Blood to Dust (8 page)

“Took your time, but you’ve made it, boy.” A squeeze on my shoulder throws me back to reality and I snap out of zombie-mode. Twisting my head in surprise, I see my old neighbor, Frank. As a kid, I spent a lot of time in his backyard helping him build shit from all the damaged stuff he had collected from street corners. Broken bikes and TVs were his favorites. I loved his willingness to fix broken things. I also loved his black eye patch. Thought he was a pirate. Or maybe a brave soldier who got injured in Vietnam.

He was neither.

Someone took his eye out with a swizzle stick in a bar fight.

I knew he was serving time here for drug trafficking because moments after the police dragged his ass out of his house five years ago kicking and swearing, his meth lab exploded and formed an atomic bomb-like mushroom cloud above our neighborhood. Took two weeks to get rid of that black shit.

I hunch the shoulder he’s clutching in a shrug.

“Not much to do outside, huh?” He slides next to me with his tray and rips into his four bangers like it’s Burger King. “Here, at least you don’t have to pay rent.”

I avert my gaze from him back to the cafeteria crowd, my eyes landing on the sea of bald, tattooed heads in front of me, lined up in layered, horizontal rows.

“Whaddidya’ do, Nathaniel?”

“I killed him.” I roll my tongue over my teeth.

He nods. “Finally.”

Yeah. My dad left impressions everywhere. He was special like that.

“Plea deal?” He stabs something that vaguely resembles beef and smells like mothballs with his fork.

“Fifteen for manslaughter, parole in four.” The judge said no man should so effortlessly and brutally kill someone else. If it was purely self-defense, Judge Chester argued—then why did I smirk as the cops read me my rights?

“How old will you be when you get out?”

“Twenty-six.”

This awards me with a satisfied nod. Ha. My neighbor thinks I’m redeemable.

Think again, old man.

I came here with plenty of holes in my shoes and plenty of nothing in my belly. Life felt like I was sipping it through a narrow straw. I always gasped for more.

I have the whole sob story written in its predictability all over my resume. Bad school, bad neighborhood, bad family.

My only moment of deep breath was when I smashed a vase into Nathaniel Vela Senior’s head. Between working as a janitor at the local mall and trying to stop my father from beating the shit out of my mother, there wasn’t much room for chasing opportunities or grabbing life by the throat.

San Dimas was an upgrade, as far as I could see.

But I’m not like them, the young inmates.

Hungry and angry and boiling with barely restrained ire. I’m at peace with where I am. Hell, it’s probably exactly where I should be.

“Plenty of jobs for you when you get out.”

I throw him a condescending smirk and wipe my utensils with the sleeve of my orange uniform.

But Frank is not the type to be deterred by silence. He nudges me and laughs, spitting crumbs of minced meat on the table. His good eye is dry and rarely blinks. Probably for a good reason, ‘round here.

“You still writing poetry, Nathaniel?” He hoots, choking on his food. I used to write under his oak tree as a kid. His place was quiet, mine—chaotic.

I don’t indulge him.

“Might wanna keep your little hobby for yourself here. You’re too pretty to walk those halls without guard escort as it is.”

Taking a slow sip of my water, I stare ahead.

“Don’t worry, boy. I got your back.”

I’m not worried. Because in order to be worried, you need to care.

And I don’t.

Peaceful, yet completely apathetic.

That was my state of mind before I got here.

And that’s how I will most likely leave.

I’m running my bloody finger over the wall—for the third time since I got here—when he arrives with his Guy Fawkes mask and a brown paper bag. I sit straight and watch him intently.
Nate
. It’s difficult to admit that he’s my sunray in the rain, but that’s exactly what he is. Weird, freaky, elusive. . .and comforting all the same.

“Soap, shampoo, Tampax, couple of clean shirts. . .”—he starts listing what he brought for me as he takes the items out of the bag, placing them in a neat row on the small wooden table, not even sparing me a glance—“. . .two bottles of water, three bags of chips, chalk so you’ll stop smearing blood all over the walls, I’d like my deposit back, believe it or not, a stress ball, a book. . .”

“What book?” I cut into his words, lolling my bloody finger inside my mouth, sucking it clean. His head twists. He wasn’t ready for my question.

“Something I had upstairs.”

I jump on my feet and pace toward him. The eyes behind the mask remain blank. He doesn’t scan my body. He doesn’t find me attractive, or if he does, he’s extremely good at hiding it. My heart dives down with disappointment. It’s going to be difficult to seduce him into making an epic mistake that’d grant me my freedom. Taking the stress ball from his hand and squeezing it fast and hard makes me feel instantly better, like I’m pumping some of the storm out of my body. It’s been overflowing for days.

“
Dreams from Bunker Hill
?” I pick up the coffee-stained paperback with my free hand, brushing his tattooed knuckles, and not by accident. Each finger is inked with a cartoonish doodle. Ink was either drunk or is extremely untalented to have given him these horrible tats. My shoulder purposely bumps into his chest. He takes a step back, staring at me like I grew a pair of wings and a third green eye.

“I read it when I was fifteen.” My tone is lenient. Nostalgic.

“Sucks for you. I’m not a library.”

“You know what this is?” I brush the wrinkled spine of the book, still warm from its owner’s touch. He folds his arms over his massive chest, staring at me through the mask. “This is you telling me that’s why you called yourself Beat. Admit it. You want to talk to me, you want me to
listen
.” I lick my lips, clutching onto the novel like I can squeeze Beat’s heart’s desires and secrets with it.

“You seem to know a lot about a nameless man in a mask you hang out with a few minutes a day,” he grunts.

“Have dinner with me here.”

“No,” he says. “Your fifteen minutes of shitting, showering and washing your clothes have officially started. Move it.”

Reluctantly, I drag my feet upstairs with my new toiletries in tow and watch as he pads into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.

“How come Ink is never around?” I take off my clothes.

“He works nightshifts.”

That explains why we spoke freely last night.

“He’s here tonight, though,” Nate adds.

“So how come he hasn’t checked on me even once?”

I swear he blushes under that mask.

I don’t want him to think that I have a problem with the current arrangement, so I reassure him, by adding, “I’m not complaining. I like you better, for the record.”

“Duly noted, now get your ass in the shower.” He gives me a light nudge. I turn my back to him—showing him that I trust him and start humming under the stream of hot water, swaying my hips to a bad pop song. I love pop songs, because the Archers hate them.

Nate washes my dress again, even though there’s no need. Maybe it soothes him to do something while he’s here.

“Why were you upset last night?” I throw my head back and let the water wash out the shampoo he bought for me. It’s hard to believe that only a few nights ago, I was still living in Danville, with a walk-in shower and four showerheads in my own giant bathroom. My usual shampoo is made of organic coconut and my body lotion probably costs more than his shoes.

“Finish up. I’m gonna hang this in the meantime.” He ignores me and walks away, locking the door behind him. I quickly get out of the shower and resume my search for sharp objects.

Remember, Prescott, it’s a numbers game. Nate’s crack-up percentage is at about 15%, if not less. Camden will be here in twenty-seven days. . .

Time.

Godfrey was right. It slips between your fingers until you’re dead. I need to find a way out of this place, fast. I can’t rely on Nate’s good heart if I have a slight chance to make it on my own.

I place one foot against the wall, grab the towel rack and pull it out with force. I use it to pop the lock on the bathroom door with a loud bang. There’s no way either of them didn’t hear the lock breaking in two.

Time
.

I know my countdown starts now.

Ten.

I storm out with nothing but a towel. Once in the narrow, dim corridor, I run straight to the small living room and launch for the main door.

Nine.

It’s locked. I swivel back and look around, eyes frantic, urgently searching for the keys.

Eight.

They should be here somewhere. Beat and Ink can’t lock themselves in from the outside.

Seven.

I hear his heavy footfalls. The hallway is short, too short.

Six
.

I spot the keys resting inside a fruit bowl, hidden between a few black bananas. I scoop them and jam the key into the lock with shaky hands. I can’t do it. Dammit, I keep missing the hole!

Five.

Trying once.

Four.

Trying twice.

Three.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

Two.

Taking a deep breath, I jam the key again, twisting it left and right.

Click
.

I swing the door open and trip through it, at first heavily, like I’m moving through sticky dough. I still can’t believe my good luck. My pace breaks into a full-on sprint when I get used to the sudden fresh air. I’m out. My bare feet are hitting the dewed grass.

I’m out. I’m out!

I’m running into the pitch-black night, toward the lights, toward Taco Bell, toward freedom. Once I get there, I’ll fall to my knees and beg the cashiers for help. They’ll call 911. I’ll be safe.

All I need is to get to the corner of this sleepy, wide-road boulevard. It merges with El Dorado, one of Stockton’s main streets.

Liberty is at my fingertips, and I can almost brush it. Hell, I can already
smell
it. Nighttime breeze hits my lungs, the bloom of summer violent with its hopefulness. I gulp it in pleasure, gasping for more.

Stumbling upon shattered beer bottles, I race forward, wincing in pain but never stopping, my muscles straining under the rush of adrenaline.

I’m just about to round the corner into plain sight when a huge body football-tackles me into the grass of a front lawn.

My airway is cut by the attacker, who is pressing against my torso. Intentional? At this point, completely irrelevant, as I’m thrown back to square one. Muscular legs are straddling my body and he’s using one hand to pin my arms above my head, the other to cover my mouth.

Nate.

I’m yelling, biting into his palm with everything I have, knowing that he is too good to hit me, too good to inflict pain upon me—though not too good to let me run away from the hands of those who would destroy me—but all I get is his low voice growling brokenly, “Sorry.”

I pop one eye open, shocked.
He’s sorry?

“You’re trying to save your life, I get it. But I’m trying to save mine, all right? We can do this cat and mouse thing, where you’re trying to break free and I impose shitty rules to keep you from escaping. Or you can just accept that this is not going to happen. Next time, you’ll be out of this house, Godfrey and Camden will escort you out.”

I feel my chest trembling with tears. Hatred and terror block my throat, making it impossible to swallow. The possibility of not running away from here crashes into me for the very first time. And to think that I was so close. That I’m
still
close. Outside in the open, straddled by a huge masked man.

But this is a quiet side street in Stockton. On the corner of the street, three homeless people with loaded supermarket carts are yelling and throwing junk at each other.

A bum sleeps under a small shed he created for himself down the road, unmoved by our commotion.

There’s a junkie sitting on the steps of a church not too far away, talking animatedly to her fingers.

Beat and I are nothing special here. Even if we were, no one is going to pick a fight with a guy so big and muscular. Not for me, anyway.

No one is coming to get me.

I open my mouth, intending to protest, maybe even beg—I’m not above begging at this point—when I feel him subtly grinding against me. At first, I think it might be by accident. But no. He’s circling his hips against mine. I lift my ass on an instinct, wanting him to go crazy for me.

I’m going to smash your balls, Mr. Vela.

His cold zipper hits my bare lower stomach—just where the towel slits open. He’s hard. Very hard. And I may be mistaken, but he’s also as thick as Godfrey’s cockney accent.