Page 7 of Wicked Things
I pinch the bridge of my nose, groaning. “Fucking idiot. All right. Make him fucking clean it up. Do not cut him any breaks. I’ll be down there in an hour. Make sure he waits there for me. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Okay, boss. You got it.”
******
“Goddamn, Mase. What the fuck?”
Michael wasn’t kidding when he said the kid was covered in blood. He’s not just covered. He’s absolutely soaked in crimson. It’s in his hair, down the back of his shirt, his knuckles, his forearms, his entire goddamn face… Some of it belongs to someone else, I’m sure, but by the looks of things most of it is his. There are three or four open cuts and scrapes on his hands and face that are still bleeding freely, not to mention whatever he has going on on his torso. Great, round patches of blood have soaked through his grey t-shirt, forming black, ominous Rorschach patterns all over his clothes.
“Urggghhhh. I told him not to call you,” Mason groans. He’s lying on his back on the linoleum floor just outside the door to the men’s locker rooms, as if he was headed in their to clean up but couldn’t quite make it before he had to lie down and pass the hell out. “You guys are the worst,” he says, slurring.
Ever since the funeral, this is how it’s been: Mason drinking too much. Mason starting fights. Mason being too fucked up to subsequently defend himself, and Mason getting his ass kicked.
“We’rethe worst?” This claim deserves some thought. We are the bad guys. He’s the one constantly breaking into the gym and fucking shit up, and me and Michael are the bad guys. Sounds about right.
I crouch down beside Mason, studying the bloody, bruised mess that is his face. “You have less than thirty seconds to get your ass up and off this floor, motherfucker. Then you and I are going to have words.”
Mason blearily cracks an eye. “You want me to move?”
I don’t say a word. I let him take in the look on my face. He needs to see how fucking pissed I am, and I don’t need words to demonstrate that. One glance at my expression is enough to do that just fine.
“Zeth, I—”
“Thirty seconds. I’ll be waiting in my office.” I get up and I cross the gym, flicking on light switches and ceiling fans as I go. It’s a strange life, being a small business owner after so many years of breaking the law (along with other people’s bones). I never thought I’d end up following a ritualistic routine each morning, putting the coffee pot on, starting up the AC, sitting down in front of a computer to respond to emails. Okay, so most of the time I don’t deal with that part of the gym’s day-to-day operation, but sometimes, when I have a second, I’ll take a run at replying to messages. There are five in my inbox when I open it up, killing some time before Mason can drag his carcass up the short flight of stairs to come talk to me.
The emails aren’t anything that exciting. Some kid wanting to come train and learn how to bulk so he can, and I quote, “severely beat the shit out of my nazi asshole brother.” Another girl, asking if we did women only classes (we do not), but then…
“What theactualfuck?” Lowell? Lowell’s sent me an email? Well there’s a surprise. She’s been notably missing since Millie died, and Mason hasn’t mentioned her once since before the funeral. I click on the subject bar, and the message opens.
Ernie’s shots are due, specifically Bordatella and rabies. Please make sure he gets them.
She doesn’t use my name. But then again, I’m sure my name is like a stone in that back of her throat, toxic poison on the tip of her tongue. She probably couldn’t even bring herself to type out the four letters required to address me. I stare at the weird message, growing more and more annoyed by the second. With so few words she’s managed to make me feel like a complete asshole. Ernie’s been just fine with us since I decided we were going to rehome him. He’s been happy as fuck. The last thing we need is Lowell coming along, griping at us about his fucking shots. The last thing we need is any communication from Lowell, period.
“What’s the problem?”
I look up and Mason’s standing in the doorway. His head is hanging low, like it weighs a metric ton and there’s no way he can possibly hold it up on his own. “What’s the problem?” I ask.
His eyes glint, filled with defiance as he meets my gaze. “Yeah. You’re all bent out of shape about something, I can tell.”
I sit back in my chair, stacking my hands on my stomach, staring at him. I don’t reply. I just sit there and wait. Eventually his shoulders sag and the look of pure fire in his eyes gutters out. He drags himself across to the chair on the other side of my desk, and he sits himself down in it. Rather, he collapses in it. Leaning forward, he covers his face in his hands, breathing deeply. He speaks, his words are muffled. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, man. I’m just…”
“You’re just…?”
“I just want to fucking die.”
“Fair enough.”
His head whips up, eyes bloodshot and shocked. “So I should just kill myself, then? Is that it?”
“I didn’t say that. I said fair enough. As in, I understand that you feel that way.”
“Goddamn it, man. You’re supposed to try and cheer me up or something.”
“Why the fuck would I do that? You just puked all over my canvas. Plus,” I narrow my eyes at him. “Your sister just died. There is no ‘cheering you up.’”
I should know. When Lacey died, I was shrouded beneath a black cloud so dark and impenetrable I don’t think I even knew what was going on for a couple of days. Admittedly, I had to get my shit together because people were relying on me. That’s the problem here; Mason is used to having someone rely on him. Now that no one needs him to be strong, needs him to hold them up and support them, he’s just fucking adrift. Lost. Completely without cause or purpose.
“You’re coming to work for me fulltime,” I inform him. “I’m gonna need you here at eight every morning. You’ll get thirty minutes for lunch, and you’ll clock off at six. You can have Sundays off.”
