Page 12 of Keep You Close

Back in the day, I would have to crash in Navesink Bank for a while, taking jobs doing private security at Kingston’s company to save up to head out again.

I didn’t mean for relative success to make me selfish, but now that I was faced with my brother’s sad eyes, yeah, I had to admit that it was something I’d undeniably become.

“It is what it is. I’m not mad about it,” I added, but shot my eyes over toward AJ. Who seemed like she was seconds away from a fucking panic attack.

“AJ…” Kingston started in that calm, fatherly voice of his that brought me right back to my teens.

“Really, I should have known better,” she said, talking to herself. “I mean, who gets to rent a house without paperwork or first, last, and security? Especially with a dog,” she rambled. “Excuse me,” she said as her voice got thick and her eyes got watery.

Then she turned and rushed down the hallway, the bathroom door closing with a loud click that had her dog waking up with a start.

“Heya, Samson,” King said as the Golden Retriever-mix came walking over to him after the world’s longest stretch. “Sorry we upset your mom,” he added, finding a spot behind his ear that had his leg thunking against the floor rapidly. “He’s a good dog. Got about a braincell and a half to rub together, but he doesn’t do any kind of damage around here.”

“I don’t care about the dog either,” I said, shrugging. “But she’s all torn up about this,” I said.

“She’s a nice kid,” Kingston said, older than all of us, so he called all of us ‘kids.’

“How long has she been living here?” I asked, my gaze moving around.

I’d noticed the blanket and the coffee cup that had been unfamiliar to me when I first came in. But I’d been too beat and in pain to really think about it. I probably assumed it was from someone in the family.

Now that I looked around, though, I saw a ton of shit around that didn’t belong to me.

Soft, off-white curtains on the window. The dog bed and toys. A collection of hair ties next to the TV. A lamp in the dark corner of the room. A big glass candle sitting on the ledge of the cutout between the living room and kitchen.

“Six months,” King said, rocking on his heels. “And I know it’s not your problem, but I really don’t think she can afford to live anywhere else right now,” he said. “I charge her enough to pay the bills, that’s it.”

And if she already didn’t have much to her name, asking her to find another place that would demand first, last, and security was borderline cruel.

Especially when I was only here as I recovered.

“Maybe we can figure something out,” I said, hearing the sound of AJ blowing her nose from the bathroom. “It’s not like I need to be here for long.”

“What did the doctor say?” King asked, gaze going to my leg.

“The leg is the worst,” I said, sighing down at the cast, but the exhale made my ribs scream. “Months, they said. Possibly even months in the damn cast. Won’t know ‘till I follow up with an orthopedic doctor. Ribs will be a couple weeks. Rotator cuff could be… something that bothers me on and off for a long time. Fingers are nothing. The herniated disc could be annoying, but likely won’t put me down or anything.”

“You didn’t mention your neck,” Kingston said, tone chiding.

“Give me a break here, man,” I said, shooting him a small smile. “My entire fucking body feels like a bruise. I’m not thinking straight.”

“Didn’t they give you anything?” he asked.

“Enough to get me back to the States, yeah. But I gotta follow up with someone else now.”

“I’ll have Scotti ask if any of the Mallicks have a pill or two to spare. They’re always hurting something,” he added.

It was the nature of their jobs, after all, as loan shark enforcers.

Our sister, Scotti, had married into the Mallick family, making them all of our extended family as well. And when you needed something, that crew either had it themselves, or knew someone who did.

“Wouldn’t refuse a pain pill,” I admitted as he shot off a text and I tried to sit up straighter, only to fall back with a string of curses.

“Is it so fucking hard to ask for a little help?” King asked, moving toward me, and reaching for the forearm of my good arm, pulling slowly until I was against the cushions, my ribs pulsing in pain as I awkwardly set my cast on the coffee table.

“This thing feels like it weighs five-hundred-fucking pounds,” I said, gesturing toward it.

“Looks like it,” he agreed as his phone buzzed. “Scotti is with Shane. He says he can drop a half-used bottle by. And a recommendation for an ortho he’s used.”

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