Page 17 of You're so Bad

“How?”

It’s a reasonable question. Apparently, I have no truck to speak of.

“I could call a friend to take us.”

He shakes his head, pushing back in his chair as if he’s about to get up and take a runner.

That’s when the truth hits me.

“You a runaway?” I ask.

“I’m almost eighteen,” he says defensively. “I only got a few weeks left. But if they find me now…”

I run a hand over my scruff. “They’d have to take you back to your folks?”

“I got no one, man. My mother died when I was a kid, and my dad’s in jail. My foster father is an asshole.”

“He beat you?” I ask, looking for bruises. There aren’t any, but if the guy’s a seasoned asshole, he’d know where to leave them.

The kid swallows and nods, like he feels like less of a man for admitting it. It makes me want to destroy the foster father. But I won’t ask for his name yet. If I do, then the kid will spook. “His brother’s a cop, so no one believes me.”

“He the one who did that to your shoulder?” I ask.

“No,” he says as he fidgets in the chair. “I got that climbing over a fence. Something sharp on it I didn’t see in the dark.”

I could ask whose fence, but I don’t see the point. He’s running from trouble and he’s scared enough tobetrouble.

“What’s your name, kid?” I walk over and flick on the light—and wince. That cut on his arm is going to need a few stitches. Three to five, looks like.

He pauses for a moment, wary, then says, “Reese.”

“You named after a peanut butter cup?” He’s probably lying, but I don’t resent the lie. For all he knows, I’m a piece of shit who broke into his friend’s house and holed up here.

“Reese with one S, man. None of that plural peanut butter shit. What are you doing in Mrs. Ruiz’s house?”

“She’s letting me stay here in exchange for not making it a dump.”

He swivels his head, taking a look-see. “You’ve got some work to do.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I tell him. “What do you say I help you with that cut, man? You need some stitches.”

“You know how to stitch someone up?”

Yeah, just call me a pediatric surgeon. I almost grin at the thought, but I don’t want to scare the kid off.

I hike up the sleeve of my T-shirt, showing him my scar. “Yeah, let’s just say I’ve been in this particular rodeo before.”

“You stitched yourself up?” he asks, sounding impressed. Then his face twists. “You didn’t do a very good job, you know. It’s a nasty scar.”

“Chicks dig it. You’ll have a chick magnet of your own.” He looks a little deflated by the thought, more about the scar than the chick magnet, so I add, “You heal better when you’re a kid. I came by this one a few years back. I’m old. Make sure you stop doing dumb shit before you get old too.”

He gives a ghost of a smile.

“You know Mrs. Ruiz?” I press.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his nose. “She’s helped me out a couple of times.”

Good enough for me.

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