Page 4 of Seeing Grayscale

My second mistake was ignoring Dan's loitering outside.

Dan is a dealer who dips too deep into his product. He is also in a situationship with one of the servers—Melody. Dan doesn’t like me, and I don’t like Dan. Sometimes, that’s just how it went. We didn’t have a good reason, and we didn’t need one. You make enemies just by breathing on the wrong side of the street, and I pretended mine didn’t exist.

That shower and wad of cash really fucked up my common sense.

My situation was still shit. I was still dead in the water, homeless, and I waspositivemy leg was fractured. There were no more what-ifs in that department.

What had me forgetting that I was still Gray? Some good looking rich boy gave me a crumb and suddenly all my problems were solved? Fuck no, they weren’t. I could feel at least ten more manifesting into something tangible just outside the diner, where Dan glared at me through the window.

He wouldn’t let me go without a confrontation.

That cash I knew I shouldn’t have taken is burning a hole in my pocket, reminding me of how stupid I was. How quickly it’ll be ripped from my fingers.

I swallow hard, keenly aware I have to pay for my meal soon; all the while, Dan smiles menacingly. What is he evendoingoutside?

I’ve scanned the diner at least ten times, looking for one of his ‘customers', but I couldn’t find any—I still can’t. Wracking mybrain, I flip through all the faces I saw last night while I stumbled to the motel room.

Some were familiar, but not so much that I felt threatened. I've seen them around, and they have never messed with me before...

“Idiot,” I whisper, balling my fists in my lap.

“Check?” the server asks me with a bright smile.

“Please,” I say with a slight nod.

The middle-aged woman with laugh lines around her mouth pulls out my check from her apron and sets it on the table. Angling my backpack to act as a shield, I reach into the waistband of my jeans, where I’ve got the cash wedged between them and my boxers, and pull out a twenty. I used to keep my money in my backpack, foolishly thinking it’d be safer because whatever asshole who tried to steal from me would have to get it off first.

Let me be the first to tell you: theyalwaysget the bag or backpack off.

Fresh nerves fire off low in my stomach as I mentally prepare for the fight I know is coming. With my leg injured and the lack of meat on my bones, I don’t stand much chance with Dan. He’s got at least a hundred pounds on me, runs with one of the local drug lords, and I know he’s got a gun tucked into the back of his pants. If he wants something from me, he’ll get it.

The four-hundred and seventeen dollars burn through my boxers, reminding me for the millionth time that I shouldn’t have taken it.

I linger for a few more minutes at the table, then get up and head to the restroom to piss. Getting punched with a full bladder is asking for a wet crotch, and these jeans are the cleanest pair I’ve got right now.

I wash my hands, watching the soapy bubbles slip off my tattooed hand and catch my reflection in the slightly greasy mirror.

Tammy from The Pines warned me that I needed to remove my piercings. I got them back when I was still living at the group home; the tattoos came later after I’d completely given up on being socially acceptable. The tear in my septum stings a bit, but at least the hoop through it didn’t get lost when I was jumped. I run my tongue ring over my teeth, the barbell pierced through it never feeling foreign in my mouth.

One of these days, my septum ring is going to get ripped out and possibly tear right through my nose.

Worth it.

I’ve always idolized people with piercings—they seem so fuckin’ tough, you know? Tough on the outside and tough mentally. Nothing, and no one could beat them down or steal their authenticity. Maybe those are just residual childish thoughts. Maybe I should take them out.

Someone enters the restroom, signaling my cue to leave.

I can’t avoid Dan forever.

Steeling myself, I adjust the single working strap of my backpack over my shoulder, shortening it as much as it will go, and hobble out. I keep my head down, hood over my hair, and move as fast as I can. A blast of cold air hits my face, the bell of the diner door dings to expose my exit, and Dan makes his move. Dirty Nikes slap over the concrete, gaining on me with speed.

“I thought I told you not to come ‘round here no more?”

My fingers tighten over my backpack strap as I force myself not to limp. Pain shoots up my leg and the breakfast I stupidly ate swirls around in my stomach, threatening to come right back up. I manage to get to the sidewalk, mere feet away from the streetlight, when Dan grabs my elbow roughly.

“You deaf now?” he snarls, whipping me around to face him.

“Fuck off,” I bite out, jerking my arm free.

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