Take Me On (Pushing the Limits #4)(32)

I’m alone.





West

A few blocks up from Haley, I lean on the glass of the pawn-shop display counter and count the wad of cash the street-hustler-owner of the joint just gave me. The owner reminds me of a fattened hog prepared especially for Christmas as the legs of the stool he sits on creak under his weight.

“You don’t trust me,” he says.

“No.” I got played on the cost of my watch, even with negotiating him much higher than his initial price. Now I have money for food, gas and a few items for school. The temptation to rent a hotel room hovers around me, but I’ve got to think further than that.

“Good,” he says. “It means you’re smart.”

The glass cases on the wall contain guns and electronics. In the display below me, a couple of old baseball players stare at me from their cards. When I count out three hundred for the second time, I shove the wad into my front pocket. An * pickpocket is going to have a rough time digging in the front of my jeans to get their gold.

“Anyone around here hiring?” At this point, I’ll shovel shit if it means I can have a roof over my head.

A smoker’s hack shakes his fat rolls. “Everyone’s looking for a job, boy.”

Yeah, I’m sure they are. Here’s the problem with landing a job: I need a phone and unless I plan on returning home with my tail tucked between my legs to retrieve my charger or to beg Dad to take me back, I’m SOL.

I scratch my head as I leave the shop and pause against the wall. Two skaters fly past. My stomach growls and a pang shoots through it, almost doubling me over. Hunger. It’s surreal that a few days ago I was here stalking my mother.

My temples throb, and as I spot a guy head out of the grocery store with a loaf of bread dangling from his hand, I bury the urge to snatch it from him. I’ve got money now and can buy my own loaf of bread. Maybe some meat.

Every time I came here peddling for pot, I’d mumble to some lowlife pleading for change to get a job. The pounding in my head intensifies. I’d get a job if I could. In a world that seemed black-and-white days before, now all I can see is gray.

Down the covered sidewalk, two guys stumble out of the bar, completely ripped. I used to come here to protect my mother. Each time I think of her, I feel like a frayed string is winding tightly around a nerve, cutting it off. I should find a pay phone and call her.

Gravity or just plain magnetic curiosity pulls me in the direction of the bar. There are three signs on its door and one grabs my attention. It’s not the one that indicates no one under twenty-one can be admitted nor is it the one stating motorcycle gang colors aren’t allowed. I’m interested in the help wanted sign: bartender and handyman. If I work here, I can score some cash and possibly some information on Mom.

Inside, the strong odor of spilled beer permeates from the drywall. To my right, a guy in a wifebeater breaks the balls on the pool table. The loud crack thunders in the boxed-in room and Hank Williams croons over the speakers. Neon signs advertising different beers hang on the wall and illuminate the dark dive.

My shoes stick to the concrete floor and, as I walk to the bar, I try to find one redeeming reason why my mother frequents this dump, even if it is for a f*ck. Mom’s in her fifties, but she still turns the heads of guys at those charity balls. No need to lower or demean herself.

“Hey,” I call to the Vin Diesel bartender hovering over a small laptop. He’s a huge son of a bitch with a completely shaved head. “I hear you’re looking for help.”

“You a bartender?” he asks without glancing up.

I’ve mixed a few drinks at parties and nobody died. “No.”

“Then I don’t want you.”

“You should check him out, Denny,” says that same damn feminine voice that keeps popping up at the wrong times. Like the beginning of a bad dirty joke, Abby waltzes into the bar. She brushes past me and reminds me of a lazy cat as she slips onto a bar stool. “S’up, West.”

“You stalking me?”

She snorts. “You wish. I finished some business next door and saw you wander into this fine establishment.” Abby leans over the bar. “Where are the cherries?”

Denny slams his laptop shut. “I’m not a food pantry, Abby.”

“Hello, I get two of my four food groups here.” Abby lifts the bowl of peanuts and swivels it. “Protein food group and the cherries are the dessert group. You’ll feel bad if I die of malnourishment.”

My mouth waters at the sight of the peanuts and my stomach growls loud enough that Abby lifts a brow.

The Vin Diesel wannabe actually cracks a smile. He picks up a foam container and the smile fades as his eyes land on me. “What the f*ck are you doing here?” His words are angry, but his tone isn’t. I have no idea what to make of him.

Abby grabs a fistful of peanuts and feeds them into her mouth, one at a time. I watch each one disappear behind her lips, almost tasting the salt on my tongue. Her eyes flicker between me and the bartender and I try to refocus on this moment, not on food. A single thought weaves through: Abby knows Mom’s secret. Is this the guy my mom is screwing?

“I’m here for the job,” I say.

Denny tosses the container at Abby and she catches it midair and immediately flips the lid to revel a half-eaten deli sandwich and chips. My knees go weak at the sight. He then crouches, fishes out a jarful of cherries, joins us at the end of the bar and slides it to Abby. She digs in and shoves a cherry in her mouth like she really is on the verge of starvation.