Page 6 of SNOB

I take another step forward before those greens disappear, her eyes squeezing shut.

Shit.

POW!

A hard slap hits my abs as my eyes rise to hers.

She gasps, her eyes dropping to my torso. Looking down, blood stains my white shirt. And before it all registers, I lose my balance and collapse to the ground.

Looking up at her legs, she’s shakier than ever. So shaky if I listen hard enough, I’m sure I can hear the bullets rattle in that gun.

When my eyes rise back to the face of the maniac who shot me, I don’t miss the smirk that fades as quickly as it shows. “I—fuck—” she stammers, looking around her. “Did I?—”

Loud sounds come from inside the bar. The rattle of glasses, shouting, and the sound of tables knocking over. Maybe chairs. If they didn’t hear the first shot, they sure as hell heard this one.

“Malcolm?” Father’s voice bellows from beyond the door, solidifying my assumptions.

“Go,” I demand as I stare into those eyes. She’s frozen, her eyes fixed on my body. “Go. Now.”

The gun clatters to the ground before those black shoes take off. She glances back, her eyes catching mine before she disappears around the corner. It’s only then a searing hot sensation hits my side.

Trying to push off the ground is impossible. With a groan, I slide back down, a hint of her scent still in the air.

“Mac!”

The world returns when my father appears by my side, the smell of alcohol replacing that sweet, deadly scent.

“Call Antoni,” Father demands, his hand hovering above my body. “Who the hell did this?”

My head falls against the brick, closing my eyes so her mouth comes to me again. Those eyes. That hair. It’s all I can think of to take the pain away.

“Malcolm,” Father calls again. “Stay with me. Who did this? Some Valley vermin?”

Exactly. “I—I dunno.”

“What did he look like?”

Heaven.

Hell.

“I don’t know,” I push my words through my teeth. “I didn’t see his face.”

Truth is, I’ll never fucking forget it.

Ember

(Two Years Later)

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Pressing the crumpled lottery ticket against Uncle Jake’s chest, I collapse into the dingy sofa beside him. Those three words alone make his slur noticeable. But if that didn’t tell me he’s half-in-the-bag, the smell reeking off his breath would.

“Keep wasting money on gambling and I just might.” Sketchpad in my lap, I settle into the space beside him, my attention split between my charcoal pencil and the small screen in front of us. It’s the Bruins versus The Canadiens. Third period. Tied game. “Offside!” I call, Uncle Jake mumbling the same. The refs don't catch it.

“Fuck the refs,” we both groan in unison, and that’s enough to dispel the tension between us.

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