Page 22 of The Guy in the Alley

Fuck. Just yesterday, I had hated the cold with every fiber of my being. And here I was now… But that proved how fast an illusion could reel one in. Even though tomorrow’s worries were on my mind, I’d been able to push them out of sight to some degree today. I’d known this morning that I’d have a couple nice meals. I’d known I wasn’t going to freeze my ass off. My clothes were clean. When I asked Trace later if I could take a shower before I went to bed, I had no doubt he’d say yes.

I scrubbed my hands over my face. I should shave, but I wasn’t going to. I needed everything that kept me warmer. Without a car, I’d have no choice but to seek out options I’d managed to avoid for so long. It happened, of course. I’d spent the night at O’Hare. I’d spent more than a few nights riding the blue line. I’d been robbed when I’d foolishly fallen asleep at Union Station once. I’d accidentally stumbled upon a turf war between two bums fighting over a heat exhaust in Lincoln Park, and it’d resulted in me limping to the nearest urgent care with a stab wound in my calf.

I’d thought those days were over. I’d bought that car two years ago, cheap as fuck, constantly something wrong with it, but it’d been a place to sleep, and I’d found it easier to get jobs if I could expand my search field geographically.

I’d look into what kind of transit card I needed to buy tomorrow. The thirty bucks Trace had given me offered a bit of relief. I’d be able to see Alvin. Which settled it; he liked trains, so fuck the bus. Maybe I could convince him to leave the house.

This was better. I should focus on my problems, not the life Trace had. Not him, period. What the fuck was I thinking about him for anyway? It’d do me no good. It wasn’t like I had shit to offer him anyway. I was a fucking loser. I couldn’t take care of my own boy. I couldn’t take care of myself.

I was definitely leaving tomorrow. First thing in the morning, before Trace woke up.

This was his goddamn fault anyway. It wasn’t like me to fantasize about human touch or even an ounce of happiness. I’d gotten a couple years of sporadic exploring after the divorce, and that was evidently it for me. The sooner I got that through my skull, the better.

The kitchen door opened with a creaky protest, flooding this part of the alley with light, and I recognized the dark silhouette of Trace.

“There you are.” He looked down, and I noticed he had a smoke between his lips. He chuckled. “You made a doorstop outta snow. Who the fuck are you, man?”

Someone was lit.

CHAPTER FOUR

Trace Kalecki

Thank fuck. He hadn’t taken off.

“There you are.” Relief filled me, and I checked—oh damn. He’d already made sure the door couldn’t shut us out. But seriously, that icy pile of snow looked like he’d worked hard on it! “You made a doorstop outta snow. Who the fuck are you, man?” I grinned and dug into my pocket for a lighter. “I wonder what else you could do around here. There’s a big crack in the bartop—probably three feet long. It’s a bitch to get clean. Got any solution?”

I lit the smoke and coughed on the first drag. Shit. It’d been a minute.

“I don’t know if you’re serious or just rambling because you’ve had a few, so I’ll refrain from responding,” he answered. “Is this the best time to pick up a new habit?”

I waved him off and stopped at the first step. “I only smoke when the stars align.” I ticked three things off my fingers. “When I’m doing shots and the Hawks are losing and someone lets me bum one.”

Ben’s mouth twitched with mirth, and he looked down and scuffed snow off his boot against the stoop. “You and I are alike in some ways. I used to do that too. For me, it was only during football season, only if all the bills were paid, and only when I was drinking.”

I grinned and blew out some smoke.

That made perfect sense to me.

“Are we still down by four?” He jerked his chin at the door.

I puffed out a breath, and it misted in the cold. So far, it just felt good. Shit got sweaty in there. “It was when I left, but it could be five—hell, why not six or seven? Only fuckin’ thing we’re rakin’ in is minutes in the box.”

“Mm.” He dipped his chin and held out two fingers for my smoke.

I smirked and handed it to him. “Football season is over.”

He grinned faintly and took a drag. “Not for the Chiefs and…whoever the fuck they’re facing this year.”

I sucked my teeth. I didn’t wanna talk about it. Bad enough we were fully booked and had to show the nonsense on all screens in a few weeks.

“Speaking of not that, the realignment notwithstanding—who do you see as our biggest rivals?” I asked. “For the Hawks, I mean.”

He returned the smoke to me and grew pensive.

It was as if every little fucking thing he did was sexy. Even how he blew out smoke.

I was a head case.

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