Page 13 of Violent Things
I carry her back to her room and put her in fresh PJs, and I sit with her until she falls asleep again. The seizures are exhausting for her. She never has problems going back to sleep. Seems that’s all she does. The meds they have her on rob her of all her energy, turning a six-year-old little girl into a zombie, sleepwalking through a life that’s meant to filled with toy ponies and hair braiding, and I don’t fucking know what else. But not this. Not meds and pain and midnight baths and crying. It fucking kills me.
I sit with my head in my hands while I run myself a much colder bath so we don’t have to fork out for the hot water, and then I lay in the tepid water until it’s freezing cold and I’m shivering, my side aching from where that guy at the gym pummelled me.
The alarm clock on my bedside table reads three-forty when I climb back into bed. Three hours. I’m gonna get three hours sleep before I have to get up and drive Millie to school.
That’s more than I usually get.
******
“You’re late, asshole.”
Mac’s bent over a Firebird that must have been brought in last night when I arrive to work. I’m eight minutes late. I don’t even bother trying to explain how difficult it is to get a small child up and ready for school, or what a nightmare it is to drive across town in rush hour. Mac doesn’t give a shit. All he cares about is that I’m here for work on time, and if I’m not—frequently the case—then he reams me out about it.
“Sorry, Mac.”
“Sorry, Mac?” He looks up from the engine block, wrench in hand, face full of grease, and frowns at me. “Sorry, Mac ain’t gonna cut it much longer, kid. Sooner or later, I’ll be finding someone else to take your place, you hear me?” He points the wrench at me, and I feel like ripping it out of his fucking hand and smashing it into his face.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll work something out.” I’ve been saying the same thing for a while now.
“I don’t get it,” Mac says, returning to his work. “You should just hire a child minder or some shit to take your kid sister to school. That’s what I did with my kids.”
“I can’t afford a child minder.” He knows this well enough. He’s the one who pays my meager weekly pay-check. This is just how Mac likes to start the conversation with me.Theconversation. The one where he tries to get me running cars for him.
“Well, you know there’s always extra work here for you if you need it, Mase. Just say the word.”
If it were just me and I wanted to make some extra money, I wouldn’t have a problem saying yes to his repeated offer.
But Millie…
If I got busted by the cops, there would be no one to take care of her. Even if I didn’t get sent down, Child Protection Services would deem me an unfit guardian and take her away. She’d grow up in the care system, passed from pillar to post. Probably get caught up in drugs just like my mother did. I can’t do that to her.
“Yeah, man. I’ll let you know,” I tell Mac, but he and I both know I won’t. Mac doesn’t like the fact that I work here and I know about all the shit that goes down after dark, and yet I’m not involved. Makes him nervous.
I work my ass off for the rest of the day, fitting out three cars before close of business to try and get back in the boss’s good books. I haven’t even stopped to eat by the time five o’clock rolls around.
I may not be able to afford a child minder, but I am lucky enough to have a great neighbor who brings Millie home from school with her own kids, and takes care of her until I get home from work. Wanda’s a godsend. Without her, I’d be fucked. I shouldn’t really take advantage of her kindness. I should head straight home and pick up Mil, but when I walk out of work the very first thing I see is the gym. Blood & Roses. Weird fucking name for a gym, if you ask me. The shutters are up, the lights still on in the back, and I can hear the familiar sound of guys fucking up each others’ shit.
I was so surprised when that guy didn’t hand me my ass the other night. I thought for sure I was dead; he looked like a UFC fighter, for fuck’s sake. And he sure as hell didn’t look like aniceone. Two nights a week for the past month, I’ve been picking the lock over there. Only when Wanda could look after Millie late into the evening, which was never for long. But now, maybe I could spend half an hour after work training there every night. Wanda probably wouldn’t mind that.
Working out’s never been top on my list of priorities, but when my best friend Ben started earning big money in the fighting scene, it got me to thinking. If I can get good, if I can get strong, if I can get an in, I could be earning good money, too.
I shoot Wanda a text to make sure she’s okay with the kid for a little while longer, and she replies almost immediately, telling me to bring her some milk on the way home and we’ll call it even. And then I’m walking across the road, walking straight into the gym, and walking straight into the guy who could have kicked my ass the other night.
“Whoa, man. Sorry,” I say, backing up a step. It’s like he was waiting there for me in the shadows, ready to fucking pounce.
He doesn’t say anything about the fact that I almost crashed into him. He does pierce me with a very appraising glare, though. “Must be weird walking through the door when it’s already open, huh?” he says. His voice sounds like it’s coming up from somewhere around his goddamn boots. Vin Diesel’s got nothing on this guy.
“Yeah, a little.” I attempt a smile, but it feels all wrong with him staring at me like that. I feel like I should be groveling or something. Shame my pride won’t ever let me do that. “So…you said I could train here, remember? With you?”
“Oh, I remember.” He doesn’t say anything else. Just stands there with his arms folded across his chest, his freakishly large muscles bulging out of the long-sleeved black shirt he’s wearing.He keeps staring at me; it’s starting to make me sweat.
“If you’re busy, I can come—”
“Oh, I’m not busy,” he says, with a grim, downturned smile on his face. “Come with me.” Turning, he stalks off through the gym, apparently oblivious to the looks he’s given as he passes people sparring or just working out. Every last guy in the place follows him with their eyes like he’s some kind of fucking god. They watch him until he reaches a metal stairway, jogs up them and disappears through a lit doorway at the top. I stand at the bottom, wondering whether I’m supposed to follow him. That question is answered when he appears in the doorway again, and leans against the doorjamb. “Come the fuck on, Mason Reeves. You expecting me to carry you over the fucking threshold or what?”
I rush up the stairs, kicking myself for not just following him straight up. Now I look like a dick. Perfect.
I find myself in a small, incredibly neat office. The huge guy with the muscles pulls out a chair from behind his desk and places it right in front of me. “Sit down.”
