Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(67)

I got sent home from work this morning. Seems the school doesn’t really want the people showing up to hang out with little kids in the morning to look like they just got the shit kicked out of them. I told them it was a hockey fight. It got me a pat on the back from the principal and a promise that he’d have to come watch me play sometime.

I still got sent home though. Whatever. I had eight grand in my pocket and could afford losing out on the ten dollars I’d get from coloring princess posters and playing kickball this morning.

Trent was asleep by the time I returned last night, and I always leave well before he’s awake. So far, I’ve managed not to have to deal with any of the shit on my body or in my brain. But hooray for busted lip and swollen eye! I got sent home early, and Trent is sitting on the sofa slurping the milk from his cereal, eying me, ready to make me work.

“Dude. You look like hell,” he says in between slurps. The bowl finally empty, he slides it in front of him on the coffee table. He’s going to just leave it there. I know it. I stare at it until he rolls his eyes, stands, and carries the bowl into the kitchen.

“You’re like a f*ckin’ chick sometimes, you know that?” He actually rinses it and puts it in the dishwasher, which makes me proud. If I’m like a chick, he’s like a Labrador. Only, Labs learn faster.

“Let me get this straight: You’re calling me a woman because I don’t want to live like a homeless man in shit and filth?”

His sigh in response is overexaggerated, and it makes me laugh.

“You’re trying to distract from the point…and hey…shit and filth? Come on, it’s a dirty bowl. Hardly a crack house,” he says, collapsing back into his spot on the sofa, staring up at me, hands folded on his chest.

The shrink is in.

I rub my hand over my chin, and it hurts like hell. Trent chuckles at me.

“Do you want me to ask questions? Or…do you just want to tell me why in the hell you look like this?”

I hold his stare for a few seconds, because shit…maybe I want the ease of just saying yes or no to his questions. I shrug, shaking my head, and take the chair opposite him, turning it backward and laying my arms over the back, my forehead resting on them so I can shut my eyes. I’m exhausted.

“Did Emma do this to you? Or that Harley dude?” he asks.

“Neither of them did anything to me, ass monkey,” I say, not bothering to look up.

“Okay,” he says, his pause long and quiet and…why isn’t he talking? I glance up to find him staring at me, his brow pulled forward, his mouth a hard line.

“Coach isn’t going to like this,” he says.

“Whatever. It’s not like I’m you,” I shrug.

Dick thing for me to say, but it’s true. I’m the guy people expect to show up looking like this. Trenton is the face of the team. I’m just the guy who the crowd loves seeing get thrown in the box.

“Look, I can sit here and play twenty questions and never get close to what’s actually going on with you. How about you try this friendship thing out and maybe trust me with some shit, huh?” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I laugh and look away, but I can feel him looking. I turn back to see his face serious, so I lower my gaze, maybe a little ashamed.

Digging into my pocket, I pull out the envelope from my fight, holding it in front of me for a second before finally tossing it on the table between us. Trent watches it land in front of him, glances to me again, then looks back to it, pulling it in his hands. His eyes react when he opens the fold and sees how many hundreds are stuffed inside. He closes it quickly, tossing it back on the table before running his hands over his face. He can’t seem to bring his eyes to me now, and I know it’s because he’s thinking the worst.

“I need to know. Did you do something…illegal to end up with this?” What he means—is am I selling drugs.

“No…not…not really,” I shake my head. It’s not really legal, but my end…well it gets sketchy. I’m just doing a job. I get offered a fight and a purse. I do my thing; I go home with money. I’m not hurting anyone.

“Not really…as in you are just like…what…a middle man?” Trent’s voice grows louder, and he’s rubbing his hands together nervously. I can sense his temper, his patience waning.

I pull my face up to really look at him, my hands gripping the back of the chair. “Do I look like a middle man?” I say, arms out, my beaten body as evidence. “I fight sometimes. For money. Harley…he pays me,” I say.

Trent flinches, not expecting that answer.

“So you’re, what…like a boxer? Are you any good?”

“I can take a punch,” I say. “That’s why he books me. I’m like a practice fight for his real guys.”

“So you get paid to get the shit beat out of you?”

I nod slowly, letting my eyes drift back to the table, to the stack of cash peaking out from the yellow envelope.

“Yep,” I say, chewing at the inside of my mouth.

“Wow,” he says quietly. Slowly. He leans forward again and picks up the envelope, really flipping through this time. His eyes flash as the number he’s counting grows higher. “So…the worse shape you’re in, the bigger the payday? Is that how this works?”