Believe: (Intermix) (True Believers) (3 page)

Those fingers increased their rhythm, but the rest of him stayed completely still. The only movement seemed to come from those anxious fingers and the intensity of his stare as his eyes raked both over me and the canvas. I was never still. My mom had always commented on that. I fidgeted and shifted and couldn’t stay in a chair longer than ten minutes without creating a reason to get up for a task before sitting down again. I struggled to sit through movies and I hopped up and down off bar stools, going out on the dance floor and outside to smoke cigarettes, which I didn’t even like. Even now I was bouncing my knee up and down rapidly and chewing hard on a piece of gum. His immobility fascinated me.

Which may explain why I said, “Do you want to paint? I have another canvas and brush.”

Again, there was no reaction. I wondered what it would take to draw emotion out of him. “Nah, I don’t want to waste your supplies.”

“It’s a cheap canvas. It was only five bucks.”

But he just shook his head. Then a second later he asked me, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“What?” I almost dropped my paintbrush. “No. Why?”

His phone slid across the table toward me. “Then give me your number.”

“Why?” I said again, which was a totally moronic thing to say. But I didn’t get any vibe he even liked me, let alone was interested in me.

For the first time, I saw the glimmer of a smile on his face. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly before he controlled it again. “Why do you think?”

For a split second, I felt like myself, and I said the first thing that popped into my head. “So you can send me honey badger videos?” I joked, because it seemed like a safer response. He was just out of prison, and he had just broken up with his girlfriend ten minutes earlier. So not a good idea to get involved with him. I wasn’t up for dating anyone, let alone him.

“Yes. And kitten memes.”

“Well, in that case.” I took his phone because I wasn’t exactly sure how to say no. It seemed super rude, and I doubted he was actually going to ask me out. He would probably send me a typical guy text of “hi” or “what’s up?” and I could say “hi” back or “nothing” and we’d be done with it. Guys put no effort at all into communication or pursuing a girl. If you didn’t go into a huge, long text of explanation of what you were doing and dug deep into their text to get an adequate response back, the conversation just died. A big old waste of time, that’s what most texting with guys was.

So I typed my number into his phone with my name. It was an old smartphone, with a cracked screen, like he had dropped it on the pavement. I set it back on the table.

Tyler came back into the kitchen and looked over my shoulder at my work. “Hey, that’s cool so far. You got Easton’s nose just right.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Phoenix palm his phone and put it back into his pocket, tossing back his hair. Then he just stood up and left.

My phone buzzed in my own pocket as Tyler went to the fridge and started rummaging around. I pulled it out and saw it was a text from a number I didn’t recognize. When I opened it, there was a honey badger video
.
At your request
was the message.

I smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Way better than writing “hi.”

Chapter Two

Phoenix

When I was in third grade, I realized two things: That the doctors thought something was wrong with me, and that my mother loved drugs more than she loved me.

Because while the doctors kept asking me questions and taking scans of my brain and giving my mother prescriptions for me to take, I never swallowed a single one of those pills. She would take me to the pharmacy, collect the pills, then sell them to a guy behind the gas station who smelled like my grandmother’s basement. Then she would use that money to buy little plastic bags from a different guy, the one I thought looked like a Ninja Turtle because he always wore a bandana around his forehead. Then those bags would open and the needle would come out and she would lie on the couch for hours and hours, scratching her arm and drooling, eyes unfocused.

When she was like that, I could do whatever I wanted, and I didn’t really mind that she was checked out, not exactly. I could watch TV and drink chocolate syrup out of the bottle and go play down the street until way after dark and she wouldn’t notice any of it and there was a cool sense of freedom.

But I didn’t like it when she would forget to buy groceries or make me lie to the doctors and say that even though I took all the pills the way I was supposed to, I still felt angry, I still couldn’t concentrate. Because it wasn’t true. I hadn’t taken those pills, and I didn’t feel angry.

It wasn’t until later that I figured out that my meds had a black market value as appetite suppressants and she could exchange them for heroin.

At eight, I just knew there was something wrong with both of us because I was supposed to have the drugs but she was one who couldn’t go a day without them.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had disappeared during my stint in jail, but I was. I kept waiting for the day when she actually gave a shit about me, and she kept proving over and over that she didn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered so much except that all my stuff was at her apartment, and the landlord had cleaned it out when she ditched on the rent. There was no question in my mind that she hadn’t bothered to pack up my clothes and the miscellaneous crap from twenty years to take with her. An old yearbook, the only one I’d ever had the money to buy, with the inscription from Heather Newcomb of “Stay Sweet, Phoenix,” which I had thumbed my finger over a thousand times, wondering what it meant. A Little League trophy for Best Pitcher. A watch my grandmother gave me. Nothing of value. Stupid stuff, but
mine
. All I had. Gone.

Wearing nothing but a pair of shorts I had borrowed from Tyler, I texted the girl painting in the kitchen, Robin. I shouldn’t, I knew that. She was way out of my league, I knew that, too. Girls like her didn’t look twice at guys who didn’t even own the shirt on their back. Or, in my case, the shorts on my ass. But for whatever reason—good manners would be my guess—she had given me her number and I was going to use it, because I needed a distraction. Someone to talk to about nothing.

I thought maybe she did, too. There was something . . . bruised about the way she looked. She kept her head down when talking to Jessica and held her arms across her chest a lot. Jessica, who was fucking bossy in my opinion, kept poking at her, and Robin didn’t protest, but she didn’t answer either. Not really.

There was something about the way she had sat in the living room while she thought I was asleep and hugged her knees to herself, stretching out her shirt to cover them, that made me feel just a little bit sorry for her. I’m a sucker for a sad girl, I can’t help it. It’s fucked-up, but it is what it is. Maybe because for once I feel like I actually have something to offer. Understanding, at least. There’s a difference between sad and depressed, though, and even I know not to go there with a chick who is clinical, but I knew Robin wasn’t because of the way her face changed when she started painting.

It was like her shoulders dropped and her forehead smoothed out. She was content with that brush in her hand or at least not miserable. Pretty, too. She had a tiny nose and cherry red lips and dark hair that spilled over her shoulders and made me want to bury my face in it.

So I got her number and then she left the house and I texted her and she answered me twice and then nothing. That was that.

College Girl wasn’t going to play with me, and hell, who could blame her? It had been an impulsive long shot. Disappointing, but I was used to that feeling.

Shoving the phone back in my pocket, I went into the kitchen to see if I could borrow Riley’s car. I needed to see about getting a job, as fun as that sounded. When I came into the room, conversation between Jessica and Riley came to a stop, making it pretty freakin’ obvious they were talking about me. I didn’t quite understand the new dynamics in my cousins’ house. When I had gone into jail, my aunt Dawn had still been alive, and everyone here walked on eggshells around her. Now she was dead, and Riley’s girlfriend was in the house, and she was possessive and territorial, it seemed. She had done some home improvement shit like pulling up the nasty carpet and putting cookies in the cookie jar and washing dishes.

Weird. That’s what it was. Disorienting. I think maybe she was what you call maternal, but I had such little experience with the concept I couldn’t exactly be sure. All I know is that she was a bitch to me and I wasn’t so crazy about her myself.

“What’s up?” I asked, casual. Friendly. I could kiss ass and be nice. No one had to let me stay there, and Riley and Tyler were being cool about it, so I had to watch what I said. Besides, they were the only family I had, and I didn’t want to lose them.

“You know that Riley just got custody of Easton, right?” Jessica asked, twirling her blond hair around one finger and looking nervous.

I nodded. I had been glad to hear it. The system would chew that kid up and spit him out. I knew Riley had worked hard to get custody and that his girlfriend, even though she and I rubbed each other the wrong way, clearly wanted the best for Easton and Jayden, too. I’d seen the family photos she’d hung in the hallway, like families who weren’t fucked-up did, and I personally appreciated her no smoking in the house rule.

“Well, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that a social worker could drop by at any time unannounced. And Tyler is already living here when he really shouldn’t be.”

That was all she said, clearly waiting for me to volunteer the conclusion.

So I did. No sense in beating around the bush. “So having two convicted felons in the house is maybe one too many?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

Riley looked pained. “Look, bro, you know you can stay here until you get a job and a place, but you probably can’t stay here forever, that’s all we’re saying. I can’t lose custody of Easton, not now.”

“I understand.” I did. I also understood that Easton was lucky, despite his shithole parents. He had his brothers.

Their bond was a steel cable. Mine with them was more like cooked spaghetti. We were family. They cared. They would help. But the loyalty wasn’t the same, and I was jealous of that, I admit it. I felt alone.

My mom had figured out birth control after me, unlike my aunt. My mom made a point of telling me that once was enough for her and she wasn’t taking any chances of making that mistake twice, unlike Aunt Dawn, who got drunk and forgot condoms existed.

So it was just me.

“I’m going to see about getting a job today, actually. Can I borrow your car for an hour?” I didn’t have anywhere to go. No friends I trusted enough to crash with. But I could always go to the shelter if I had to. I didn’t want to be responsible for Easton ending up in foster care. He was a cool kid. In fact, he kind of reminded me of myself at that age. And hey, I was a cool kid, right? Quiet, weird, prone to random outbursts, but whatever. I was comfortable in my own skin now, which was good, because it was about all I owned.

“Sure,” Riley said, fumbling in his pocket for the keys, looking guilty.

It was obvious he felt bad that he was asking me to go, but I didn’t blame him, and the fact that he had guilt about it gave me a warm fucking fuzzy, I’m not going to lie.

“Aren’t you going to eat before you go?” Jessica asked. “There’s still some leftover Chinese food. I can heat it for you.”

I stared at her for a second, not sure what her angle was. Because there had to be an angle. There always was. “I’m okay, thanks.” I couldn’t imagine standing there while a chick heated up food for me. It was just weird.

But I did gesture to the painting that was propped up on the table against the wall, drying. Robin had managed to paint a graphic of Easton in, like, forty-five minutes. It was just a basic silhouette, but it did look like him, and there was something about the bright pink and yellow that smacked you over the head, but in a good way. “Your friend has talent.”

“Yes, she does. She did that other piece, too, just for fun. We wanted to make it more . . . cheerful in the house.”

Riley laughed. “That’s a polite way of saying it was a dump here, babe. It’s true, isn’t it, Phoenix? Our mothers did not excel at housekeeping.”

That actually made me cough up a rusty laugh. I hadn’t laughed much lately. “That is true, cuz. My mom isn’t much for decorating either.” I actually thought that her reaction to an art piece that spelled out YUM in tiny pieces of old candy wrappers would be to rip it off the wall and toss it in the trash disdainfully. She didn’t like the idea that anyone could be happy or enjoying something. “What does Robin like?” I asked, but it was too obvious.

Two sets of eyebrows shot up, and Jessica’s mouth fell open. “What? Why?”

“Never mind.” I shrugged. It didn’t matter anyway. If she hadn’t answered me in an hour she wasn’t going to.

Jobless, soon to be homeless, with a criminal record and an ex-girlfriend who had stuck me with her cell phone bill before I went to jail, the last thing I needed to be fucking around with was a rich girl who looked like she might cry if I pinched her. Not that I would. Pinch her, I mean. It’s just an expression. She just seemed fragile or something, and it would be stupid. A huge, dumb-ass, fucking idiotic, stupid idea to get involved with her in anyway.

So how come I couldn’t seem to get the image of her bent over that canvas, pursing her plump lips in concentration, out of my head?

Because I was the guy who always ran headfirst into danger, and I usually wound up blacked out and bleeding, on the ground.

But in this case it wouldn’t matter because she wasn’t going to answer.

Riley narrowed his eyes. “How’s Angel?” he asked.

“Pregnant. And no, it isn’t mine. She says she’s only two months along.” I had to admit, my heart had almost stopped for a second when she’d made her announcement. But then I had known immediately it couldn’t be mine because she wasn’t showing at all, and yeah, I was relieved. Because what kind of father would I be? I’d never even touched a baby, and I didn’t know jack about taking care of anything besides my mom’s loser boyfriends when they outstayed their welcome.

“I guess that’s good and bad. Sorry, man.”

I shrugged again. It hurt more when she didn’t see me in jail. It hurt that I had only had one visitor in five months and that had been Tyler, because he’d been there, done that. He knew it sucked.

Feeling suddenly angry, I concentrated on my breathing, slowing it down, drawing it in and out steadily. I made sure my entire body was still, that nothing twitched or shook or jiggled. It was a trick I learned a long time ago, that if I quieted my body, I could quiet my mind and the anger would escape like air from a balloon instead of a firework shooting off.

“It’s no big deal,” I said, which was a lie, and Riley knew it was a lie.

“I’m going in the basement to work out,” he said. “You want to come down and hit the bag with me?”

“I thought you were going on a beer run,” Jessica said, straightening the napkin holder on the counter, stuffed with paper napkins with cherries printed on them. Cherries? For fucking real?

Riley gave her a look. “I changed my mind.”

Of course he had. He knew. “Sure,” I said. “Then I’ll see about a job afterwards if you don’t mind me borrowing the car.”

“Not at all. Come on, let’s break a sweat.”

“Sounds hot,” Jessica said. “Can I watch?”

“You can’t handle all the testosterone we’ll be displaying,” he told her, giving her a teasing pat on her ass.

“Oh, I can handle anything you’ve got,” she said, and her expression wasn’t subtle.

Neither was the flare of Riley’s nostrils. “Later, babe, later.”

I walked out of the room, heading for the basement door. I needed to punch something.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was Robin.

It didn’t even matter what she wrote. The smiley face at the end was enough to have me unclenching my fists.

Not good. Or damn good, depending on how I looked at it.

But just to be sure, and in control, instead of answering, I slammed my fist into Riley’s boxing bag at the bottom of the stairs and felt the adrenaline rush through me.

Only drug I’ve ever needed. Pain.