N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(2)

A brother. My brother.

The concept is baffling, having grown up with no family to speak of and no one to rely on but myself and my friend Pike. That is, until Pike and I got separated, and we lost contact when he ended up in a detention center clear across the state.

My thoughts are interrupted when reality hisses at me like a snake about to be stepped on, courtesy of my foster father.

“Loretta, where is that boy?” Jameson shouts angrily above the Willie Nelson song blaring beyond my bedroom door. The tune is cheery. The situation is not. It’s like “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” blasting through the speakers of Hell.

“I don’t fucking know! You want him? You go look for him!” Loretta slurs.

I’ve been in great homes, and I’ve been in terrible ones. On a scale of one to ten—ten being the shittiest—Loretta and Jameson’s home ranks in the triple digits somewhere above the seventh circle of Hell.

My door is closed, but the unmistakable stench of crack cocaine and body odor wafts underneath the crack in my bedroom door. A few nights I’ve woken up to Jameson sitting at the end of my bed, watching me. That’s when I quickly discovered the attic access hidden in the closet. Most nights, I climb up into the muggy, dusty, attic and sleep crunched up in the tiny crawl space.

Loretta and Jameson don’t give a shit if I’m here or not. That’s why, when I hear that they are looking for me, it’s usually to go find them drugs or ask if I have any money.

I decide to make myself scarce. I climb up into the attic and make sure the scuttle hole is shut behind me.

After only a few seconds does my bedroom door opens.

“Shit. He ain’t in here,” Jameson says in his thick southern drawl. “I thought I saw him come in earlier.”

“I paid you good rock. He better show the fuck up,” says a stranger’s voice.

“He’ll be here, Henry. A deal is a deal,” Jameson snaps back. “I’ll tell you what I tell all the others. Don’t go leaving no marks on him. I don’t need DCF stopping’ my fuckin’ checks. I got another months’ worth on this kid. I ain’t gonna blow that now.”

“I know. I know. I’ll put the shit you gave me in his beer so he won’t know a damn thing, but if he ain’t here in the next few hours, you owe me for the rock.”

“Let’s check out back. Sometimes, he’s out smokin’ in the yard,” Jameson says before shutting the door.

My hands shake. My blood boils. The sweat dripping from my forehead isn’t just from the heat in the attic. I’m dripping pure, unadulterated rage.

I’ll tell you what I tell all the others

This fucker has been pimping me out…for crack.

It all hits me. Nights of waking up after what seemed like an endless sleep when I usually can’t sleep for shit. Pains in places I figured I just got too drunk to remember doing something stupid to myself or falling or…

It was never any of that.

I turn my head and release an endless stream of vomit between the rafters until there’s nothing left in me but an overwhelming feeling of disgust and a bloodlust like I’ve never felt before.

I wait for what seems like forever for the music to die off and the muffled voices to turn to silence. Slowly, silently, I leave the safety of my hiding spot and grab my backpack. I stuff the envelope with the letter and picture Mrs. Peterson gave me and my beat-up laptop. That’s it. I’ve got nothing else; it almost feels stupid to be bringing a backpack at all.

I creep into the other room. It’s littered with empty bottles and cans. Crumpled foil and overflowing ashtrays cover the couches where several people are passed out, including Loretta. Even though I know I couldn’t wake them from their drug induced comas even if I shouted in their ears, I don’t see Jameson so I creep outside onto the rickety porch where I don’t dare exhale until I reach the bottom step.

“There you are, boy,” Jameson says, standing off his rusted truck. He almost trips over an old tire in the overgrown yard. His beard is wet and dripping with whiskey, his shirt sweat-stained at the neck and armpits.

My blood runs cold. I clench and unclench my fists. Every muscle in my body stiffens. I’ve always fought with my fists but for the first time in my life I wish I had a gun.

Another equally drunk or high man stumbles up beside him with a wicked gleam in his eye. He adjusts his trucker cap. “How you doin’ tonight, boy? I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Hi,” I say through clenched teeth. You must be that piece of shit, Henry.

“You want a beer, kid?” Jameson asks, he holds out the full beer in his hand. The fucker has probably been walking around with that all night, waiting to drug me so the other piece of shit can rape me.

My rage intensifies with every zap of the mosquito zapper laying sideways on the porch. I could run…or I could revenge.

“Yeah, I’ll take a beer,” I say. I take it from his hands and pretend to take a swig.

They exchange a knowing look that makes me want to bash this bottle over their heads. “Hang on,” I say. “You guys ain’t got beers. Can’t drink alone. I’ll be right back.” I set down my backpack, so they know that I intend to come back.

“Nice,” Henry whispers to Jameson. “Very nice.”

Jameson grunts. “Told ya.”