Page 18 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part One

“Yeah, no doubt.” I swallow harshly, emotion clogging my throat. In my haze, I turn to Jensen. “When the fuck am I going to catch a break? Huh? I’m not ready to watch her die, man.”

Jensen brings the side of his hand to his mouth, and his brow wrinkles. He isn’t sure what to say. What can he say? There is no avoiding the inevitable. I hope I’m there, so she’s not alone. Whether or not I’m ready, I’m not letting her leave this world without being by her side.

CHAPTER10

RIGGS

Sweat coats my body,but my racing heart has settled, and my breathing has returned to normal. It’s only the middle of the fucking night and this is the third time I’ve woken up from another nightmare. I’m not sure what is going on and why my mental state is deteriorating lately, but it’s pissing me off. It must be the stress of everything. My grandmother and only other living relative is dying—will be dead in a month or less, according to her doctors, that is. Procrastination is not my friend. I should’ve started making plans years ago when we received her diagnosis, but I was hoping she’d make it long enough that I could graduate college and get a proper job. Afford to live on my own.

But, of course, that wouldn’t be in my cards. Homeless is my future.

I could stop being stubborn and accept help from Jensen like he has always wanted to give, move into the apartment he is offering. It’s nice, certainly nicer than the one I live in with Gramma, but I just can’t do it. My pride is a fickle son-of-a-bitch and I have a point to prove. I’ve always been on my own. I’ll continue to do things that way.

My phone pings and I pick it up to check it. It’s Sam, A.K.A. Rusty Crotch, as Charlotte likes to call her.Fucking Charlotte. That girl gets on my last damn nerve, bringing me lunch like the poor little boy she thinks I am. Is she trying to make up for last year by handing out charity? Fuck off with that nonsense.

Sam: Hey, you awake?

Me: Am I usually at this time of night?

Sam: Yeah, you are.

Me: Then I’m awake.

Sam: You’re an asshole.

Me: I know. Lol. What’s up?

Sam: Heading out to tag, coming?

Me: Sure. Where?

While I’m waiting for Sam to respond, I jump in the shower to wash the sticky sweat away and by the time I’m starting my bike up with a backpack full of paint, it’s close to one in the morning. It isn’t like Sam to tag anymore. She only usually does commissioned pieces and has done well for herself. But I guess old habits die hard.

It takes a while to get there, so I cruise down the highway, opening up the throttle a bit and letting the wind take me away. There isn’t a single car on the road that I pass, other than a cop who is waiting on the side of the road. Adrenaline dumps in my system for a split second. Yeah, I’m speeding.

Who doesn’t speed on a bike in the middle of the night on a wide open highway?

He either doesn’t notice my bike screaming by or doesn’t care. Either way, I’m grateful. A ticket is the last thing I need right now, but right behind painting and smoking as relief, is riding. I would live on this bike if I could, traveling across the country doing whatever the hell I want. Shit, that sounds like the life right there.

Sam parked her silver Honda in less than a conspicuous way in the middle of the parking lot to a bar downtown. What the hell is she thinking?

Pulling my bike to a stop in the shadows of an alleyway, I yank the key from the ignition. I tuck it in my jeans pocket, then tug my gloves off, shoving them in the pockets of my jacket before I drape it over the seat of my bike. My helmet rests on the tank and I sling my backpack back over my shoulder.

Sam is a quiet painter, always has been. Comes with the territory, I guess. All I can hear is the hissing of her cans as I make my way toward her. The strong fumes hit me before anything. The night isn’t windy and this alley she’s painting is closed in on three sides by tall brick buildings. She must be floating sky high on fumes. When I get closer, I realize she is up on scaffolding, painting almost at the top of the building.What the hell?

“What is all this?” I ask as soon as I’m close enough. Discretion is key in our line of work, but I have a sneaking suspicion she’s conned me. Judging from the amount of work she has on the wall and the fact that she outlined her mural first, this is indeed a commissioned piece.

“Get up here, I need your help.” Shaking my head at the impossible girl, I toss my bag up and hoist myself up the side of the scaffolding. Probably not the smartest way up, but whatever. She has a shit-eating grin on her face, paint splatters covering most of her exposed skin. A bandana that is dotted with paint as well covers her blond hair. There are a few pink streaks over her brow and the print on her tank top is unreadable.

“You don’t need my help.”

“I do,” she says cheerily as she pinches my cheeks—annoying.

“Jensen told you, didn’t he?” I raise a brow in her direction, a wry expression on my face. She doesn’t care, though. Sam has always had her weird ways of helping me but gives me work to do instead of just forking over money. Idoneed it, I guess. After my bike quit on me, I’m in the hole.

“He did. And before you bitch, this is honest work. Good money as well.”

“It’s a galaxy, Sam.”

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