Jersey Six(4)

Squeezing soap from a bag she stole from the bathroom dispenser at the gas station down the street, Jersey sudsed her body and sponged it off with a well-used rag and frigid water.

By the time she finished and slid on a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, Chris faced her with his hands crossed over the front of his pants.

Bed, shower, toilet. Jersey never took for granted the very basic things in life.

“Don’t you think you’re asking for trouble?” Chris cleared his throat. “This place isn’t exactly filled with guys who respect women.”

“True.” Jersey ran her fingers through her sweaty hair which received weekly washings. “Do you respect women, Chris?”

He adjusted himself, not outwardly proud of his unavoidable reaction to her. “I think so.”

She twisted the rag, releasing the excess water. “You don’t sound too confident.”

He shrugged. “I was in an accident.”

“You don’t say.”

The scar tissue on Chris’s face thwarted his attempt to frown at her reply. “I don’t remember anything from the accident. In fact, I didn’t remember anything at all until I saw this building. My name is Chris, but I just figured that out. I used to box here, and I was good. Marley was like a father to me.” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s coming together, but it’s not all there yet.”

Snatching a half-eaten banana from the side pocket of her camouflage duffel bag, Jersey plopped down onto the mat—her bed—and crossed her outstretched legs.

“So you grew up around here?”

Chris meandered around the dingy room lined with a few lockers, minus actual locks, a row of three urinals and a toilet, a broken vending machine, and a buzzing fridge filled with water and beer. It smelled like death. “I’m pretty sure. As sure as I can be. I think I grew up in the system,” he mumbled.

“Were you homeless before your accident?”

Chris stopped, scratching the back of his head. “I’m not sure. At times, I think I left town for a while. Then I came back after …” He continued to shake his head. “I’m not sure. I think I had enemies. I just …” Chris shook his head, pinching his eyes shut. “It’s like my memory has no inception.”

“Real enemies?” Jersey paused her chewing. “Not like the obvious one which is life.”

He chuckled. “Life, huh? You think life is my enemy?”

“You said you grew up in the system. You’re here, looking for a warm place to sleep, and I saw you practically drooling over this banana when I pulled it out of my bag.” She held up the black peel. “And let’s not even get into what must have happened to you that left you looking like you do. Clearly … life hates you.” Jersey sucked at subtle. She sucked at a lot of things, like patience, restraint, kind words, and giving a shit.

“And it likes you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it knows I exist.”

After a few silent moments, Chris faced her again, sliding his hands in the front pouch of his hoodie. “Come on. I just bared my soul to you. What’s your deal? Why would you say life doesn’t know you exist? You have to elaborate.”

“You should go. Really.”

“Probably. But it’s warm in here…” he drew his shoulders inward “…well, warmer. So I’m in no hurry to go back out into the cold. I’ve met a bad-ass boxing girl with a story that I think parallels mine. And let’s be honest … when I don’t disgust you, I intrigue you.”

“You annoy me, but I enjoyed hitting you. If you stay here—annoying me more—I might hit you again.” Jersey flopped onto her side, closing her eyes. “Go away.”

Chris squinted at her bag, inching his way toward it so as to not get his ass kicked again. He bent down, plucking a photo peeking out from the side pocket. “Where did you get this?”

Jersey opened her eyes. On a frown, she snatched the photo from his loose grip. “I’m going to end you, asshole, if you don’t get the hell out of here.”

“Dena and Charles …”

Pressing a hand to the mat, Jersey slowly sat up, keeping her squinted gaze glued to him, unsure if she heard him correctly.

“They died,” he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Gah! Stupid voices.” The rest of his words tumbled out of his mouth like he couldn’t keep up with them. “I lived with them. Charles put me in basketball; that’s how I met my best friend. He … his family had so much money, yet he befriended me, bought me shoes, treated me like a real friend. But then …”

“You lived with the Russells?”

Keeping his eyes pinched shut, he nodded. “But they died. He killed them.”

“Who killed them?” Jersey bolted up from the mat, fisting her hands as adrenaline made its way through her body, ripping open old wounds, awakening a dormant hunger for revenge.

“My friend.” Chris opened his eyes.





CHAPTER THREE





Eight years earlier …

Two dead. Four homeless. And a Friday—pizza night.

Jersey endured six nights of stomaching low sodium casseroles and bitter greens with lemon juice and olive oil in exchange for one night of greasy pizza and the health food store’s version of carbonated soft drinks.