Page 1 of Street of Dreams
Street of Dreams. The weathered and faded words were spray painted in black bubble lettering, covering the original name of the street. It implied opportunity and hope. A chance for a better future. In a better place. But no one ever left Chicago’s South Side.
With his boot against the concrete wall, Reid Mackenzie leaned back and thumped his fingers on the body of his acoustic guitar as he surveyed his surroundings. It was a hubbub of activity, day and night. Street vendors sold anything and everything. A guy sold dime bags next to someone selling homemade tamales. Everyone had their own spot, and no one dared to trespass onto someone else’s designated space. Otherwise, it would start a turf war. People defended their territory just like the gangs who patrolled the different neighborhoods. And this legendary four-block-long strip of pavement was run by the trio of thugs headed toward Mac right now.
He pushed off the block wall, gave the eldest of the three brothers his best death stare, and braced himself for the confrontation.
Wearing his signature black leather motorcycle jacket and a cigarette pinched between his lips, Jake King strutted across the street like he owned it. In essence, he did. He stepped onto the curb and stopped in front of Mac’s open guitar case. His twin brothers stood on either side of him like a pair of bookends. They weren’t identical twins, but they shared the same height and stocky built. All three brothers had a mop of black hair and dark eyes that were colder than a Chicago winter. They Kings were full of attitude, entitlement, and annoying as hell.
“Still wearing that skirt, Mackenzie?” Jake wore a cocky grin that was as much a part of his persona as that black jacket.
“It’s not a fucking skirt,” Mac replied, gritting his teeth at the insult. “It’s a kilt. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Jake’s grin widened, and he took a drag off his cigarette while looking directly at Mac. The tip glowed red as the smoke curled around Jake’s face, making him squint his left eye. “Again with the back talk? You got balls. I’ll give you that.”
Damn right he did. Mac squared his shoulders and stuck his chest out. He didn’t give a shit that the King brothers outnumbered him three to one or that they ruled the neighborhood. Growing up in South Side had toughened Mac at a young age, especially since he stood out with his fair skin and red hair. The Kings still tried to bully him, but he didn’t take shit from any of them, especially from the eldest pain in the ass, which earned him respect on the street. “What do you want, Jake? I already paid this week.” He glanced at the pompous expressions on the twins’ faces and the way they tried to intimidate him with an aggressive stance. Their puffed-up attitudes annoyed him. “Why don’t you come alone if you got something to say to me? Why do you always have to bring your brothers with you?”
“We go where our brother goes,” Henry, the more antagonistic twin, answered.
Jake held up his hand, silencing his brother. “First of all, Mackenzie, this is my street. I own it. Both sides.” Jake eyed the open guitar case at Mac’s feet, which overflowed with coins and dollar bills, already coveting its contents. “You had a lucrative week.” Again, he displayed that damn arrogant smile. “I pay attention.” Jake glanced at his brother Danny and motioned toward the case with a nod of his head. Hungry with greed, Danny scooped up handfuls of cash.
“That’s enough.” Mac put his boot on Danny’s knuckles before he cleaned out the guitar case. He knew he had to pay his dues, but he wasn’t going to let the King brothers take advantage of him.
Standing at just over six-feet tall, and with Danny still on his knees, Mac had the advantage. It didn’t matter that the kid was still a junior in high school. The Kings were tough as nails and dirty street fighters. Plus, Danny had his brothers backing him up. But Mac had his guitar across his chest and wouldn’t think twice about using it like a baseball bat to take out all three Kings. He didn’t want it to come to that, though, because it would start World War III, and he didn’t need that kind of trouble. “I said, that’s enough,” he repeated.
Danny looked to Jake, who nodded, and he reluctantly retracted his hand.
“Why are you giving this asshole a break?” Henry asked, sticking up for his twin brother.
Jake wore a crooked smile as he gave Mac the onceover. “Because he looks like he needs it.”
This guy was infuriating, with his giant ego and reckless attitude. Mac knew he shouldn’t respond so that Jake would just move on, but there was something about him that riled Mac’s senses, and he couldn’t hold his tongue. “I have a part-time job. I play the guitar on the street because I’m a singer/songwriter.” He exhaled a breath, regretting that he always let Jake bait him into an argument.
Jake snickered. “Are you gonna be a rock star?”
“It’s a better plan than sticking around the hood your entire life and running numbers, slinging guns, and dealing drugs. Or whatever the hell your family does.”
Mac found himself pinned against the concrete wall and the front of his T-shirt twisted in Jake’s fists. It happened so quickly that he didn’t know what was happening until his back slammed into the wall, forcing the air from his lungs in one gust of breath. He looked down at the calloused knuckles, only inches from his chin, which undoubtedly had years of contact with cheekbones and teeth.
“You better watch your mouth, Mackenzie. You don’t know shit. People get hurt for sticking their nose in my family’s business.”
Anger seethed from Mac’s nostrils with heated breaths as he met Jake’s stare. He could easily box Jake’s ears. Gouge his eyes. Even knee him in the balls. But street smarts told him not to brawl with Jake King. “Get the fuck off me,” Mac said, with calm indifference. “You got your money. Go harass someone who gives a shit.”
One side of Jake’s mouth drew back into a sly smile, and a soft sarcastic chuckle escaped him. “Like I said. You got balls.” He let go of Mac’s T-shirt and smoothed it down before he patted Mac lightly on the chest. “See you next week.”
Mac watched the King brothers cross the street and move on to their next victim, which was a street vendor selling bottles of water and cups of sliced fruit. Only when he was sure that Jake wasn’t going to turn around and look his way did he let out a deep breath. He finally allowed himself to feel the heat and the surge of adrenaline that coursed through his body at the close contact with the king of the street. He closed his eyes and saw Jake’s face, mere inches from his own. The fire behind those dark eyes smoldered like hot coals and burned into Mac’s soul. When Jake ran his hand down Mac’s chest, it took all of his willpower to control his breath and heartrate.
Now that they were no longer face to face, Mac was free to experience the rush. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and a prickle ran down his spine at the brazen arrogance of Jake King. Right or wrong, if Jake King wanted something, he took it. No questions asked. No excuses. Mac had no idea why he was so drawn to the thug, but he had no choice in the matter. Jake demanded attention and respect. He was only 21, and people twice his age bowed down to him. Jake owned the street, and although he would never know it, he also owned Mac’s heart.
One thing about Street of Dreams, it was never boring. At the end of Mac’s four-hour stint of playing his heart out, he witnessed a fist fight, an argument between the tamale guy and the fruit guy, and watched some dude get a blowjob behind a dumpster. At least there were no shots fired today.
He stuffed his beat-up guitar into the well-worn case and latched it closed. Then he stood up and placed a protective hand over the sporran at the front of his kilt, which was stuffed with the day’s earnings. Today was a good day. He never thought he’d do well singing on the sidewalk in an impoverished neighborhood, but his kilt made people stop and stare. Maybe because no one else dared to wear one on the street in one of the toughest areas of Chicago. His appearance reeled people in, and it made them listen to his voice and his music. Most of them always dropped a few coins into his case. Sometimes dollar bills. Once, he got a twenty. Another time, he got a teener of meth.
The kilt had been his mother’s idea. She once had mentioned that he should be playing the bagpipes instead of the guitar as an ode to his Scottish heritage, and an idea had immediately blossomed in his head. The kilt gave him a unique look that would make him stand out amongst the other struggling artists in today’s world. It sure as hell worked on the street.
He whistled while his boots crunched on crack vials as he made the ten-block walk home. Everyone knew everyone in the neighborhood, and people greeted him with a nod or a wave as they walked or rode their bicycles past him. He noticed the house on the corner had boards over the windows today. On the next block, a house party was in full swing at three o’clock in the afternoon. A pick-up game of basketball took place in the middle of the street a few blocks down, interrupting traffic and causing drivers to honk and curse out the window as they were forced to alternate their route.
As he neared his childhood home, the houses were a little more well-maintained and the street less cluttered with garbage. Mrs. Williams, the elderly woman across the street from him, had her house painted pale yellow in the beginning of the year. Mr. and Mrs. Jones, the young couple on the corner, installed a new fence around their property just last month. When Mac’s parents had their home covered in vinyl siding a few years back, it caused a flurry of commotion and gossip at the expense.
Instead of entering the house through the private side entrance, he chose the front door. The smell of smoked haddock immediately assaulted his senses, and he followed his nose to the kitchen where his ma stood in front of the stove stirring a huge pot of Cullen skink.
