Page 17 of Shame

“You not up for it?”

I grit my teeth but compose myself, looking at my hands specked with dried paint.

“Of course I am. Where to?”

“We’ll pick you up, dude.”

“What do I do?”

“Not on the phone, you imbecile.”

Heat floods my cheeks. I’m stupid.

“Eleven, then. I’m ready.”

Sean laughs. It doesn’t sound pleasant at all. It sounds as if someone is dragging a thick metal chain over rough concrete. He’s gotta give up his fucking smoking.

“You better be, Lucas. You better be.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lucas

At eleven sharp I wait on the sidewalk outside my apartment complex. The night is lukewarm and reeks of garbage. Someone didn’t put the lid back on and seagulls have pulled rotting waste out of the bin for hours, spreading it all over the pavement. The shrieks have driven me nearly crazy, and on top of that, my neighbors have been at it again. I’ve tried to drown out the noises in Kraftwerk, the angry music so loud my windows rattled.

As a sleek, dark car pulls up, the windows tinted black, my stomach clenches. I straighten. It’s time. And it really is about fucking time.

Christian hops out and jerks his head toward the open back door.

“Hop in, kid.”

I keep my face in check, hide the scowl that almost slipped. Kid. I’ll show them I’m no damn kid.

Eric is behind the wheel, Ray sits next to him. Christian hops in, dwarfing me between him and Sean. I’m not short, but these guys are giants.

“So, what are we doing?”

Ray twists and looks at me, holding out a gun. “Ever used one of these before, boy?”

I reach for it. “Of course I have.”

He cocks an eyebrow, looks at Christian and then drops the heavy metal object in my hand, a little smirk playing on his lips. I check the clip, make sure the safety is on, and pocket it.

“Good.”

“We’re gonna collect a debt,” growls Christian, “and send a little message.”

“An—anything in particular I should know? What kind of place? How many targets?” My chest is filled with butterflies on steroids. This is finally for real.

“Two,” says Sean. “A house.”

“Bar? Club? Office?” I want to get a picture of what we’re getting into.

“House.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. I glance out. We’ve moved away from the trashier parts of the city and into more affluent neighborhoods, white picket fences, children’s toys spread on well-mowed lawns. If we drive further north, there’ll be nothing but the occasional farm, some forests, open fields. Where are we doing this?

House.

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