Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(85)

“But I don’t want you coming back here again, ever. I don’t want to see you after today,” he says.

The balloon bursts, shattering everything.

What? Why doesn’t he want to see me?

“Why?” I ask, just as the phone line cuts. A guard pats him on the shoulder, gesturing for him to stand, but my heart is beating so fast. I need to know why; I need to convince him to let me come again.

“Dad!” I yell, but he’s standing now, looking past me like I’m not there.

Then he turns and walks away. Through the green door behind him, which slams shut.

I stay, watching the door, waiting for him to run back and say he was kidding.

I thought it would be like one of those movies, where at the last minute, there’s a happy ending; people come back to each other and no one is crying. Those movies where the family—two parents, three kids, and a dog—all go to the beach together. Just for the fun of it, splashing about in the water like it hugs them the way their parents do.

My dad’s never hugged me before.

Tears rest heavily on my eyelashes, weighing them down, forcing me to blink, let them escape. My heart is racing and I feel a little dizzy.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I picture the sea. The waves crashing but not in a violent way, in a nice way, like they are loud with purpose. I walk toward the sea, kneeling, touching it, breathing in the salt, then I lie down, let it carry me, hug me.

My heart stops racing. I’m calm again, but I refuse to open my eyes. I memorized the way from the entrance. I don’t want to see this place again; I’m not excited anymore.

So I walk on out, eyes closed, running one hand against the wall, as the waves pull me in.

The sound of a buzzer drags me out of that memory—the last memory I have with my pa. Ma told me she didn’t want me seeing him either, so I never went back. But I get curious sometimes: how he’s doing, whether he’d recognize me still.

I walk over to the chair in front of the glass screen as a familiar green door opens and Dre appears in an orange uniform. I almost gasp. His face.

I quickly take a seat, grabbing the phone. Dre stares at me for a bit, eyes drifting down a little to my uniform, then back up to my face. He sits down heavily on the chair and leans back, grabbing the gray phone sluggishly like it’s not got a time limit.

“Dre, why the fuck are you in here—why’d you call me?” I whisper, because it has been playing on my mind ever since I received the text from Dre’s phone yesterday, then the call. I glance at the uniformed guards a little, not sure if mentioning the calls from his phone will get him in trouble.

He shrugs. “Wanted a conjugal visit.” His voice is worn out, like he’s been yelling and it’s broken or something.

I glare at him. “We haven’t got much time, stop playing.”

His eyes are so red, bluish purple on the edges, bags exaggerated.

He sniffs, wiping his arm over his nose. “Cops raided my place, found a lot of shit—”

“How?” I ask. None of his boys are snitches, or at least I didn’t think they were.

“Someone must have called them, told them where to look.”

Someone …

Aces…?

My heart races and I feel a little sick.

“Have you got bail?” I ask, swallowing the guilt. Bail can get him out, right?

“Too expensive.”

“Did they give any info on how long they’re keeping you in for?”

“Until the trial.”

Trial?

I rest my head in my hand. Dre can’t go to trial, let alone prison.

It’s all my fault: If we’d read the signs earlier, dropped out sooner, did what they wanted us to do, Aces wouldn’t have come for Andre.

I hear a knocking sound, and I look up a bit.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” he says, eyebrows knitted together. He places his hand on the glass. I look at it at first, then him.

“You’re not fine, Dre.” I place my hand on the glass over his, our hands similar in size, but so different at the same time. I know his hands are rougher than mine, thicker.

“Your face is fucked up.”

He looks at our hands. “My face is fine.”

“Is fine slang for messed up? Dre, look at me. Who did this to you?”

Andre looks at me, and my face goes warm, because he’s really looking at me, not just my face, but my eyes, my mouth … eyes flickering.

He sighs heavily. “Just some guys, told me they’d heard of you and me, and—” Dre’s face scrunches up as he starts silently crying. “They beat me every night, said they wanna knock sense into me.”

I wish I could hug him, but this stupid glass separates us. He wipes his eyes harshly, then puts his hand down and sits up.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, voice cracking a little.

Stressed is the first thing that comes to mind. Stressed and tired.

“Good,” I say.

“Good,” he repeats.

I feel like I’m gonna die from an overactive heart. It beats fast, ringing in my ears and in my mind, throat vibrating, hard to swallow, fingers moving like I had too much coffee again.

“You need to get out of here,” I tell him. “You need a good lawyer.”

He nods slowly. “My boys are working on it.”