TWENTY-ONE
TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE LIVING AN ACTUAL LIFE and going to work every day, and the day almost a year before when I had broken into Clive’s place was a distant memory. One that Clive and I laughed about regularly.
I’d learned a lot in that time. A lot of things about myself became clear in the months I lived with Clive. The most important thing I learned at that time was I loved to work.
All day.
All night.
Anytime Clive wanted me to work, I was there.
It wasn’t even about the pay, which wasn’t great but it was enough. It was about staying busy. It was about starting a project and seeing it through. Even something as simple as stocking bottles in the back, cleaning up after last call, or locking the door before going up to bed. It gave me so much pleasure to get a task and complete it.
There was no doubt about it. I was a workaholic.
Life was going okay. I didn’t want to think too hard on that since I knew things could change at the drop of a dime, but until then, I decided to enjoy my good fortune and take in everything Clive wanted to teach me.
He was a wise man. One who had traveled the world and lived one hell of a life with the pictures to prove it. And he was an honest man, which was something I wasn’t used to after growing up with dealers and crooks.
But I liked that about him.
I liked that I could trust him, and I really loved knowing that he trusted me. Earning his trust only made me strive to be more trustworthy. It was strange how that worked. When someone gave you respect, you became respectful.
He made me a better man. Although you would never hear me tell him that.
He became like a father in a lot of ways, showing me the ways of being an adult with a firm hand. And while that sometimes scared the living shit out of me, I couldn’t deny the fact that I loved feeling wanted and cared about by someone in the world who meant it.
Clive didn’t have to take me in that night, and he sure as hell didn’t have to give me a job and a place to stay, but something in the back of my mind told me that he was giving me a second chance at a real life. I wasn’t entirely sure I deserved that second chance after the shit I had done and the people I had hurt, but I couldn’t turn it down.
Just thinking about the night that gave me nightmares—the night that made me undeserving—made my stomach twist with nausea. No matter how hard I tried to be happy with my new circumstances, remembering the look on the faces of those I murdered kept me from being completely content.
How could I ever be happy when two kids out there were without parents because of me?
I’d screwed their life up.
I didn’t deserve happiness.
It didn’t matter who was there that night. It didn’t matter who pulled the trigger. I blamed myself for the death of the husband and wife—of the mother and father of those poor kids—and of the death of the last remaining remnants of Sebastian Stephens.
I wanted to let it go.
I didn’t want that life anymore, and with the help of Clive, I knew I was becoming a new man. I was seeing things different and becoming an honest and respectable person—a person Deloris could be proud of.
But that didn’t mean the weight of death and murder wasn’t heavy on my heart.
“Hey, Jerry,” I greeted the liquor delivery guy as he came around the corner of his truck and opened the back.
I wasn’t technically supposed to serve the alcohol. I did some nights, but only when the regulars were around. I wasn’t allowed to serve it, but that didn’t mean Clive didn’t make me stock it. So when Jerry brought the merchandise, I made sure it was stored properly. The boxes were heavy, but I was never one to shy away from hard work.
“Sebastian, my man,” he said, straining to pick up the first box load of bottles. “You ready for the weekend rush?”
I reached out, taking the box from his arms with a grin. “Always.”
“Yeah, I bet. I wish I had a job working in a bar full of good-looking women.”
He laughed, and I did, too, because he wasn’t wrong. There were nights when Mike’s would get so packed full of beautiful women I’d find myself walking around with a stiff dick all night.
It didn’t matter that Clive’s bar looked like a hole-in-the-wall establishment; on the weekends, the place stayed busy because everyone loved the comfortable, laid-back atmosphere.
It also helped that every patron who walked in the door was treated like family. Clive had a way about him that made people love him. He was everyone’s favorite thing about the bar. He was my favorite thing, too.
After Jerry had unloaded Clive’s favorite whiskey, I signed the invoice and started carrying the cases into the supply room.
That was my job.
I stocked the supply room, kept stock of the alcohol, and cleaned up after last call. I also went down an hour before Clive to get things ready for open. It wasn’t the best job in the world, but I loved it, and I was good at it.
Numbers were my thing.
Who knew?
“Everything here?” Clive asked, coming into the supply room.
“Yep,” I said, checking off the final tally. “Eight cases of your expensive shit.”
“Language, kid.” He tapped me on my shoulder, reminding me of Deloris and making me smile.
Almost a year.
That was how long I had been with Clive.
And it didn’t matter how many times I bitched about him calling me a kid, he never stopped. Eventually, I gave up and accepted his nickname. I even grew to like it a bit.
“Yeah, yeah,” I griped.
I didn’t hate it when Clive scolded me.
As a kid who grew up with next to no structure, it was more than welcomed. Deloris had tried, but it was different when you lived with the person who was trying to mold you into a decent human being.
Clive was the first person since Deloris who had the balls to tell me what was right and wrong. He was the first person since her who cared how I presented myself to others.
When I had first started working for Clive, I knew the difference between right and wrong. I understood I was a rude and sarcastic little fuck, but after living on the cold streets, I had become numb to it all.
It was different with Clive. Seeing how people responded to him and the respect he earned from others both personal and business—I wanted that someday. It was my goal.
Respect.
Power.
I wanted it all and more.
People would one day look at me like I was a king, and if I had to follow the rules that Clive laid down for me to get to that point in my life, so be it.
He spoke.
I listened.
Period.
The rules weren’t bad.
Keep your language clean.
No getting stupid drunk.
No drugs.
No exceptions.
But the biggest rule of all was I had to get my GED.
I wasn’t too happy about that one since school had been my least favorite place in the world, but I wanted to give something back to Clive after all he had given me. So I sucked it up and took the damn test, passing it with a higher score than either of us had expected.
“When you’re done here, I was thinking of cleaning out these boxes here,” he said, motioning toward a large pile of boxes that occupied most of the supply room.
“You mean the boxes I’ve been telling you to get rid of for the past six months?”
He laughed.
“This is sentimental junk. You don’t just toss out sentimental junk, kid.”
I smirked. “Whatever you say, old man.”
I picked up a box and strained under its weight. “What do you want me to do with them? The dumpster out back work for you?” I joked.
“Don’t even talk about throwing these babies out.” He patted the box in my arms. “Just move them upstairs so I can go through them. We need the room in here.”
Setting the box back down, I returned to the stocking. “Okay, I’ll get started on them as soon I bring in the last few cases.”
“Sounds good.”
He turned to leave but stopped. Tapping his fingers against the trim on the door, he scratched at his beard with his free hand.
“Maybe next week I’ll start showing you how to run this place.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Did he know something I didn’t know?
Was something wrong?
Paranoia moved in.
I had known good things didn’t last, but I wasn’t sure what I would do if something happened to yet another person I was starting to care about.
He shrugged.
“I was just thinking it’s time to start showing you the ropes. I could really use your math skills on the books. There’s no sense in you wasting all that good brain power on stocking shelves.”
He laughed and turned and left, leaving me beaming from ear to ear.
No one had ever told me I was good at something—with the exception of Jane who enjoyed my fingers and cock in her twat. Clive basically called me smart, and his praise somehow made my heart lighter.
I had asked Clive many times before to show me all the steps to running Mike’s, but he had always refused. I was curious what had changed his mind, but I didn’t follow to ask.
An hour later, I had only managed to move half of the boxes upstairs. Clive had way too many “sentimental boxes.” I couldn’t understand what the hell was so important that he had to hoard it.
A few times, I peeked inside the box as I took it up the staircase to the apartment, but nothing inside looked of any importance to me. I mean, seriously, who needed a beer hat?
The way the boxes were stacked originally sucked, making my work even harder. I had to be strategic when moving them to keep the others from crashing down on top of me. But I screwed up once when I slid a box from under another, making the top box fall and spill all over the supply room floor.
Setting down the box in my hand, I bent over to pick up the worthless crap that covered the floor. An endless supply of papers covered postcards and old keychains. I picked the stuff up by the handfuls, hoping to make quick work of the cleanup.
Sliding some papers to the side so I could stack them, I revealed a little black book sitting on the floor at the bottom of the pile.
It was leather, the edges rough and worn down smooth. The pages inside looked yellowed with time, and the binding cracked from overuse.
I picked it up, curiosity getting the best of me, and flipped through the pages. Clive’s slanted handwriting covered the pages, but I couldn’t make sense of what he’d written.
Mustang. Bucks from behind. Hell of a lube job.
Then a phone number.
The rest of the pages followed. Cars and notes next to cars. Things like long legs, strong mouth, and wildcat.
Camaro.
Charger.
Corvette.
The names went on and on as my eyes moved over the pages.
Clive’s chuckle startled me, and I closed the book quickly as if I hadn’t just been reading his personal stuff.
“Looks like you found my little black book,” he said, moving into the supply room.
“Little black book?”
He laughed.
“Damn, you make me feel old, kid. Let me see it.”
He held his hand out for the book, and I handed it over to him.
He opened it and began flipping through the pages. His grin grew as he read over page after page.
“Are you going to tell me what that is?”
“It’s where I kept all my ladies’ numbers.”
He chuckled, happy memories written all over his smile.
“Don’t make me gag.” I gripped my stomach. “Plus, there’s nothing in there but names of cars.”
“That’s how I labeled them. It was my system. No real names. Only nicknames. It keeps you from falling into that nasty get to know them pit.”
He continued to flip through the pages.
“Each lady was named after a car with notes about all my favorite contributions from them, and then I have their number. See?” He pointed at the page.
Suddenly, the words made sense.
My eyes scanned the page he held out for me.
Jaguar. Likes to scratch. Growls.
I laughed as it all made sense.
“Clive, you’re something else, man.”
“What? It worked.”
“There are a lot of cars in there. You were a bit of a slut in your time, huh, old man?”
I laughed.
I couldn’t see it.
Clive with his stringy gray hair and frizzy beard. It was funny to think of women lining up for him.
“You laugh, but I was quite the ladies’ man. I had no complaints ever. They loved me.”
He snapped the book shut.
“It seems like a million years ago, but I was something.”
I took the book from his fingers and put it back into the box.
“Enough reminiscing, old man.”
I turned and started toward the staircase with the box in my arms, but he stopped me and plucked the book from the box.
“Keep it,” he said.
“What?”
Honestly, what was I going to do with a book full of numbers of ladies I was sure were either dead or long dried up in the sex department?
“Am I supposed to call them?”
He laughed.
“No, kid. I’m passing down my legacy to you. Start on a fresh page and fill the rest of the book. Live your life. Love and be loved, but never get attached.”
His words made sense to me since becoming attached was the last thing I ever wanted to do again.
“Thank you,” I muttered, taking the book.
No one had ever given me so much. Even though it was just an old book full of names of old chicks, it was something that had meant a lot to Clive. And for him to hand it over to me, it meant a lot to me.
Later that night while lying on the couch, I flipped through Clive’s little black book, his legacy, which was now mine.
At the time, I was only joking with Clive about him being a stud, but he had over a hundred numbers in his book. The dates spanned a twenty-year period, but still, I was seriously impressed.
Never get attached.
The book kept him from doing that, and so it would keep me from doing that, as well. He told me to start my own list, and that was exactly what I intended to do.
I hadn’t gotten laid in a while, and it was time I quit thinking about the past and moved on.
No more Jane Jetson.
No more Vick.
No more foster homes and crazy bullshit.
Cold streets and empty stomachs.
It was all going to change for me.
Hell, it had already begun to change for me.
I switched positions on the couch, pushing away the bad memories and focusing on the little black book.
This book would help me.
Clive had asked me once why I didn’t go out with girls my age. I joked that I didn’t have time because he was a slave driver, but the truth was, Jane had fucked me up, and Vick had fucked me over.
Women were evil.
Jane made sure I could never love. She fucked with my head and ruined me. And Vick made sure I didn’t deserve anyone’s love. We had destroyed a family.
I couldn’t love.
And I wasn’t worthy of anyone else’s love.
So I would stick to sex only.
No.
Not sex … fucking.
No emotion.
No getting to know one another.
Just hardcore fucking so I could release the pent-up crazy.
Convinced the little black book was a sign, I decided it would be my new escape.
Again, my fingers flipped through the pages. The last half of the book was blank except for the very last page. There was only one name but no information or number.
Shelby Mustang.
I made a mental note to ask Clive about it later.
But until then, I needed to come up with a different system. Something that suited me. Clive might have been obsessed with cars, but that wasn’t for me. I knew next to nothing about cars.
There was only one thing I was positive I knew enough about. Only one thing that made sense to me.
A grin tugged at my lips.
I knew exactly what my new system would be.
Then I closed the book, set it on the floor beside the couch, and went to sleep.