Page 12 of Fighting the Forbidden

“Sit up and drink this.” I hold out the glass.

She groans and squeezes her eyes tighter but finally peels herself into an upright position.

“Thanks,” she whispers, taking the glass and tipping it to her lips.

“You eat anything today?”

Her bony shoulders jerk up. “Some eggs.”

“Good.”

“Did you win tonight?” she rasps, handing the glass back to me.

“Yeah.” The fight was nothing. The real win for me was Molly. Finally letting her know how I feel. The warmth from being with her earlier is the only thing helping me cling to sanity now.

“Remy fight too?” she asks.

“No.”

She lets out a muted hum that I don’t care to interpret. The way she fawns over Remy became awkward years ago. While he’d never insult my mother to my face, he keeps his distance.

It’s the disdain my mother’s shown Molly that made me lose all respect for the woman who brought me into the world. When Molly’s mom died, I’d thought maybe my mother would display a little compassion. It’s not like I expected her to play new mom to Molly or anything. Just show some kindness to a motherless little girl. But no. If anything, Mom was even nastier than she had been before. I can’t even blame the drugs. Molly’s mom died years before my mother discovered the joys of opiates.

I glance at the clock. It’s only getting later. “You good?” I ask.

“You leave the money on the table?” My mother flops her hand in the direction of the dining room.

“Sure.” After rinsing out the glass, I search through the drawers until I find an envelope.

“Later,” I call as I hurry out of the apartment. My mother groans but if she has any actual words for me, I can’t make them out.

I jog to the basement and knock on the door of the only apartment down here. It’s late, but the television’s blaring, so the landlord has to be awake.

“You know what time it is?” he shouts from inside.

While I’m waiting, I stuff enough cash to cover my mom’s rent into the envelope. I already paid my own a few days ago.

Seconds later, the door flings open, and Mr. Porter stands there in a blue bathrobe, white T-shirt, and boxer shorts. “Oh. Hey, Griff. Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Sorry to bug you so late.” I hold out the envelope of cash. “Wanted to drop this off to cover Mom’s rent.”

He hesitates before accepting the money. “She’s cuttin’ it close, Griff.” He waves me inside. “Come in. I’ll write you a receipt.”

“Thanks.” I stand next to the open door while he crosses the room and picks up a small, spiral-bound ledger off of a bookshelf. He doesn’t bother counting the money—just scribbles out a receipt, tears it out of the book, and returns to me.

“You covering her place and yours now?” He doesn’t ask it in an unkind way—more like concern that he might have to fill a vacant apartment, or two, one day soon.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

He pushes the receipt toward me. “I guess not.” His gaze narrows on my face and he taps his own forehead. “You all right?”

I reach up, my fingers flittering over the cut Molly bandaged for me. “Yeah. Took a kick to the head in the ring tonight.”

“Griff…” He shakes his head but doesn’t finish the thought.

I grab the receipt. “We good?”

“Yup.” He runs his gaze over me again. “Get some rest, kid.”

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