TWENTY
I SPENT MY NINETEETH BIRTHDAY ON THE STREETS of New York … alone. And I knew once the colder months came, I would be in hell, but I had no idea how bad it was without some kind of wall to block the winter winds.
My shoulders stiffened against the frigid breeze. I had been living on the streets for a while, but no matter how many nights I nearly froze, I never adjusted to the cold weather.
Most of the shelters were at full capacity and were turning people away with threadbare blankets. I had accepted one and wrapped it around my shoulders before going on my way.
The holidays were around the corner, which had a lot to do with the shelters being full. No one wanted to spend the holidays alone, and everyone wanted a full stomach and a celebration. The shelters always provided turkey and gravy.
I wasn’t fast enough, thinking I could wait a day or two before they filled, but that wasn’t the case. It was my fault I would spend the holidays alone and hungry.
The one shelter I knew was open and wasn’t at full occupancy had banned me. I had stayed there for a while and had evidently worn out my welcome.
Apparently, they didn’t like it when the homeless slept with their volunteers, and since I’d basically fucked every single female volunteer in the place worth sticking my dick in, the place was uncomfortable. When they started skipping you in the chow line and leaving you on a cot with no pillow or thin blanket, you knew it was time to go.
I skipped out in the middle of the night, and with no other place to go, there I was, in the middle of winter in New York City, looking for any abandoned place I could find that had enough walls to block the ice-cold air.
I was familiar with the area after living there for the past year, but it wasn’t the part of the city I had grown up in. After the night that changed my life—after watching two people die right before my eyes—I had run away and left Vick and everything on that side of the city.
I didn’t want to see Vick. Even looking at her would be enough to send me over the edge. Just being close to the street where the murder happened was too much, so I had to go for my sanity. Otherwise, I knew I’d turn myself in and spend the rest of my life behind bars.
Behind bars might be a warm place where I could get three hot meals and a cot, but something about being trapped behind the iron bars with someone telling me when to take a piss didn’t sit well with me.
A week after the murder, I had found the article in the newspaper about the deaths. I kept that article along with the locket the mother had given me in my pocket at all times. Weighing me down with regret, it reminded me of the blood on my hands, and that I had left two children parentless. I had essentially killed their parents and cursed those kids with a life like my own.
Many times, I would think about finding their graves so I could apologize. So I could stand next to where they rested and wish they could hear me and forgive me. Wish I could take that night back. Wish I could give those kids their lives back.
But I never did because no matter how hard I wished, I could never make it go away. I could never take it back.
So from that moment on, I followed my gut instincts. That night I had known something was wrong, but I had allowed Vick to convince me otherwise.
Never again.
I stopped to cup my hands around my mouth and blow hot air into them. The feeling in my fingers would sort of come back when I did that. At least they would tingle, letting me know they were still a part of my body.
I eyed the buildings down the street, scoping out my prospects. The street was nice with newly opened businesses and fresh signs, leaving me to think that maybe I should find a better street. Something a little more run down—something with closed businesses with boarded windows.
Then I saw it.
A building that looked promising.
A few stragglers roamed the streets, trying to get home at four in the morning after drinking themselves stupid, but I knew they wouldn’t pay me any attention. And if they did, they wouldn’t remember it in the morning.
I jogged down the sidewalk, double checking before I crossed the street, and ducked into the alleyway. The building looked abandoned, so I was hoping to get lucky. I was praying things were looking up for me, and I would find an easy way to get in.
There was a door on the side of the building with a busted glass opening covered with plywood. I checked the knob a few times, jiggling it while trying to turn it, but found it locked.
The knob had been like touching a ball of ice, making my fingers and palm burn like fire. I blew into my hand again, soothing the burn with the tingle of my warm breath.
Looking around for another place of entry, I spotted a window toward the back of the building, but I couldn’t find anything to break the window with.
My elbow.
It was my only choice even though I knew it would hurt like hell. Pulling off the thin blanket I had draped over my shoulders, I wrapped my arm with the ragged fabric to keep from cutting my arm, and then I shoved my elbow through the window.
The shattered glass came down louder than I wanted, so I sat quietly for a few beats, prepared for someone to appear. When no one came to investigate the sound, I knocked out the rest of the broken glass and climbed in as smoothly as I could without cutting myself on the leftover jagged pieces in the window frame.
As I dropped to the floor from the window, I accidentally knocked over a box of pots and pans, and the sound echoed through the room I was in.
I cursed before I moved, tripping over things as I moved through the maze of boxes and broken chairs. Finally, I found myself in the front of the building, which looked like it might have been a bar once upon a time.
The outside looked run down and abandoned, but the inside wasn’t all that bad. There were tables and chairs and a long wooden bar. Bottles of liquor lined the mirrored wall behind the bar, and dusty lights hung over two pool tables on one side of the room with beer advertisements etched into the colored glass.
I moved to explore the place, hoping to get my hands on one of the bottles to warm myself from the inside out, but before I could get a few steps, something cold and hard was shoved into my back.
“You could move, but then you run the risk of being shot in the back by a stranger.”
I stood frozen with my heart lodged in my throat. “What’s my other option?”
“You can start by explaining how the hell you got in here.”
I slowly lifted my hands above my head, palms out. “I broke a window in the back and climbed through.”
He chuckled behind me, the sound gravelly and broken. “You did a piss-poor job of breaking in here. You made enough noise to wake the dead.”
“I thought the place was abandoned. I didn’t think anyone was here.”
“Sounds like you didn’t think at all, son.”
“I’m not your son,” I snapped. “Are you going to shoot me?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” His raspy voice sounded aged with liquor and cigarettes. “What are you doing here?”
“Breaking and entering.”
“Why?”
If I would go to jail anyway, I didn’t see any reason to lie. “It’s freezing out. I needed a warm place to crash, and this place looked about as good as any.”
“Do you have anything on you? Guns, knives, nunchucks?”
I snorted. “Nunchucks? What century do you think we live in, old man?”
“I know how you young kids are. Stupid. The whole lot of you. Now, do you have anything on you?”
I sighed, sleep catching up with me and making my knees knock. “No. I was just looking for a place to stay.”
And that was all.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a decent night’s sleep, and I could literally feel my body giving up on me. The only reason I had broken into the place was because it looked empty, but I knew no matter what I said, the man wasn’t going to believe a word. I would get shot in the back, and with how exhausted I was physically and mentally, I wasn’t in any shape to try to fight back.
He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and then the pressure from whatever he was shoving into my spine lessened. He moved away from me and headed to the bar, but I remained absolutely still just in case he changed his mind.
“A shotgun?” I asked when he settled the cold steel down on top of the bar.
“Yep. You never know what kind of hooligans run the streets at four in the morning.” He chuckled, obviously enjoying calling me a hooligan.
The little bit of hair he had on top of his head was white and springy, and his beard matched. He was in an old pair of pajama bottoms with what looked like American flags all over them and a too small T-shit that said “Army Strong” across the front.
I’d obviously woken him up, which made perfect sense. Most people were warm in their beds at four in the morning.
He reached beneath the bar and pulled out two shot glasses.
“Drink?” he asked, holding up a bottle of something dark.
I frowned. “Really?”
Why in the hell would he offer me a drink?
I had broken into his establishment … literally. I still had some glass from the window stuck to my shoestrings.
Either he was old and crazy or he was trying to drug me.
He shrugged. “It would be rude if I had one and didn’t offer, right?”
He was confusing me.
Why wasn’t he calling the police and having me arrested?
Maybe he had another gun behind the bar pointed in my direction.
Obviously, my paranoia was getting the best of me, and I knew it was the lack of sleep that was doing it.
“What’s going on right now?” I asked, confused.
“We’re having a drink,” he said before sliding onto one of the busted leather barstools. “Now sit. Have a drink with an old man.”
“I don’t get it. Why aren’t you calling the cops right now?”
He shrugged. “Did you steal anything?”
I shook my head. “No, but I broke in.”
He rubbed his bloated stomach and then scratched at his beard. “Did you plan to leave in the morning?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He yawned. “No need to go pulling the police out their beds, too then. Seeing as you were just going to sleep and leave.”
My eyes took in my surroundings. Something was totally off with him. What man in his right mind wouldn’t call the police when a stranger broke into his place?
“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked, feeling insecure and tired.
“Son, the sun will be up in a few hours. I’m too damn tired for jokes.”
I nodded as I moved across the room and slid onto a barstool beside him.
He pushed the shot glass in my direction while he poured himself another drink.
Cautiously, I lifted the tiny glass to my lips and tossed the liquid down the back of my throat.
Fire streaked across my tonsils, making my eyes water. I gasped and quickly hid the cough that threatened to explode from my lungs.
I’d had my fair share of liquor, but nothing that literally burned like fire. I could practically feel the blisters forming on the back of my throat.
The old man chuckled and slapped me on the back before he poured me another shot.
“Drink another. It gets better the more you drink.”
“Yeah, better because you’re dead.”
He laughed, his strained vocal cords popping and cracking.
“What the hell is this stuff anyway?” I asked as I cautiously downed the second shot.
“It’s my own concoction. A little something I cooked up. It’s strong as hell. Just the way I like it.”
“It tastes like death,” I muttered as I tried to tame the burn of the second shot.
“It’ll put hair on your chest.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s a man’s liquor.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, well, it tastes like ass.”
His aged eyes assessed me, taking in my ripped clothes and dirty hands.
“How old are you?”
My age wasn’t important. He didn’t need to know anything about me, and I was too tired for a lengthy conversation about how I ended up where I was and what I was doing wrong with my life.
I didn’t want to hear it.
“Why?” I asked, my voice slurring from the burning liquor and lack of sleep.
“You broke into my bar. I think I have the right to ask some questions and get some honest answers.”
I rolled my eyes, too tired to fire back with sarcasm. “I’m nineteen.”
He nodded as if he’d already known the answer.
“Nineteen, huh? I figured you were around that age.” He scratched at his scraggly beard once again. “And you’re on your own?”
“Yep. I’ve been on my own since I was a kid.”
He chuckled and tossed back another shot. “You’re still a kid.”
“Yeah. Well, I feel like I’m older than you are.”
“Not old at all then, huh?” He winked and chuckled. “Boy, you were the last thing I expected tonight. Of all the places in this city, why the hell did you break into my bar?”
“Honestly?”
He nodded. “Yep.”
I looked around, taking in the rusted chairs and threadbare pool table top. “I thought this place was abandoned.”
His smoker’s laugh filled the room as he threw his head back and clutched his stomach.
“I guess it’s not the most elegant establishment around, but it’s got character.”
“Mike’s?” I asked as I read the fading sign above the door.
“Yep. It was my dad’s name. He was a real asshole, so I named the place after him out of spite.”
I snorted, enjoying his reasoning.
It sounded like something I would do if I had an asshole for a dad. Hell, if I had any kind of dad.
“I’m assuming since you broke into my place that you don’t have a home? No family or friends you can stay with?”
It was embarrassing to admit, but since the loss of Deloris followed by the bullshit Jane pulled and basically running away from Vick’s crazy, I literally had nothing and no one.
“Nope. No family. No friends. No home.”
Fuck it.
I was sure it was more than obvious to him I was a piece of shit no one wanted to claim. A nothing that no one wanted to house.
He stared at me, making my skin feel itchy from the attention before he screwed the lid back on his bottle and stashed it back under the bar.
“Okay. Well, come on, then,” he said, leaving the bar and heading to a set of stairs I hadn’t noticed before.
I frowned. “Excuse me? Where are we going?”
He stopped, again scratching at his frizzy beard. “Upstairs.”
A sick feeling moved into the pit of my stomach. The old man had the wrong idea about me.
“Look, old man, I appreciate the drink and all, but if I had to choose between going upstairs with you and going to jail, I’d choose jail. I’ll even call the cops myself if you want.”
He stared at me with a weird look on his face before his deep, gritty laughter filled the entire space. When he finally calmed down long enough to wipe away his laughter tears, he shook his head and patted at his pot belly.
“I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time, kid. Thanks.”
Anger struck me deep.
I was tired.
Hungry.
Pissed off at the world.
I had survived some of the worst shit I could think of—things no child should ever have to endure—and he had the audacity to call me a kid.
Fuck that.
I lost my childhood before I was even able to become a child.
“I’m not a kid,” I snapped.
He ignored my fit, starting toward the stairs once more.
“Hey,” I called out, stopping him. “Where are you going?”
“Upstairs. To sleep. In my own bed. By myself.” He emphasized each word. “If you want to crash on my couch, then come on. If not, you can leave the same way you came in.”
He disappeared up the stairwell, leaving me to debate my options.
I could trust that the old man wasn’t going to molest me in my sleep, or I could climb out the window and try to find another place to crash.
I looked out the window at the cold night. I was running out of moonlight. Soon the sun would be up, and the streets would be bustling. That would mean yet another sleepless night.
I didn’t have it in me to go another night without sleep. My body would fold, and I would end up passed out somewhere.
Sliding from the stool, I slugged my way toward the stairwell, feeling dead on my feet. My body dragged as I started to climb them step by step.
When I reached the top, I knocked lightly on the door, making it creak open the rest of the way. He had left the door cracked for me, knowing I would choose to crash on his couch.
Once the door opened, I was surprised to find an entire apartment above the bar. It was open; the kitchen and living space all one room with a short hall on the side that probably went to his bedroom and a bathroom.
It was small.
Quiet.
Warm.
I stepped into the apartment just as he was coming down the short hall with his arms full of blankets. He said nothing as he dumped them on a couch that looked as if it had survived World War I.
He knew I would stay.
He knew I didn’t have any other choice.
And as tired as I was, I didn’t care what he thought about me, but I did wonder why he would choose to help a total stranger, much less one who had broken a window and slipped into his bar uninvited.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice cracking with exhaustion. “I broke into your place, and instead of calling the police, you’re going to let me sleep on your couch?”
He stood and tossed a pillow onto the couch.
“You seem like a decent kid to me. The way I see it, you owe me for that broken window downstairs. You can work it off tomorrow night when we open.”
I couldn’t believe my ears.
“You’re giving me a job?”
I had never had a job before. I didn’t think anyone in the world would hire me, so I never tried.
He shrugged. “We could try it out. See how you work out. You can pay off that window, and we’ll go from there. In the meantime, you can crash on my couch.”
I was getting more out of the deal than he was, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
He nodded. “Yep.”
He moved back into the short hall, a light from above the kitchen sink slicing across his aged face.
“Hey, kid.”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re hungry, there’s food in the fridge. Don’t drink my beer, though,” he said firmly, pointing a finger in my direction.
“I won’t.”
After the liquor downstairs, beer was the last thing on my mind. Food, on the other hand … just the thought of it made my stomach rumble painfully.
“The bathroom’s right here,” he said, pointing at a door beside him. “And if you get cold, there are more blankets in the closet in the bathroom.”
I nodded, hugging myself, ready to raid his refrigerator.
“The name’s Clive,” he said. “Yours?”
“Sebastian.”
He stood a minute longer, his eyes taking me in before he backed away. “Okay. Well, get some sleep, Sebastian.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into his room and shutting the door behind him.
Sleep was calling my name, but hunger was clawing at the insides of my stomach.
I moved into the kitchen area and slung open refrigerator door. There wasn’t much, but I was starving and far from being picky.
I made a sandwich and washed it down with a Coke. My stomach growled its thanks, and I felt satisfied for the first time in days.
Peeling off my coat, I laid it on the back of the couch before I slipped off my shoes. The couch creaked beneath me as I stretched out and melted into the cushions.
As I stared at the faded wood ceiling, sleep slowly claimed me. And for the first time in a year, I slept peacefully without fear of what the streets could do to me when I wasn’t watching my back.