Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (11 page)

A black girl lounges on the couch, mostly naked, wearing a tattered robe loosely tied, showing bare breasts and a thong. A metal pipe smolders on the coffee table. Judging by the smell, she’s not smoking pot.
 

“Maisy,” Eli mutters. “Wake the fuck up.”
 

“’M’awake.” She stirs, swivels her head to stare balefully at me, and then sees Eli. “Whozzat?

“Colt. He’s gonna crash a few nights. Don’t give him any shit.”
 

“Got anything good for me, Eli?”
 

“Nah.” Eli blows out a frustrated breath. “I think you high enough, bitch. Maybe tomorrow.”
 

“Fine. Fuck you too.”
 

“Watch that shit, Maisy.” Eli shuffles side to side. Eyes me. There’s history between these two, but I really don’t want to know what it is. I’m too tired to care. “Take the room on the left. Lock the door.”
 

“Okay.” I hobble, sore and tired and hurting and hungry and lonely and scared, toward the hallway.
 

“I’ll be back later. Don’t go nowhere.”

“I need food.”
 

“Maisy. Got anything to eat?” Eli asks.

“I ain’t his bitch. He can look for hisself.” Maisy takes a long hit off the pipe, holds the smoke, blows it out with a cough, and flops back on the couch, draping her forearm over her eyes.
 

“I’m just asking if you
have
anything here for him to find.” Eli shakes his head in disgust. “You gotta lay off that shit, Maisy. It ain’t doing you any favors.”
 

“Live your own fuckin’ life, Eli. We don’t roll together no more. Remember?”
 

Shit is getting tense.

I back away from the living room. “I’ll be fine until you come back.”

“Just look around. She may have something to eat. She’s so fuckin’ high, she won’t give a shit what you do.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Wish I ain’t brought you up here. All she do is get high and wanna argue.”

She’s staring at Eli, eyes heavy-lidded, glazed. Not sure she’s seeing anything.
 

“Should I, like, check on her or something?” I ask.
 

Eli waves a hand in dismissal. “Nah. She’ll be fine. I make sure she don’t have enough to kill herself with. Dumb bitch can’t help herself.” He yanks open the front door, steps out. “I’ll be back later. Stay here, for real. Like, stay in the room and mind your business.”
Bid-ness,
he says it.

“Okay.” Not sure where else I would go. I don’t know where I am. I have a little cash now, but not enough to get a place or a ride.
 

When Eli is gone, I wait in the hallway for a while, watching Maisy. She’s cashed out, lying on her side, eyelids almost closed, her arm hanging off the couch, wrist limp. When I’m sure she’s really out of it, I head into the kitchen. Fucking nasty up in here, man. Mold is growing on the dishes. The stink is enough to turn my stomach. Doesn’t leave me very hopeful that there’s any edible food to be found, but I poke through the cabinets and fridge just in case. Some old cans of beans that expired six months ago, boxes of Jell-O that expired over a year ago, some moldy bread, a jar of peanut butter that seems okay, some grape jelly in the fridge, the rim crusted with hardened jelly. Peanut butter and jelly, no bread. A carton of milk, so old and soured that the sides are bulging. Orange juice in the same condition.
 

How does this girl survive?

I find a box of Cheez-Its on top of the fridge that aren’t too stale, so I settle on those and spoonfuls of peanut butter. I find a dusty juice glass in a cabinet, rinse it out, fill it with tap water. Spoonfuls of peanut butter, handfuls of Cheez-Its. This is familiar. I’d often be doing homework so late into the night that I’d miss dinner, and then I’d sneak down into the kitchen in the middle of the night and scrounge for food. Often, dinner would be granola bars, fruit, a PB&J, crackers, leftovers, anything I could find and eat quickly without having to work at it. Not because I was afraid of cooking or that I didn’t know how, but because of my brother. Kyle. The golden boy. Back when I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, he was in elementary school, and god help me if I woke him up. Precious perfect boy needed his sleep, you know? That’s envy talking, though. I always had to be up at the crack of dawn to walk my ass to school, to finish homework, all while Kyle got to sleep in, get driven to school. Not his fault, but I sure was jealous.

Not that I’m bitter toward Kyle, though. I mean, for real. He’s a good kid. That’s the problem: he’s
good
. Smart, well-behaved. All A’s in school, athletic, great at baseball and football and soccer
and
school. Five years younger than me, a world between us. I mean, when you’re eleven and getting shit on for being stupid, your six-year-old brother is kind of periphery, you know? And there’s a world of difference between boys at that age anyway, but with having all I could do just to get anything close to passing grades at school, I pretty much never saw him. And I think my folks were fine with that. Afraid my brand of dumb was catching, maybe. Afraid I’d infect poor Kyle with my stupidity. The embarrassment. That’s how Dad saw me, and Mom never dared challenge him openly on it.
 

Okay, maybe I am a little resentful of Kyle. I just got fucking sick to death of hearing “Why can’t you just be more like Kyle?”
 

I don’t even know why I’m even thinking about him right now since I’ve got a few other things on my mind.
 

When I’m as full as I can get, I check out the bathroom, thinking maybe a shower would be nice. I lower my backpack to the cracked, stained linoleum on the floor, perusing with distaste the foul mess of the bathroom. Girly shit everywhere. Hairspray, makeup, brushes, a million random bottles containing who-the-fuck-knows-what, a garbage can near the toilet overflowing with condom wrappers, wadded up balls of toilet paper probably containing the used contents of the discarded wrappers, several used and sloppily-wrapped…girl time-of-the-month products.
 

Fucking nasty.

Jesus, this bitch is a slob.

The shower isn’t much better. A shower curtain that was once white, but is now orange from hard water stains, mildew dotting the bottom. Or maybe it’s just flat-out mold. More bottles, a hard, crusty old rust-colored washcloth permanently folded over the faucet. A thin sliver of soap in one corner. I don’t see any clean towels but there is a damp one hanging off the corner of the bathroom door. I check the cabinet under the sink. Curling iron, a bag of barrettes or something like that, clips of some kind, and little rubber bands. More boxes of tampons, a box of condoms, and…shit, a baggie of drugs, long white crystals, probably meth. Haven’t ever and won’t ever touch that shit. At least there’s one clean towel under the sink, faded blue, folded in sloppy quarters.
 

I shut the bathroom door and lock it. I turn on the shower and run it hot—as hot as it’ll go, which isn’t very—and rinse off. I scrub my hair, and hiss and wince at the sting of the soap on my face. The cuts in my eyebrow and the split lip and the corner of my nose and my cheek all hurt like hell. I scrub my body and, shit, that hurts too. I’ve got a fuckload of bruises on my torso, chest, stomach and sides.
 

Finally, I’m clean. I dry off, put on clean clothes and shove the dirty ones in my bag and hope I get a chance to do laundry at some point.
 

Finally, I look at myself in the mirror; dude, am I busted up. My face is a wreck, both eyes are black and nearly swollen shut, my lips are puffy and split, and my nose is still crooked despite my attempts to reset it.
 

But I’ve got four hundred bucks in my pocket.
 

Was it worth it, getting the shit beaten out of me?
 

I can buy my own food, now. Maybe, if I take another couple fights and make some more cash, I’ll be able to afford my own place. A room somewhere, at least.
 

I hang the towel I used over the shower curtain bar, drag my fingers through my thick shaggy hair and try to untangle it a little, and then I exit the bathroom.

Maisy is still passed out. She hasn’t stirred. She’s lying on the couch with her tits hanging out and her robe rucked up around her ass. She’s snoring loudly.

Eli said room on the left, so naturally I peek into the room on the right. Nothing in it but a twin bed, a bedside table and a stack of cash rolled up and rubber-banded together. The curtains are closed. But it is the one clean room in the apartment.

I don’t want to draw any false conclusions, but I have an inkling as to how Maisy affords the apartment and the drugs.
 

I close the door, and try the room on the left. It is totally empty except for some barbells and dumbbells in one corner, and a bare, piss-stained mattress on the floor. No blanket.
 

Fuck it. It’s a bed and it’s indoors.

I lock the door behind me, shut off the light, and lie down. Once again I stuff my backpack under my face and wrap my arms around it.
 

I’m asleep before I’ve taken three breaths.

Chapter 5: Power From the Earth

When Eli said he’d be back later, apparently he meant a lot later. Three days go by. He’d told me to stay put, but I had to eat. Plus, my guess as to what Maisy does with her time, besides doing meth, was correct. There are grunts coming from the room across from mine at all hours. Maisy completely ignores me. I stay in my room at all costs, only sneaking out in quiet moments to piss, maybe, or grab a cup of water and another handful of Cheez-Its. But eventually, I’m too hungry. I have to go out and find something decent to eat. I have to.

I shoulder my backpack, placing the bulk of my cash rolled up tight and stuffed into a rolled-up pair of socks, hidden way down at the bottom. I keep two twenties in my pocket. I memorize the address as I walk out of the building and hang a left. I remember seeing a couple of fast food places on the way here and I head toward them.
 

I make it three blocks.
 

Crossing the parking lot beside a laundromat, a big black SUV with shiny, spinning rims tears into the lot and stops in front of me and blocks my progress. I back up slowly, hands in my pockets, heart pounding. Six guys get out, all of them black, all of them big, hard looking, scary as fuck. They swagger, each of them wearing bright white Jordans or spotless tan Timberlands, do-rags around their heads or hanging from pockets.
 

“You in the wrong ’hood, dog,” one of them says.
 

“What’chu got in that bag?” says another.

Shit. Shit.
 

My heart is in my throat. Adrenaline pumps like fire in my veins. This bag is all I’ve got. Some dirty clothes, some crumbled crackers, and $375. They will have to take it literally over my dead body.

I stand my ground and say nothing. They spread out in front of me in a semi-circle. I swivel my head, trying to keep my eye on all of them at once.

Six on one. I don’t like these odds.

This is gonna fuckin’ hurt.

One of them swaggers closer to me. “Tyrell asked what you got in your bag, motherfucker.”
 

“Clothes. Nothing else.” I let it slide a little, ready to drop it and swing.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s just fuckin’ clothes, man,” I say. I swing it in front, unzip it a little, show him. “Just dirty clothes.”
 

He snatches it, or tries to. I jerk it back, snatching it from his grip. I see his punch coming, dodge it, smash my fist as hard as I can into his throat. He gurgles, and shuffles backward.
 

I know what’s coming next. I dance backwards, drop my bag and stand on the strap. They’re closing in, all five of them. One swings, I dodge it and return the punch, but another fist is incoming at the same time and I can’t dodge both. I ain’t Jackie Chan, that’s for sure. It’s a sucker punch to the back of my head, and it sends me sprawling. I roll, catch a kick to the kidney before I can get back up.

It gets nasty, after that.
 

I give all I’ve got. I lay them out, knock teeth out of skulls and balls up into crotches. I take knock after knock and keep getting up. I’m drooling blood and feel a tooth loosen. I gasp for breath, peering blearily, woozily at the scene around me. I’m sagging, staggering. One of them is standing over me. He shoves me, kicking me as I fall, sending me flying. I can’t fucking breathe.
 

Another kick. Seeing my bag, I grab it and haul it to me, curl around it. Kick after kick, rattling my bones and jarring my organs.

I hear a petrifying sound: a metallic slide, followed by a
click
. A gun being cocked.

“Leave his ass, dog. He ain’t shit.”

“Knocked my fuckin’ tooth out, the hell I’mma leave him alone.”
 

I scramble away, each movement an agony. I roll to my knees, struggle to my feet and spit more blood. All six are on their feet, staring at me. They’re all hurt and bloodied; I held my own, motherfuckers.
 

The one in front has a silver pistol in his hand, and it’s aimed at me. This is none of that movie bullshit where some thug holds the gun at a stupid sideways angle. He steps up to me, jams the barrel into my chest, grinds it hard. I stand my ground.
 

Blood pools in my mouth, and I spit it at my feet. Meet the gun wielder’s gaze. Wipe my chin on my arm. Stare him down. All but daring him to shoot me, basically.

“Come on, man. He ain’t worth it. Just a cracker in the wrong ’hood. Leave his ass.” The speaker urges his friend backward. I lift my chin. I’m scared fucking chicken, very literally shaking in my boots. But I don’t show it. I continue to stare them down, holding my bag in one hand. I spit more blood.
 

I swear I’m about to get shot.
 

But then an engine snarls and tires squeal. Eli, in his Buick, slides to a halt beside me and jumps out. He draws his pistol smoothly, holds it out, swinging it to point at each of the other guys in turn.