The Lovely Reckless(20)
That’s because you didn’t do anything.
I mentally scroll through the list, searching for a way out of this mess. If you’re outnumbered, act crazy, Dad told me at least a dozen times. Start pacing and talking to yourself about crap like aliens and conspiracy theories. No one wants to screw with a crazy person. Unstable equals unpredictable.
Dad demonstrated while I lectured him about the harsh realities of mental illness. His world and mine were so different, and until three months ago, I had never witnessed the kind of violence he faced every day.
Even if I could pull off conspiracy theory–level crazy, the window for convincing Turk I’m unstable has already closed. Dog psychology—Act dominant to establish the alpha position—is also out. Turk looks like the kind of guy who would love to get aggressive.
What he cares about is money.…
“I have two hundred dollars on me.” I pull out the cash I brought and gesture at Lex. “What if we go and get the rest of the money instead? Give us thirty minutes, and we’ll bring you two hundred more.” Maybe the extra hundred will satisfy him.
Turk whips around, invading my personal space. “Nobody’s leaving. You think I’m stupid?” Yes. The suffocating combination of sweat and cheap cologne clings to his body, which is way too close to mine.
“Turk, this is between you and me.” Abel tries to take a step, but Sung throws his arm up in front of Abel, blocking his path.
“Send one of your friends with us if you don’t trust me.” The thought of being in the same car with either of them makes my skin crawl. “If we don’t go, you only get the seven hundred we have on us.”
“Frankie?” Lex sounds like a little girl calling for her mom in the dark. She’s losing it.
I give her a death glare and focus on Turk. “Will that work?”
Come on.… Say yes already.
He nods. “But your friends stay here. Both of them. You’re the only one who goes.”
“Get your ass out of my way,” a girl snaps.
Cruz, the girl from my Shop class, shoves Shawn and heads in our direction. She’s wearing tight jeans, like most of the other girls here tonight. But with her high ponytail, black Lycra tank, and turquoise-silver-and-black Nike basketball high-tops, she comes off as confident and tough.
Abel points at her. “That’s the girl I met in class.”
Cruz looks at Abel like he’s an idiot and stops beside me. Not that she acknowledges my existence. It’s a replay of Shop class.
“Is this a private party, Turk?” She toys with the silver chain around her neck.
“Not without you, baby.” He stares at her chest without bothering to hide it. “Just handling some business.”
“When did you start doing business with the Royals?” She throws a disgusted look at Abel, Lex, and me.
“I don’t discriminate when it comes to money.” Turk rolls his shoulders in an obvious check-out-my-muscles move.
She smiles at him. “Then get your money and send them back to the Heights so we can have a beer.”
“I need some time. They’re short, but Sung’s gonna take care of it.” Turk’s cell rings, and he checks the display. “I gotta take this,” he tells Cruz, stepping away. “It’s business.”
“You owe him money and you don’t have it?” Cruz hisses under her breath. “Are you crazy?”
Turk’s rejects notice her talking to me, but they seem amused by the dirty looks Cruz keeps throwing my way. I’m not sure if she wants to help me or hurt me.
“My friend Abel owes him money. We brought it down here for him, but Turk changed the amount.”
“Shit.”
Turk pockets his cell and points at Sung with his beer can. “Go get my money.”
“On it.” Sung shoves Abel against the car and heads in my direction. He’s bigger than I thought, and his huge thighs make him bowlegged. As he walks by, his hand clamps around the top of my arm.
“I can walk by myself.” I try to pull away, but he jerks me forward.
Lex watches, frozen in place. I catch a glimpse of something behind her—two silhouettes moving toward us. One is closer and picks up speed.
“Cruz?” a guy calls out.
“Over here!” she shouts.
Deacon Kelley—the guy Miss Lorraine kicked out of the rec center—charges in our direction. He’s wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt, and the lights illuminate his pale skin. And his scars. The gnarled web runs halfway down his arm, twisting through a black tattoo as if it was designed around the scars. On his forearm, a withered hand reaches for a girl trapped in a birdcage inked on his shoulder. The hand strains against the scars wrapped around it like ropes.
Deacon stops short, his ice-blue eyes darting past me to where Cruz is standing. “What’s going on?” Without waiting for a response, he turns on Sung. “Are you assholes messing with my girl?”
Cruz rolls her eyes. “I’m not your girl anymore, Deacon. It’s been two years.”
Deacon takes off his baseball cap and chucks it at the ground, scowling. He paces in a circle, rubbing his hand over the inch of white-blond hair covering his scalp. It blends into his skin perfectly, and at first glance he looks bald.
Cruz’s comment clearly bothered him.