Page 9 of The Spider & the Storm

“Okay, but you can’t tell mine either,” Luke replied, laughing along with him.

They almost turned into the house when Ritchie spotted me standing behind my brother. “What the hell is he doing here?” he asked, sneering.

“My asshole dad wouldn't let me come without him,” Luke grumbled, already walking through Rob’s front door.

My skin prickled at the sound of my brother calling our father an asshole, knowing Luke didn’t believe it. He was showing off for his mean friend, and I didn’t like it.

Ritchie blocked the doorway with his body after Luke passed. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, pinning me to the stoop with a menacing look. “Are you gonna be a little baby if I let you in?”

I diverted my gaze to the concrete at my feet.

“You're not gonna go running back to Mommy and Daddy like you did last time, are you?”

My cheeks burned with the evidence of my shame at the reminder of that time Luke had taken me to the movies a couple of months ago. We met up with Ritchie, Tommy, and a few girls from their school. Luke smoked a cigarette and kissed one of those girls—with his tongue and everything—when we were supposed to be watching the movie. I told Mom what had happened after we got home, and Luke didn’t speak to me for a week.

I hadn’t felt bad for saying anything. Cigarettes were bad, and that girl didn't seem very nice. But I hadn't realized Ritchie knew I'd tattled. I guessed Luke had told him, and I tried to glance around Ritchie's big, stupid body into the house to sear Luke with my angry glare.

Ritchie grabbed my arm, squeezing and hurting and probably bruising, and yanked me toward him. He scared me now, just like he always had, and my eyes teared up as my gaze met his.

“Because if you say a fucking thing, I'm gonna make sure you regret it,” he threatened, his voice low and intimidating.

“Let me go!” I tried to yank my arm away, but he only tightened his grip until the bone ached. “Ow! Stop!”

“Pinkie promise, little baby. Pinkie promise, and I'll let you go.”

A tear slipped from my eye. “Stop it!”

His fingers curled, digging his blunt nails into my flesh. “Say the magic words, Charlie boy.”

“Luke!” I cried out, squeezing my eyes shut and wishing I were at home in my room with my book.

“Come on,” Ritchie coaxed, his sweet voice playing a stark contrast to the pain he was inflicting on my arm. “Pinkie promise, and I'll let you go. Easy-peasy.”

I yelped, sounding like a hurt dog. “Fine! I pinkie promise!”

And just like that, he released me, giving instant relief to my arm, and held up his little finger. “Seal the deal, Charlie boy.”

I reluctantly offered the little finger of my left hand, and instead of holding up his end of the bargain, Ritchie grabbed my finger in his big hand and bent it back, nearly to its breaking point. I cried again, wondering where my brother was and why he didn't care—whynobodycared—as Ritchie stepped forward and bent down to press his mouth to my ear.

“I will break this fucking finger if you tell anyone anything, I swear to God. Got it?”

“I got it!”

“Good.” He let my hand go, then quickly wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “Now, come on. Let's get you a drink.”

***

That night, I learned I didn’t like beer. It tasted gross, burned my throat, and felt heavy in my stomach. I struggled with every swallow and gagged a little every time, but still, I drank because Ritchie had told me to. With the memory of his threats so fresh in my mind, the last thing I wanted was to make him unhappy.

It didn’t help that he never left me alone for long, almost as if he’d assigned himself the job of being my babysitter or something. Like I needed one. And what made everything worse was, I didn’t know where Luke had gone. I hadn’t seen him since we’d arrived, and between choked swallows of beer, I worried about what he was doing.

Mom and Dad will be so mad, I caught myself thinking more than once, staring into the half-empty cup of beer in my hand. But then I scowled, remembering that I couldn’t say anything to them at all … unless I wanted Ritchie to break my pinkie—which I didn’t.

What am I gonna do?

I looked up from the nasty beer and hesitantly surveyed the room, looking for my brother once again in the sea of teenagers. Most of them I didn’t recognize. I hadn’t been to school in almost five years, and besides, these kids were all at least two or three years older than me. Even if I had known any of them at some point, they all looked so much different—older—than they would’ve when I’d known them.

A wave of nerves barreled over me, and my stomach began to hurt, churning with the feeling that something was very wrong. I glanced at a clock on the wall, hanging above an entertainment center, and saw that it was past nine o’clock atnight. I’d been there for almost two hours, standing against the wall of the living room with a warm, half-empty cup of beer in my hand.

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