Page 27 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

One day, I’m going to go out there and panhandle with Teddy. I’m going to stop pretending that these six months aren’t going to turn into a year, two years, a lifetime.

One day, I’m not going to be able to resist joining the notorious late-night bonfire parties they have out here, the ones that leave the ground the next morning littered with shards of bottles, empty cans, blunts, condoms, needles. Whatever it takes to dull the pain. Because, when it comes down to it, it’s so cliché but so true—is it really falling off a cliff if you’re already at the bottom?

But that day isn’t today. Not this time.

Teddy shuffles off. “Let’s meet by the fire later,” he says as he goes. “Before we go dine at the Ritz.” In the opposite direction, Wanda’s stocky form is hustling ahead at a clip towards her favorite street corner downtown.

As for me, I have an odd urge today.

I don’t normally like straying too far from Tent City by myself, or out at all for that matter. Too many knowing stares or questioning ones from so-called ‘regular people.’ Or creepy guys looking at you like they’d love to use you if they could only figure out how.

Or seeing someone you know from Tent City, but it’s never one of the nice ones, only ever one of the horrid ones who get bold if you’re alone around them—the disgusting, despicable ones who spew out such nasty filth it makes you lose faith in the entire human race.

“Joy, why don’t we go back to my place and I’ll give you a little fucking?”

“Why you acting like that?”

“I’ll give you five bucks if you come suck my cock!”

I shudder. Six months has felt like an eternity out here.

Worse, though, somehow, are the ones who I do like—ordidlike—who are good-hearted and kind, who yell, “JOY!” at the top of their lungs and who, I’m ashamed to admit, I feel the same pang of embarrassment at.

Because I’m careful at toeing the line between looking hippie and homeless. But as soon as one of the very clearly homeless ones recognizes me, it’s obvious to everyone else. What I am. What my life has become.

Though, it’s all kind of stupid when you think about it. What do I have to be embarrassed of anymore?

Anyway, today’s a nice day. The sun is making an attempt at shining, the souped-up SUVs are honking, and I’m hustling down Young Street with no clear idea where I’m going or why.

Maybe it’s a ‘health walk,’ like Mom’s active-nut boyfriend Ronald used to say before he replaced that habit with heroin. Or maybe it’s just a why-the-fuck-not kind of thing. It’s not like I have anything better to do these days.

I come to it with a jolt. Like the past shoved its hands out and shook me.

Wallack’s Art Store.

I stop dead in my tracks.

I remember my first time there. I was all of four years old and Mom helped me pick out a coloring book. How did she know? And why there, why not the dollar store, where you could get them for a third of the price?

All of it swirls back to me: the thick, pungent smells of the paint, even though we didn’t buy any of it. The magnet-sized paintings on the canvas display.

Even then, I knew—this was my happy place.

I remember going back later by myself with the stray change I found outside Swizzle’s during my breaks at the grocery store. Pockets full with the slim rewards from months of casually canvassing the cigarette-butt-strewn sidewalk in front of that sketchy-ass dollar-per-shot bar, pretending I somehow lost something. I used the money to buy my first set of watercolor paints, my first canvas panel. I was so proud that I didn’t even think to be embarrassed about plunking down a bag of loose singles and quarters to pay for the purchase.

Now, chances are I couldn’t even walk through the front door without getting shooed out by store security.

Or maybe I could. I’ve tested that out—hitting up convenience stores, grabbing the cheapest food they’ve got and slapping it on the front counter before the embarrassment can take root. But there’s always a question in the cashier’s careful look—Is she …? Can she …?

I’m not even sure how to answer those questions myself these days.

Because I’ve been steal-hungry before. The kind of rabid, manic hunger that drives you up the wall, consuming you so entirely that it’s all you can think of.

Food, food, where can I get some fucking food?

If I go into Wallack’s right now, though, I might recognize Jeremy—the cute guy with the almond-colored shag cut like all the boy bands had in the two thousands. The guy who always seemed to be on the register when I went in, who almost asked me out a handful of times (“So, there’s this new show at the AGO …”). I couldn’t take that, not now. Not with how my life has mutated into something ugly and sad.

I carefully maneuver my way past, crossing the street so I can peer in the building’s side windows from afar, pretending not to be as enthralled as I am. Lucky for me, it’s on a corner.

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