Page 16 of Breaking You Open

“How about the girl’s parents?” I ask.

“Far as I know, she had none,” Maurice replies.

“The cops, then?”

“They know.” He lights another cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke. “Not much more to do now than to fatten the wallet of Chief Hastings. And of course, to punish the one ultimately responsible for this mess. I hope you two understand you won’t be getting paid for last night. But you might get paid for this.”

Yeah, I was waiting for him to come to that part—the real reason for calling us over here.

“Where is he?” I ask.

Joshua squirms uncomfortably, and Maurice exhales a cloud of smoke and throws a thumb toward the back room. That’s it. No instructions, but we know damn well what to do.

I can already feel it—the smash of my fist into Eric Fletcher’s jaw…The satisfying grunt of pain as his blood sprays across my cheek…My guts wrench and my palms sweat as if I’m about to take a hit of some drug. The anticipation tingles all the way out to my fingertips.

While Ravi swings by the bar and takes a shot of whiskey, I head straight for the door. Unlike Ravi, I prefer to be stone-cold sober for this type of business. Makes the sensations more vivid. More memorable.

I unlock the door and step inside to find Eric Fletcher on the couch in a wide-legged sprawl, as if he has no care in the world.

“Hey, about time. I was about to fall back asleep in here, you know.”

“Sit back down,” I order.

“Hey, but you’re letting me out, right?”

Ravi closes the door behind me, and I crack my knuckles, mostly for show. It has the desired effect though; Eric cowers, backing up against the wall.

“Hey—no-no-no, wait! How could I have known the little bitch was gonna OD? How the fuck could I have—aaargh!”

My knuckles crackle with pain at the first hit—they always do, but I find myself liking the pain. My father used to say I had nothing good in me but violence, and with the passing of time, his words have etched deeper into my bones than I ever thought possible. At this point in my life, I’m inclined to believe them. Embrace them, even. Except for the occasional bartender and bouncer gigs, my responsibilities are as few and straightforward as I like.

Pull my fist back.

Crunch it into a jaw.

Smash it into a nose.

Bury my knee in the gut of a victim who’s unable to fight back.

Nothing more, nothing less. It’s all I want, and it’s all Icando to rid myself of this terrible anger within me. This festering sickness.

“You fucking animal,” Eric croaks, a bloody glob of spit dangling from his mouth, the whites of his eyes exposed as he stares up at me.

He’s right. In these moments, I feel more animal than man, and if I might be indulging in the dark gratification of hurting him a little more than strictly necessary, so what? The fucker had it coming, and if I hadn’t intervened, Sparrow might have eventually met the same fate as that poor girl.

“I’ll remember this,” Eric hisses after another blow to his gut.

“So will I.”

When I get home, I collapse in bed and stare at the ceiling, chest heaving and aching with something I can’t make sense of. I’ve lived like this on and off for close to twenty years; I should be used to it by now.

Heavy was the road that brought me here, and the road laid ahead of me is heavier still.

My knuckles tingle as I flex my sore hands, and when I close my eyes, I see a face in front of me: a young and trusting face, with the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

Sparrow. My name is Sparrow.

And I hope, for my sake as well as his, that our paths never cross again.

---