Page 90 of Shark Bait

Sad birds can’t sing, she’d said while lying in bed with me.

I don’t want her to be sad, and I’m not a throwaway either. I want to be loved too. I want to be treated as a man, have my dick sucked when I ask and when I don’t ask. I’m happy to doubledown on anything she puts out for me. There’s nothing wrong with taking care of a woman who takes care of me, and since I’m a dude, my needs are simple: love me, suck me, let me be your baby’s daddy.

Troy would’ve made a fine wife, but I don’t want her at the cost of her happiness or at the cost of mine. Since all that poor woman ever wanted was to return home, when the opportunity presented itself for her to leave and for me to preserve Alessio’s life (because he wouldn’t have let her go, and I would’ve shot him for her), I took it.

He is my brother from another mother. I have nobody besides him, and my loyalty to him is unwavering. Having to choose Troy’s freedom over his directive almost broke me, but the events that happened after I met her forced me into a corner.

Troy made the choice easier. She wanted to go home.

I hope she sings in Tennessee. I hope her family inspires her to pick up her guitar again. On my end, I’ll buy all the Hazed albums. Special editions too. And I’ll make Alessio and Val and pretty much everyone I know buy them too. If they go on tour, I’ll buy tickets.

“Stop rubbing your knuckles. They’re bleeding all over the car.” Alessio says.

“What?”

“Your knuckles are bleeding.”

I look down at the blood trailing down my fingers and onto the seat between my legs. I’m bleeding under the gauze the med team at the station used to wrap my hands with. They also patched up my bleeding nose. Several times. Some cops can’t hold their temper when their questions go unanswered.

I check the back seat for cloth or a towel, even though I know the cars Alessio rents are clean and will be scrubbed right after we lift off in the chopper.

“You looking for your brain back there?”

Annnd here we go. I anticipate this conversation will feel like finding your way out of Minefield Park (don’t mistake it for Mansfield), where you watch every step and hope you can make it out alive.

I side-eye him. “I’m looking for something to wipe the blood from the seat with.”

He reaches for his handkerchief, but produces nothing, then grits his teeth. He never forgets a hanky, a habit from his younger days when his parents made him into their perfect, almost royal boy. He was supposed to marry a princess.

I wait for him to comment on where the hanky is, but he grips the wheel tightly, turning his knuckles white. Alessio guns the car over the open space and toward the chopper, the blades already spinning. He doesn’t slow down as we get closer. Okay. Nobody is walking out of this park.

Wheeee.

I release my seat belt. “Fuck it. We ride.”

Tires screech, and we stop right before the spinning blades chop us up. Alessio hops out of the vehicle and marches toward the chopper, ducking under the strong whiplash.

Calmly, I exit the car and take off my shirt, then wipe my blood off the seat while keeping an eye on Alessio. He’s about to climb into the helicopter, then does a double take when he realizes I’m not following him.

I wave my white undershirt as if it’s a peace flag. “I’m cleaning up a little,” I shout over the rotors, doubtful he can hear me.

Alessio’s face resembles that of a snarling dragon. I am not kidding. He’s a scary man when his favorite things or people are in jeopardy and he’s forced to give up assets to free them. In this case, he gave up Troy, a liability, which makes everything much worse.

A liability is a thing he can’t control.

I’ve always been an asset. Today, I’m his liability, and Alessio can’t stand the fact he’s attached to a liability. I will do what I think is best for her at the cost of me and him and everything we have. I’ll sell it all. Destroy everything if that makes her less sad.

But I don’t know if he realizes he can’t control me when it comes to Troy.

If he finds out, or if he already has, I’m not sure where he and I will end up. Probably dead.

Snarl-faced, he marches toward me. “What the fuck does it matter if the seat is clean now, hm? All of a sudden, you’re worried about evidence you left behind? Why?” He throws up his hands. “Why now, when last night, you left bloody carpets and blood-soaked furniture? Teeth, nails, bone splinters, hair. Everything! Everywhere!” He snatches my T-shirt and rips it in half with his bare hands.

He’s lost it. I haven’t seen Alessio lose his mind like this before.

“I understand why you’re upset,” I say.

He blinks. “You understand? Do I look like a motherfucker who gives a shit about your understanding of my feelings? Save that crap for your therapist.”

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