Page 60 of Over You
“Oh, I know all about the twelve steps.” The emergency door banged behind me, echoing into the concrete stairwell. “Evidently the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“I don’t want you to think I didn’t love you. I did. I may have only been fourteen, but you were still my baby.” She sucked back a sob. “I was too young, but I always wanted you, and I’m sorry that I hurt you.”
I could have asked a million questions. I could have hung up, but she was trying. And everyone deserves forgiveness at least once. I didn’t have to have a relationship with her. “I appreciate that.” I grabbed the railing as I rounded another flight of stairs. “And I forgave you a long time ago.”
“I’m really proud of you. Even if I don’t really have a right to be.”
Maybe it shouldn’t have, but that meant something. Validation maybe? I swallowed. “Thanks.”
We hung up, and I slid my Aviators into place before stepping onto the busy LA sidewalk. Head down, hands in my pockets, I made my way to the crosswalk without incidence.
The stick figure went from green to red. I stopped amidst a flock of sock and sandal wearing tourists and businessmen on calls.
“Holy shit! No way.” That high pitched, nasally voice sent goosebumps over my skin. “Spence! Broman. . .” Danté whacked me on the back, and I stumbled forward a step.
“Hey, man.” I stared straight ahead, willing the light to change.
“You went AWAL for a while, didn’t you?” He snickered like a weasel.
“Something like that.”
People began walking. I passed Starbucks and Danté was right at my heels. “Word on the street is that you and the old lady are back together.”
“Yep.”
“That’s good.”
I pulled my keys from my pocket. The headlights to my car flashed. The alarm chirped. “Alright, man.” I jerked my chin up. “Take care.” Then I headed to the driver’s side.
Danté stopped at the curb. “Could I bum a ride over to Rage’s? It’s on the way to your crib, right?”
Jiminy Crickets voice chimed in:Hell no.
“My car’s over at the body shop. I’m getting some sick Italian leather installed.” Grinning, he opened the passenger door without waiting for my reply.
I didn’t want him in my car, but he was already buckling up, and Dante was the type of guy that would cause a scene if I told him to get out. What was fifteen minutes of my life anyway?
I climbed behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life. The radio blasted Highly Suspect.
Danté ran his hand over the shiny console, and I smacked it away.
“Man, don’t touch stuff. Just. . . Hands to yourself. Alright?”
He held up both palms in surrender. “Never expected you to be OCD.”
Danté went on and on about some Victoria’s Secret model he was supposedly banging. He told me Jag overdosed and was in rehab. Again. He didn’t take a breath the entire ride to The Hills, and when I parked in front of Gage’s gate, I was ready to shove the fucker out.
“Thanks for the ride, bro-man. I’ll get you back.”
“It’s fine.” I hoped I never ran into Danté again.
He climbed out like a drunk crab emerging from a hole, then leaned in through the window. “Consider it a tip.” He winked before tossing an eight-ball of cocaine into the passenger seat. It tumbled to the crease of the chair.
I opened my mouth to call him back, but all that came out was air. By the time I looked away from the white powder sitting so innocently in my seat, the gate to Gage’s property had already swung closed.
Chuck it over Gage’s fence. Throw it down a sewer drain. Something. . .
My pulse ticked like the timer on a bomb, and if I didn’t cut the right wire, everything was going to blow. The plastic crinkled against my skin when I picked up the drug, and that demon who had been so quiet screeched. One hit wouldn’t hurt. It probably wouldn’t even be enough to make my pupils dilate.
