I let my resting bitch face slide into place as I get onto the subway a short while later. It’s filled with university kids, most of them drunk, high, or both. And none of them seem to have a care in the world, other than getting wasted or laid.
How lucky they are to enjoy their evenings without giving a single fuck about anything.
That used to be me.
I ride to my stop and then get off the train, sure to keep an eye behind me as I jog up the steps to the street. I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets and keep that fierce look on my face as if to challenge anyone who dares get too close. I pass the bars and delis and storefronts in my shitty neighborhood, looking straight ahead as cars zoom past me in the road. I turn my head every once in a while, a knot in my gut warning me that there is always calm before a storm.
But nobody follows me.
Nobody speaks to me.
And nobody—
I yelp, my foot getting caught in a sidewalk crack. I put my hands out to brace my fall, landing on the pavement with my full weight on my wrists. Bits of gravel and grit scratch up my hands, and my knees scrape against the sidewalk, tearing a hole in one pant leg.
Fuck.
I sit back on my heels, a sob rising in my throat.
That’s when it hits me.
No matter how hard I try to keep my head up, no matter how much time I put into planning for a better life, reality is always back to smack me in the face.
And it fucking sucks.
I drag myself to a standing position, whisking the dirt off my jacket and pants. I examine my hands, the thin cuts on my palms already bleeding. I let my hands fall to my sides and turn to my right, catching a glimpse into the overflowing tavern. A song by the Dropkick Murphys interrupts the pity party in my mind, girls and guys singing and drinking and dancing.
I wish I was one of them.
Come to think of it, I wish I was anyone other than who I am right now.
I should feel guilty for thinking that, for despising my father for unraveling what remained of our family after Mama died, for wishing I could just run away to a place where nobody knows who I am, a place where I can get a fresh start and a new lease on life since my current one is about to expire.
Maybe it already has.
After a fitful night’s sleep, I wake up to a lot of banging. Cabinet doors, closet doors, pantry doors. I lift my head from the pillow, rubbing sleep out of my eyes as I pull myself into a seated position. “Frankie?” I call out, my voice groggy. “What the heck are you doing out there?”
But he doesn’t answer.
I’m just greeted with more banging and heavy footsteps pounding around the apartment.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reluctantly launch myself off the bed. I said we’d go for a run, so maybe it’s better to get up and at ’em early.
I catch a glimpse at the time on my phone and groan.
Seven o’clock?
Ugh, I was thinking more ten-ish.
I pad into the kitchen, running a hand through my sleep-tousled hair. Frankie is dressed and thumping all over the place, piling things together by the front door. I furrow my brow as I take it all in.
“How was your date?” he grumbles when I come into the kitchen.
“Didn’t happen. And I don’t want to talk about it, so please don’t ask.” I nod at the pile of crap he’s assembled in the center of the apartment. “Going somewhere?” I ask, heading for the cabinet where my favorite coffee mug resides. I frown at the coffee pot and then at my brother. “Couldn’t you have started the coffee while you packed?”
Frankie lets out a huff. “There isn’t time,” he grumbles.
I furrow my brow. “You want to tell me what’s going on? Are you okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m fine.” His brown eyes twitch at the corners, and I know immediately that he’s holding out on me. “For now.”
“What are you talking about?” I narrow my eyes, forgetting all about the coffee. “Did you do something last night?” I look around again at the mess on the floor. “Why are you pulling all of your crap out here?”
“Look, Chell. I don’t have time to go into detail, but we need to get out of here.”
“Why?” My eyes widen. “Oh my God, how many times have I told you to stay away from those fucking scumbag gangsters you insist on hanging around? When are you going to learn? After everything happened with Papa, after the mess he caused for us, the loss of everything we ever knew, how could you let yourself get caught up in that shit again?”
“Stop being so judgmental! You know it’s my job—”
“It’s only a job if you get fucking paid,” I shout.
“That’s the problem,” he says, stopping short. His shoulders slump and he raises his pained expression toward me. “I did get paid. Big.”
“What did you do for this payment, Frankie?” I ask, my mouth suddenly bone-dry. I swallow hard, but the growing lump in my throat almost chokes me.
“Something bad. Something,” he says, walking over to one of the windows that faces the street. “That can hurt us, way worse than anything we’ve experienced before. The shit with Papa would feel like a picnic in comparison.”
I storm over to him, pushing him against a wall. I wag a finger in his face, my voice quivering with anger. “You’d better tell me exactly what you did that can hurt us,” I hiss.
“It’s more the ‘who’ than the ‘what’ that’s the issue,” he mutters.
“I don’t like playing these games with you,” I say. “Tell me what happened!”
Frankie averts his eyes. “Look, I’ll explain everything, but in the meantime, I just think we need to get out of the city for a while. Just lay low somewhere where nobody knows us until I can figure out—"
His cell phone rings and we both jump. He pulls it out of his pocket and stares at the screen for a second before answering. I can’t see the name or number but judging by the fact that the color in my brother’s normally tan face fades more and more with each passing moment, I know it’s not a call he wants to take.
But he answers because the look of resignation on his face speaks volumes.
“Yeah?” he barks into the phone. Always the tough guy. Always the fucking troublemaker!
My breath hitches, and I nibble on a hangnail as he continues his terse exchange. It must be a burner phone, even though there isn’t a whole lot of detail exchanged.
God, I hate that I even know what a burner phone is…
He finally hangs up after a few minutes, but he looks somewhat settled after whatever he was just told. He drops the phone back into his pocket and sinks onto the couch, combing his fingers through his hair.
I sit across from him on the edge of the rickety coffee table, wringing my hands together. “Who was that? More importantly, do I even want to know?”
“It’s not important,” he grunts. “What is important is that it looks like we’re clear for the time being.”
I clasp my hands together and bring them to my lips, squeezing my eyes closed for a second. I say a silent prayer to God that whatever Frankie did isn’t as bad as I think. “Frankie,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even. “You are jeopardizing our lives by sticking with whatever thug crew you’re working with. I don’t care what they’ve promised you, but it isn’t worth what you’d be giving up if you ever got caught doing their dirty work. Do you understand that?”