, in his apartment, was probably one of the best of my life, other than when I signed the deed on this little building.

I wonder if Seamus would be sad to see me go. He’d never leave the neighborhood. In some ways, I had a lot more freedom than Seamus did, but as Janis Joplin’s song goes, “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” And I have very little left to lose at this point.

Well, if I have limited time left in this neighborhood, I might as well make the best of it. Giving Hank one last scratch, I decide to go to the No Name Pub.

Embarrassingly, I hope Seamus will be there, and I’m disappointed when he’s not. I could call him, but I won’t.

It’s Sunday night, and he probably has dozens of clients to meet tomorrow. He’s probably in his bed, between those Egyptian cotton sheets. I remember the silky feel of them pressed against my body as he thrust into me. I remember the heat in his eyes, and for that moment I was absolutely sure that we were in it together.

I need a drink.

The pub is pretty empty. No live music tonight, so it’s just a few sad sack locals and me. One grizzled old man pats the stool next to him. No thanks. I sit at the other end of the bar.

The No Name isn’t in the area going to be razed, but everyone knows what’s happening to my block, and I nod at the bartender as he puts a whiskey in front of me saying, “Fuck them Stacys, Evi. Crooked as a Viking’s dick.”

I have absolutely no idea what that means, but it makes me wonder about the bartender’s love life as I throw the liquor back. It burns down my throat, and with it I feel the bile of my anger rising.

It’s so goddamn unfair.

I don’t know how long I’m at the pub, but when I try to pay, the bartender waves me off. I leave money for a tip and make my way back home. When I get back to my building, I don’t go inside, but instead, stare at the outer brick walls. I imagine a wrecker taking my shop down, probably owned by some filthy fucking company that gives kickbacks to the Stacys for the premier contracts. I touch the walls, and I decide not to wait. It’s my goddamn building still. I won’t let the Stacys profit from knocking it down, at least.

Maybe it’d take the whole time I had left here to take the place apart brick by brick, but they’re my fucking bricks. How this physical manifestation of my life’s work gets demolished should be up to me at the very least.

I stumble into the basement. It’s dim and dirty, and I’ve had too much liquor to be climbing down the narrow steps. Seamus was too tall to clear them without hitting his head on the ceiling. He helped me during the building inspection even though he’d been swamped with law school. One of those few occasions we’d spent time together since that day at the beach. I’d been positive that Murphy had put him up to it back then, but now I’m not so sure.

I don’t turn on the lights, not wanting to see what gross creatures hang out down here—I don’t mind spiders, but house centipedes are like Satan’s pubes and I’m not interested in seeing any of those hairy fuckers.

I grab the handle of my sledgehammer. I haven’t used it since we took down some cheap walls to open up the lobby area of my shop. Seamus wanted to hire someone to do the work for me, but I said no. This was mine.

I climb back up, weighed down by the heavy hammer and definitely by the whiskey. The night air is still cool, though supposedly we were getting our first 80-degree day tomorrow. Hot for May. I press my hand to my building.

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