Page 4 of Paint the Town, Dove
And suddenly, I’m a kid again, my fingers twitching with violence, searching for the target.
“Who thefuck–” I broke my goddamn neck trying to find the perp who said it – who spoke out – who…
Who reminded me.
I shook out of Morty’s grip and charged for the velvet ropes separating me from the leeches.
Ah.
Bingo.
“Repeat that again?” I spat, eye to eye with a greasy bald shmuck dressed in plaid rags. “Say what you’re going to say, say it to my fucking face.”
A hand tugged me back. “Mr. Spectre –”
“Fuck off me, Morty!” I ripped, unable to look away from this lowlife poking around where he shouldn’t be.
“Well…” he smirked, flipping down his sad, yellow notepad. “Looks like I’ve got my answer.”
Itwas an accident, baby –
It was an accident –
HE DIDN’T MEAN TO HURTMEUS –
Without hesitation, I twisted my fist around the fabric of his shirt, yanking him to my face before heavy arms wrapped around my middle and pulled me away.
“Fuck YOU!” All sense of reason escaped my body. “FuckYOU!”
So long, Mr. Golden Boy.
One second my feet were firmly planted on cracked cement, the next I was being thrown into the back seat – Morty at my side – strapped in, caged,lockedin my own personal cell once again.
Safe.
Safe.
My fingers found the coke chain cold against my sternum. I held on to it like a locket, tapping the driver’s shoulder. “House of Kings.”
“Mr. Spectre, you have an interview tomorrow for GQ, nine-thirty.” Morty reminded, his voice levelled like usual.
“Cancel it.”
“Ryden,” he tried.
This forced me to face him. Forced me to look at the friend beneath the earpieces and tailored suits. Forced me to see him as an equal rather than a man who worked for me.
His voice was low, sad. “I know that got to you, but all the drinks in the world won’t change your past.”
I challenged his stare, jaw tight. I was searching for a fight, for a reason to kick and scream at him, though there was not a single sign of malice or indignation in his expression. His statement rang true, no matter how hard I fought to believe it.
Nothing you do will change the past.
But damn me if I didn’t try.
“Barnett,” I announced once more, keeping my gaze locked on Morty. “House of Kings, please.”
The Chevy’s engine roared to life as I leaned back into my seat, adjusting my neck into the curve of the headrest. My nose tingled for more. More.
