Page 5 of Along for the Ride

He scoffs and shakes his head. “High, too, I see.”

His words mock me, but I’m the monster he created, chained to him by an addiction that freezes me in place at the thought of escape.

I’ve thought about contacting my mother and begging for help, but I’d rather remain in my current situation than apologize for telling the truth about what her pedo husband did to me. Though I’ve packed a bag and tried to gather the courage to brave the streets on my own, that isn’t an option either. I don’t have a car, and Mickey would find me if I’m on foot. He has connections all over this city, and the homeless are some of his best clients. Most of them would rat me out for a fix without thinking twice.

“Wash my fucking clothes,” Mickey says as he pulls a cigarette from his discarded jeans. He lights it and the smoke sends another craving crawling through my bones.

“Can I have one?” I ask.

His hand strikes out like a coiled snake and winds into my hair, pulling the roots until I whimper. He forces my face into the pile of dirty clothes, and I keep as still as I can. “You lay in the fucking house all day and get high, and you want a fucking smoke? You have to earn it. Wash my fucking clothes, cook my fucking dinner, suck my fucking dick, and don’t ask for a goddamn thing until it’s done.”

When he releases my hair, I gather his clothes from the bed and the bathroom and head for the laundry room downstairs. I know what sort of mood he’s in today, and I need to stay out of his way. Even if I do everything he’s commanded, there will be no cigarette. I’ll be grateful if he allows me to eat any of the dinner I’ll prepare.

On my way down the hall, one of his dealer buddies grips my arm and stops my one-track journey. “When you gonna come hang with us instead, Lee,” he says, his eyes darting from bruise to bruise like a silver ball in a pinball machine. This act is meant to show he’s sympathetic to my situation, but he’s no better than Mickey. In some ways, he’s worse. His girls don’t have bruises on their skin, but that’s only because he doesn’t want to damage the merchandise.

I pull my hand from his grasp. “No thank you,” I whisper.

Even if I somehow wanted to belong in some weird, doped-up harem, Mickey would find me and make sure the saying “if I can’t have you, no one can” rings true. Being the sole recipient of someone’s affection isn’t much better, but better the devil I know than the devil I don’t know.

I reach the laundry room and warm air rushes toward me when I open the glass door. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath of dryer-sheet-scented air. If I block out the sound of a crying child and a woman yelling for it to shut up, I can almost imagine myself back in my childhood. Back when my mother would wash clothes every Monday and I would help her fold the towels. Back before she married a sick fuck. But those are distant memories that feel like they happened to someone else. I feel as if I’ve been a beaten junkie far longer than I was a child.

I throw his dirty clothes in the wash and slam the lid. Even through the haze of my high, my emotions are stirring and I can’t hold them back. I drop to the ground, press my back against the machine, and cry.

I hate crying. It’s seen as a sign of weakness, but this is me trying to be strong when I don’t have the courage to face my fears and leave. I swipe the tears from my cheeks and make a promise to myself.

I’ll get out. I’ll get away.

Maybe not today, but soon.

ChapterTwo

Karson

I’m not happy about this. Working alongside my brother is not what I had in mind. We agreed to go our separate ways, and I did fine while he was in prison. Well, until I got a little overzealous during a kill and made a mess. Our boss doesn’t like any messes.

Gentry didn’t need to swoop in and save me from the repercussions of fucking up so royally, though. He’s not my hero. I’d have figured it out or died like the fuck up I am. Death doesn’t seem like such a terrible outcome for me. I’d probably come before my last breath.

He must feel like he owes me for that one time I saved his ass when we were much younger. He made a rookie mistake and the cops came knocking, asking him where he was that night. He hesitated, but before a guilty look could cross his face, I told them he’d been with me all night and there was absolutely no way he threw some dude in a ravine after stabbing him twenty-five times with a dull knife. Maybe he doesn’t realize I did it to keep the cops from findingmybodies. I was covering my ass as much as his, so he doesn’t owe me shit.

But here we are, back to a joint business. No other job lets people like us do the things we like to do. That we have an inherent need to do. A genetic propensity toward murder that can’t be sated while working a typical nine-to-five job.

Things feel different this time, though, and it’s not a good change. Gentry’s never been a friendly guy, but now he’s a miserable prick who answers in grunts and nods instead of speaking to me. No one is as tightly wound as he is, with an asshole so puckered that it changes his gait when he walks, but it’s worse than ever now. At least I can still enjoy one of my favorite pastimes—annoying the piss out of him. Bugging him gives me great joy.

What doesn’t give me great joy is having to work under him again. Before he went to prison, I didn’t mind it so much, but that was before I had a taste of doing things my way. He wants clean kills, in and out without much fuss or fanfare, and I want to play. The muzzle he slaps over my face stops me from getting too out of hand. I can’t toy with my prey when Gentry’s holding my leash. I’m a wild and unhinged thing, and like any wild thing, he has to cut me loose sometimes.

Maybe I’ll remind him of that after we finish this hit. For now, I’ll let him take the lead.

* * *

Gentry

A squelch echoesin the silent room as I pull out the knife. I decided to go old school with this jackass. Karson sits on the balcony railing, digging at his nails with his pocketknife.

“A little help?” I call to him as I wipe the blade of my knife on a rag before pocketing it.

“You’re doing great all on your own,” he says with a quick tilt of his head.

I wipe my brow. “Get your ass out here before I push you off that balcony.Lazy piece of shit.” I whisper the last bit. My little brother is a pain in the ass. He’s always been a risk I stuck my neck out for, but I’m beginning to regret taking him under my wing to try to keep his stupid ass alive.

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