Page 11 of Uncontrolled

Ploy

My backpack is off balance, yanking against my shoulders, digging in where the weight of it sits uncomfortably at the base of my spine. Allie never said what she and Talia’s workout regimen consisted of, whether it was inside or outside. It’s why I mentioned I’d be downtown. If I run into them, Talia will warp it into creepy stalker behavior. I’m not about to give her any extra ammunition to use against me. No doubt, she’s already chipping away at any ground I’ve gained with Allie.

No, I think furiously. This isn’t a competition. Allie’s not a prize for Talia and I to fight over. She can think for herself.

Still, just in case she’s swayed a bit, I have a few counterpoints up my sleeve. For one, I’m useful. After Allie’s confession about the rent this morning, I’ve found something I can do to help her.

Walking the street with the flow of traffic, I spot my mark, a decently-enough dressed woman, late forties, highlights in her hair, wearing a business suit and heels so tall they should qualify her for circus work. I whip out the baseball cap I’m spanging with today and hold it right underneath her chin, throwing my body into her space.

“Hi!” I say cheerfully. “I was hoping you could help?” She opens her mouth to say no, but I launch into my next sentence. “My girlfriend started her period and she doesn’t have any supplies. Anything you could spare would be an enormous help for her.”

My cheeks are hot. It’s the sun, not embarrassment. Still, the woman breaks into a grin as if she knows I’ve pulled one over on her and is in on the deal.

“Jesus, kid,” she mumbles with a laugh. She drops a flash of green into the cap. “Try to find yourself some air conditioning at least, okay?” she adds as she starts off down the sidewalk.

I toss an enthusiastic, “Thanks!” after her before I check the load in the hat. Two fives and a scattering of one-dollar bills. “Nice,” I whisper.

I cup the ones, and subtly tuck the bigger bills into my pocket and out of sight.

“Hey, man,” I say as I locate my next mark, a muscular jock in a jersey, the white of the fabric blinding. “Borrow a couple bucks? Hoping to grab some food.”

“You want free money?” he jeers and it’s only then I realize he’s already trashed and clearly pissed. He gives me a good once over, sizing me up. It’s obvious I’m not the type to go to the cops about getting my ass kicked.

I hold up a palm in apology. “No problem. Forget it.”

The dude follows me pace for pace as I retreat. I can’t keep watch on him and where I’m going. Someone behind me yells a warning and I assume I’m blocking their path until my ankle hits the curb and wrenches, spilling me onto the cobblestones. My palm grinds against the rough ground as I catch myself.

The jock laughs. The loud braying sound attracts more attention, and I feel myself go red for real. A blur flashes past, one of the other guys from the Boxcar Camp, LowLow, his sweaty, bare chest pressed menacingly against the bully who now has his own hands in the air, backpedaling.

If I didn’t know LowLow, I’d be doing the same. Ink decorates his deeply leathered skin wherever it’s showing, including a tattooed crown of black x’s haloing his forehead. His head is shaved save for two thick locs decorated with beads and bone that dangle almost to his waist. His voice is a growl all wrong for a twenty-year-old, made raspy from years of whisky and screaming.

“Not a wise move, my friend,” he’s saying as he backs the jerseyed guy down the sidewalk, glowering with eyes so brown they appear black even in the day’s brightness. “Karmically.”

I know from experience how intimidating LowLow can seem to strangers. The bully doesn’t even attempt an apology or an excuse. He simply staggers across the street and into a bar, hands still raised, to drink off what he no doubt thinks was a close call.

Too bad he has no idea LowLow is a pacifist.

Fingers clasp mine as the rough-looking LowLow hauls me to my feet again. He jerks me into a hard pat of greeting before he comes away grinning ear to ear.

“Picked up a new window,” I say lightly, corkscrewing a finger into the spot where two of his teeth are missing, slightly left of center in his upper jaw. “What’d you do?”

He chuckles as he dodges me.

“I don’t hit back,” he reminds me, his hands folding together in a praying motion as he bows deeply. His locs drag on the cobblestones. LowLow straightens. “Haven’t seen you down by the boxes in a while,” he says. “Finally let yourself get caged by one of those angels always after you?”

He’s laughing, but my stomach sours anyway. Angel is a loose term for anyone who takes us under a wing and tries to rehabilitate us into regular life. Nothing about Allie’s life qualifies as regular. At least not the snippets I’ve seen.

When I don’t immediately answer, he leans in close and takes a hard whiff at the air beside my armpit. “Smell awful clean, Ploy.”

The deodorant I’m wearing is strong. In the heat, I’m basking in a cologne of Pure Sport Alpha Male. Allie picked it out, along with some body wash that doesn’t smell like apples. I don’t think she’s caught on yet that I still use hers. I stare down at the new sneakers on my feet. She even got me to toss the duct taped-together shoes I expected to make last until fall.

LowLow’s expression shifts from teasing to serious. “For real, though. Where you staying?”

Uncomfortable, I hike my pack and cinch the straps tighter. “Messed me up a bit when I found Brandon dead,” I admit. “Had to get gone awhile.”

Brandon had been a resurrectionist. We’d shared a boxcar while I slowly worked him for information on the blood. He never told me a thing before Jamison gutted him for the same and left him scraped clean of vital organs in the space I normally slept. Brandon’s death had been the catalyst to get me into an extended stay at Allie’s place. Again, Jamison arranged pieces, tearing apart people’s lives to benefit himself.

Good riddance, I think, and my face must change because LowLow bows his head with a nod.

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