Chapter 7
Had Jonny just called her a hooker? Slamming the door in his smug face was too good for him. How had she ever envisioned him as a good guy? Obviously, she’d been wrong. He’d probably only given her his card so she could become another one of his harem women.
No, thanks.
Cheryl yanked on a pair of sweatpants she found in the dresser drawer, rolled the waistband a few times, and smoothed her hair in the mirror. The nerve of that arrogant ass. Daring her into a fight, in his designer clothes and impressive body. The same one she’d admired up close and personal last night. And his voice. A threatening rasp that made her think of sex, or how he would sound whispering in her ear while he . . . What on earth was the matter with her?
Restless and irritated, she cracked the bedroom door to make sure he’d gone, and then she stomped around the empty apartment. Her natural curiosity coaxed her into peeking in the bedroom at the end of the hall. By the designer clothes in the closet, she guessed it belonged to Jonny.
The double framed photos on his dresser intrigued her. One showed a girl circa 1960 in her teens, with palm trees in the background. The other, a recent picture of a girl in a parochial school uniform, both with a remarkable resemblance to Jonny. They appeared so pure and innocent. Somehow she expected someone like him to have naked women plastered over the walls.
Back in the living room, the sun streamed through the floor to ceiling windows giving the whole space a bright open appearance. A long way from her dumpy apartment over the Oasis. She’d contemplated going there and getting the money herself, but that could be risky. What if someone asked about Nicky or saw her coming out of the alley last night? Or worse, she ran into Frank Barnett.
When she retrieved her phone from the bedroom, she noticed the battery was almost dead. She’d need to ask Eddie for a charger. She punched in her brother’s number and prayed that he’d answer. As much as she loved him, she couldn’t depend on him. At twenty he was as street smart and savvy as a forty-year-old, yet as immature and reckless as a fourteen-year-old. But she loved him with the intensity of a mother and the critical edge of a sister.
By the fourth ring, she anticipated the automated recording when he picked up.
“Dylan?”
“Cheryl?”
“I need your help.” Sheets shifted, and a female voice whined in the background. “Are you with someone?”
“Yeah, we were partying kinda hard last night,” Dylan mumbled. “Can I call you back?”
“No,” she yelped. “Listen to me. I want you to go to the Oasis and get my money. It’s in a tampon box under the sink. Then bring it to the Paradise Lounge.”
“Why there?”
“My phone is going to die soon, so just listen. Come in the back door of the club and take the elevator to the third floor. I’m in the apartment over the—”
She pulled the dead phone away from her ear and mumbled a curse. At least she’d gotten through to him, and hopefully, he would pull it together and do as she asked. Following orders and going by the rules were not Dylan’s style. Number one reason he’d been in and out of juvie since he was thirteen and even her warnings of real jail time now that he was twenty fell on deaf ears.
Granted the kid had a rocky start with a mother more interested in drugs and men, sometimes one more than the other, instead of her own children. And although Cheryl protected him when he was younger, she’d hardly been a shining example. An argument Dylan threw in her face whenever she came down too hard on him. Yet, underneath all his swagger and false bravado, she saw the scared little boy who cowered against her in his bed when the yelling got too loud, or the party got too wild.
She occupied herself with a few trade magazines on the coffee table, flipping through the pages, and checking the wall clock every three minutes until finally there was a knock on the door.
She opened the door, they hugged, then separated as Dylan checked out the apartment.
“Nice place.” He stepped around her. “Fuckin’ huge.”
He towered over her at six-feet-four, and his muscular built, shoulder length dark brown hair and the scruff outlining his jaw made him appear much older than his twenty years.
Her backpack slung over his shoulder filled her with relief.
“What happened last night?” he asked.
“Long story.” She would not involve him in her mess.
“Something to do with the douchebag?”
Dylan didn’t like Nicky either.
“It’s complicated.”
Dylan eyeballed her for a second then strolled around the spacious living room. “This place rocks. How’d you end up here?”
“Eddie Morgan from the old neighborhood owns it with another guy.” Who is annoying, arrogant and ridiculously hot. “They also have penthouses on the Upper East Side.”
“Not bad.” He picked up one of the crystal glasses off the bar. “What happened to Nicky?”
“What do you mean?”
“He usually has you on a short leash. Where is he?”
By now, probably at the bottom of the East River.
“We broke up.”
Short and simple. Truth and lies intricately twisted.
“No, shit?” He had the same disbelief in his voice as Eddie.
When had she become that submissive and predictable? “We’re over.”
“About time.” Dylan stepped behind the bar distracted by the different liquors showcased on glass shelves. “You gonna be staying here for a while?”
“No. Now that you have my stuff we’ll go ahead with the original plan. You got the money, right?”
“Yeah, about that?”
Oh, she didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“Please tell me you got the money.”
“When I got there Sal already tossed all your stuff out. Bitching how you and Nicky ran off and ditched him for three months’ rent.” He held out the backpack. “I was lucky to get this.”
“The money was under the sink.” A steady pulse pounded in her ears. “In the tampon box.”
He screwed up his face. “I told you, everything was gone.”
“Shit. Now, what are we going to do?”
Dylan picked up an ornate shaped bottle from behind the bar. “We could always try some of this fine Bourbon.”
“First of all, you’re underage.”
His raised eyebrows confirmed the absurdity of the comment.
Dylan’s first taste of whiskey came at the tender age of twelve when one of mama’s boyfriends thought it would be fun to get the kid drunk. And sadly, at twenty, she didn’t have any delusions about Dylan’s experimentations.
“And secondly, we don’t take things that aren’t ours.”
Dylan shouted with laughter at that one. The irony of her being a pickpocket and him being able to hot-wire anything with an engine was not lost on either of them.
She huffed out a breath. Being parental exhausted her especially when she was so bad at it.
She slumped onto the couch. “Three thousand dollars. Gone.”
“Stay here for a while.” Dylan flung his arm around the room. “You said they got some other penthouses. They probably won’t even notice you’re here.”
“What about you?”
“I still got that room by the body shop over on State Street.”
“And you’re going there to work every day, meeting with your PO? Staying out of trouble?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m like a boy scout.” He held up the wrong two fingers of the boy scout salute.
Right. A tatted-up boy scout in low slung, faded jeans, a hoodie, lace-up motorcycle boots, and a small silver hoop in his ear. One look at him and a scout master would have a heart attack. Then he made a goofy face and smiled. A smile that probably made the girls drop at his feet seconds before they dropped their panties.
She envied him. No matter how bad or how bleak the situation, his upbeat attitude was contagious if a little Peter Pan-ish. He’d had the same shitty upbringing as her, and yet he still had hope. Still thought he was living the dream.
He sat next to her and slung his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Sissy, you’ll think of something.”
His heavily muscled arm made her feel protected, and his infectious grin and pet name for her gave her hope. If she could just shake the sensation that her life was about to unravel.