Page 16 of You're so Bad

Fuck, that was stupid. I was pushing my way past locks like that by the time I was six or seven. This neighborhood’s cleaned up some since I lived a few streets away in my early twenties, but it’s not the kind of place you want to wander around at night, especially not if you look like you shop anywhere other than Walmart.

I grab the metal baseball bat I keep by the bed and edge the door open, then creep down the stairs slowly in the dark, taking them one at a time.

There’s another muffled sound, and I pin it to the kitchen. So whoever it is definitely got in through the back.

Fucking fabulous, Leonard. Great decision-making. As if you hadn’t broken into dozens of houses before your balls dropped.

I creep down carefully, putting my weight on the outer edges of my feet to avoid being heard. There’s a different sound, a chair scraping across the floor, so I guess my would-be thief is having a sit down.

Or lying in wait for you.

That voice in my head wants me to run. To make for the front door instead of checking the kitchen, but that voice is a coward, and I’m sick of being driven by it. So I reach the bottom of the stairs, then veer toward the kitchen. There’s no light filtering out of the opening, so my buddy is sitting in the dark like some kind of asshole.

Pulse pounding, I crouch my way toward the wall leading in there. I can see the round table, the chair pulled out. The shadowy figure sitting on it. My hand flexes around the bat. Time to rumble.

I need to act quickly, because the one thing I’ve got going for me is surprise. And if I can get him in a headlock while he’s on that chair…

What if he has a gun?

Then I’m screwed, obviously, but I’m not going to run. Not this time.

Go for his arms.

I take another breath, then charge in and drop the bat, instead torquing the intruder’s arms behind his back.

And he shrieks.

It takes me all of five seconds to realize a few things.

He’s a kid.

He’s terrified.

He’s bleeding all over my hand.

He could still have a gun, but I drop his arms anyway.

“What the fuck?” I ask, because my mind is flooded with unused adrenaline, and I’m genuinely confused.

It’s his arm that’s bleeding, I realize, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see the cut through his shirt. It looks jagged. He can’t be more than seventeen or maybe eighteen with thick dark hair and brown eyes. Gangly, like I was at that age, and everything inside of mehurts.

“Are you going to kill me?” he blurts, his eyes wide.

“No, but Iwouldlike to know what the fuck you’re doing in here, bud. It’s a little late for a house call.”

“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t…I thought maybe I could find a med kit in the bathroom. But I was tired, so I figured I’d sit down for a minute. I didn’t think anyone was home. There’s no car in the drive or on the curb, and I know the woman who lives here is in Puerto Rico.”

“Someone stole my truck?”

Well, damn. It wasn’t a very good truck, but it did get me around occasionally. I guess Constance will be picking me up for lunch.

“It wasn’t me,” he says, alarmed.

“No shit, kid. Otherwise, it would be out front.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” he asks, and the fear in his voice is a gut punch.

“No, I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, taking a step back. “You want me to take you to the hospital?”

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