Page 8 of Klutch's Kryptonite

“Men are trash,” I agree automatically, though I don’t have much experience to base that on. Between school, work, and dealing with my dad, I haven’t exactly had time for dating.

“Not all men,” McKenna counters with a smirk. “Have you seen the new bartender at O’Malley’s? Absolute snack.”

I laugh. “You need higher standards than ‘has a pulse and looks good in jeans.’”

“Hey, my standards are sky-high. He also has tattoos and can make a mean mojito.”

I shake my head. One day she’s going to get busted using that fake ID and end up in a world of trouble.

The train slows as we approach our stop. Home sweet home.

“You working tonight?” McKenna asks as we step onto the platform.

I nod. “Four to midnight. You?”

“Nah, I’m off. There’s a party at Jessie’s I want to hit up.” She pauses, eyeing me. “You should come after your shift.”

“Can’t. I’ve got an early shift tomorrow.” The lie slips out easily. The truth is, I can’t afford to go out, not with rent due in a week.

As we round the corner onto our street, a shiny black Escalade catches my attention.

“Whose ride is that?” I ask, nodding toward an expensive looking SUV.

McKenna shrugs. “Probably some dealer’s.”

“Yeah. Probably,” I murmur, quickening my pace slightly.

We climb the concrete stairs to our building, the stairwell reeking of weed. Between the third and fourth floor, we pass two men in expensive suits coming down. They are so out of place in our run down building that McKenna and I exchange wide-eyed glances.

The tall man with slicked-back hair and a tattoo of a V on his neck looks us up and down, making the hair on my neck stand on end. I keep my eyes down until they pass, then shoot McKenna a what-the-fuck look.

She shrugs again, but her expression is tight. “Creeps.”

When we reach my floor, I give her a quick hug. “Text me later?”

“Always do.” She squeezes me back, then continues up the stairs to her apartment on the next floor.

I walk down the dingy hallway to 4C, fishing my keys from my backpack. I jiggle the key in the lock and shove the door open.

“Dad? I’m home,” I call, dropping my bag by the door.

No response. I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time. It’s almost one. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s still asleep.

Must be nice.

I step further into our tiny apartment and freeze. The coffee table is overturned, and magazines and empty beer cans are scattered across the floor.

“Dad?” I say louder. “Are you–” The words die on my lips. Crumpled on the floor behind the couch is my father.

“Dad!” I rush over, dropping to my knees. “Oh my God, Dad, wake up!”

My hands hover over his body. I don’t know where to touch him or even if I should. His face is black and blue, one eye almost swollen shut.

“Dad, please.” My voice cracks as I gently shake his shoulder. “Wake up.”

His one good eye flutters open, unfocused and bloodshot.

“Demi?” He rasps.

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