NINE
Scotti
"Need to know your head is in this," Nixon said, giving me an impatient look across from the dining room table.
It had been two and a half weeks.
Rush had already gotten hired and then quit a job at the next store. We didn't need to spend as much time there as we used to. We knew the ins and outs. The only reason for going undercover now was to make sure no one had implemented anything different. All these years and it had only happened three times, when they updated computer systems and cash registers. But we always wanted to make sure.
You would think that after being hit so many times, they would come up with something better to protect themselves. But the fact of the matter was, we let just enough time lapse between jobs to give them a sense of comfort again. Some years, we only did one or two jobs, thousands of miles from each other. Some years, it was one every couple of months.
We always allowed for that grace period for the news and managers and employees to freak out and start being uber vigilant.
But the fact of the matter was, we all knew because we all worked in so many of these stores, that sensationalism easily got lost among the daily drudgery of the job.
Oh, so that store five states over got robbed yesterday? Yeah, well someone shit in the dressing rooms today so... who the fuck cares?
That was the life of a big box employee.
They weren't paid enough to give a damn about the store's bottom line. Hell, half of them were on assistance thanks to the slave wages. They probably wanted to see the places burn more than anyone.
I really had no right to be in such a sour mood. Compared to the shack in Navesink Bank, NJ, this cabin in the woods in New York State was actually really nice. It was some place they rented out to people who wanted to experience living 'off the grid' because it was completely solar-powered, wind-powered, with fireplaces for warmth in winter and, well, nothing to keep cool in summer. There was a massive garden and a small greenhouse for growing all your own food. It had three bedrooms which made living with four other people so much less stressful.
It was beautiful here. There was no noise pollution to wake you up at night, just the faraway sound of an owl calling through the skies. The air was fresh. The sights were absolutely lovely. I should have been loving it.
But all I could keep thinking about was a little craftsman-style home with a nifty and convenient island in the kitchen, a beautiful bed to roll around in, and a man who smelled like hard work and chances worth taking.
I wouldn't be able to accurately describe to you the feeling of leaving that very night I had spent with Mark.
It felt wrong.
It felt like my body was fighting me every step of the way. My stomach had been twisted in painful knots, making each bump on the ride make a rush of nausea course through me. I felt alternately hot and cold and had to fight an almost constant urge to cry, to slap my hand into the back of Rush's head and demand he turn around and bring me back to Navesink Bank.
But that was maybe exactly why I bit into my bottom lip enough to leave a bruise and said nothing, kept my disappointment and sadness to myself, pretended that leaving Navesink Bank didn't feel like the biggest mistake of my life.
Because it was all so ridiculous, so irrational, so not like me.
Sure, I had a really nice time with Mark, but it was one day.
One perfect, amazing day where I felt more myself, more free, more happy than I had in... hell, I didn't even know. Maybe since my mother was alive.
But still.
Just one day out of thousands of others.
Thousands more to come.
I would get over it.
Though Nixon was right to be impatient with me and worried about me. I hadn't been myself. I had gotten to the house, holed up in my bedroom, taken long baths, taken longer walks. I had become a bit of a loner, lost in thought, not kicking back with them like I usually did.
"My head is always in it," I said, shrugging. Hell, I could pull off a successful hit in my damn sleep after so long.
My head was, in fact, in it.
It was my heart that wanted nothing to do with it anymore.
I had been doing a lot of thinking on that actually. And the resounding conclusion seemed to be- what the hell was the point anymore? We had enough. We had done enough damage. Why were we still so hellbent on finishing the job? It wouldn't bring Mom back. It wouldn't erase her suffering, or our own. It wouldn't change corporate's views on belt-tightening at the risk of their employees' health.
It did, ultimately, nothing.
Not a damn thing.
Ten years on a fools mission.
Ten years dedicated wholly to a vengeance that would never be had, because it could never be had. There was no eye for an eye. It wasn't as 'easy' as killing the person who killed your loved one, in getting true revenge.
In six months, no one would remember us. No one would know why we did what we did. No one would have a better life because of us.
We just created a secluded little bubble to live in for no freaking reason.
It was sad.
But I was completely alone in that realization.
It was the loneliest I had ever felt in my life.
In an effort not to drag anyone else in on my pity party, I just kept to myself.
That didn't mean I couldn't do the job.
I could do the job.
I would do the job.
Maybe it wasn't the life I wanted for myself anymore, but they still wanted it. And I wasn't going to take that away from them, at least not so close to the finish line. It seemed cruel and pointless to do that to them.
Then, well, we would be halfway around the world.
Maybe that was good.
It would be a truly fresh beginning. I could bunker down, learn the languages and customs, learn the area, do some soul-searching and figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Then I could settle down. I could maybe find a good man. Maybe have a couple of kids which was an idea my life hadn't afforded me so far.
Things would get better.
They had to get better.
I was tired of being a wet blanket already.
But seeing as things were just the same still, I couldn't shake it.
When we were done, I would find some relief.
"Alright," Nixon said, shrugging. "Me and Atlas are gonna head into town to stock up on some more groceries before we are locked up around here for a month after."
That was the drill.
Same shit, different day.
Ugh, I was being a petulant child.
These were the choices I made. I had no right to be so mopey about them.
"Sounds good. I am going to go check on the garden, make sure everything is how it should be."
That was part of the drill for staying there. We had to keep up the garden as well as let the chickens out to roam during the day, take the eggs out of the coop, then put the birds back in at night.
It all pretty much fell to me, which was fine since I was in a mood and no one wanted to be around me anyway.
I was sitting smack dab in a garden row twenty minutes later, the warm sun beating down on me, loading me up with some good, old-fashioned vitamin D, and mildly lifting my spirits, clutching an itty bitty chick to my chest because, apparently, we had missed an egg or something.
"Careful it doesn't imprint on you," Kingston's voice called to me.
"I think those are baby ducks," I supplied, petting his soft head. "Besides, Mama Bird is right there keeping an eye on things. No nuggets getting made out of her babies. Right, Mama?" I asked, listening to the clucking noises she made as I put her chick down and watched him run toward her. "What's up, King?" I asked as he looked off across the cleared part of the woods, sectioned off with deer fence, so no nosy critters got any wild ideas.
"Talk to me, Scott," he demanded softly, sitting down in front of me.
"Why? With all that noise in the house, I'd think you'd enjoy all this solitude out here."
It was no secret Kingston liked alone time as well, needing to clear his head, get out before he blew his lid and freaked on one of us.
"You know what I mean," he said, ducking his head a bit to catch my eyes, a small, reassuring smile on his lips. "Come on, Scott. You can't keep it all bottled up. I know I might not be as good as having Mom or a girlfriend around, but I'm here, and I care. Talk to me."
"I didn't want to leave," I admitted, looking away from him, not able to confess it while he was giving me that understanding look. I reached for a weed growing between the rows of carrots, plucking it, then tearing it up. "It's stupid," I rushed to add. "I know that. It was just a day, you know?"
"But you wanted more," Kingston said, making my eyes find his. "I get that, kid. I really do. Believe me when I say I tried to talk those fucks out of leaving so soon. It was actually Rush of all people who told me that we would only make it worse on you if we kept it to ourselves and let you get closer to him. I know they... we might seem dense at times, Scott, but we really aren't. And the last thing we want is to see you get hurt. This," he said, waving a hand at me. "Has been making us sick for two and a half weeks, but it is, in a way, proof that it needed to happen, don't you think? What would you be like if you got a couple more days, a couple more weeks with this guy?"
I exhaled slowly. "You're not wrong," I agreed. It didn't make me feel better, but I could see the logic there. "I shouldn't be this moody about it," I added, shaking my head at myself. "I just... I never get to make any connections. I don't have a single friend in the world who I am not related to. I don't even know what it's like to fall asleep with a man. Or to wake up to one. Or to be able to talk about the future with one." I reached up, wiping a stupid, useless tear off my cheek. "I hate him for showing me what I have never been aware of wanting before."
King snorted at that, shaking his head. "No, you don't."
"No, I don't," I agreed with a small smile.
"I get you need to process this, and take your time with that. But also maybe stop to consider that this wasn't a completely terrible thing to happen. Let me finish," he said when I opened my mouth to say something. "Not because you feel shitty now, but because feeling shitty now means that something isn't right, you need to make a change. We've all been in this revolving door for a decade now. I'm starting to worry that none of you have stopped and thought about possibly wanting more."
"Have you?"
"Kid, I'm closing in on forty here. Of fucking course I have thought about what else I want out of life."
It was right about then that I felt an almost overwhelming surge of guilt. Not just for being a mopey baby for the past couple of weeks, but because I had been so obsessed with my own little dramas for the past decade that I couldn't see my brother wasn't happy either. Of course he felt the strain more than the rest of us, most especially more than me, the youngest. He had sacrificed his whole life without a hesitation, taking us all in one-by-one. For my brothers, as they just aged up and wanted a little more freedom. Me, when I was thrust upon him by our mother's untimely death. And he was never resentful. He never once made me feel like I was a burden, though I knew there were days when that's what I absolutely was. He never got to find a steady woman, have a house, kids, a normal job. And unlike me, he wasn't still young.
God, we had all lost so, so much without even truly realizing it.
"Don't give me that look, Scott," he said, shaking his head at me. "I don't regret one day of this. Not even when your crazy ass was seventeen and made me go back to the goddamn pharmacy three times because I didn't get the right tampons, and you were too embarrassed to do it yourself. And, let me tell you, that was not an easy day," he said, giving me a smile. "Not even the day when Rush gave himself alcohol poisoning and I had to sit next to him after the stomach pump, an ulcer burning a bigger hole in my stomach. None of it, Scott. It's been a fucking honor to get to be a father figure to all of you."
"But we're all grown now, King. I'm not saying we don't need you, because we do. Me especially. But if this isn't what you want anymore, figure out what you do, and follow it."
"I'm supposed to be the one giving the pep talk here, kid," he said with a smile, reaching out to tug a strand of my hair as the chick came peeping back at me. "Sure about that imprinting thing?"
"Um... no?" I said, making an "eek" face. "What do you think the laws are regarding bringing live poultry into China or Russia?" I put him back down, and he ran off. "I'm sorry I've been a grouch, King. I know it brings the whole morale down."
"Hey, you know, I'm actually kind of happy you've been in a shit mood. No," he said, holding up a hand when I went to object. "Not because I like seeing you unhappy. Far from. But because it's the first time I've seen you feel deeply about something in, fuck, I don't even know how long. I'd hate to think that by choosing this lifestyle it stunted your growth, made you hardened or unable to experience the desire for something more. I'm glad that isn't the case," he said, getting onto his feet, brushing off his jeans, then reaching down to pull me onto my feet. When I was, he hauled me against him, giving me a tight squeeze I didn't realize how badly I needed. "Three more jobs," he said in a reassuring voice.
"Three more jobs," I agreed with a nod as we walked back toward the house.
Two days later, we loaded up a new car we bought with cash from someone too ignorant to realize we needed to transfer the title. I took some extra time in the bathroom, making sure my disguise was perfectly in place. Me and King were pulling the main job this time, something that almost never happened because the other guys were always worried King would be too worried about me to pull off the job.
King had his fake nose and an ugly ol' mole on along with a temporary wash-out hair color that gave his dark brown hair an ugly reddish hue. I had my hair pinned up under a believable strawberry blonde wig, light blue contacts in, and spent over an hour doing heavy contour to my face which left it looking like I had completely different bone structure than I actually did. I also padded my bra and wore three tight layers under my tee to make myself look bulkier. I was being overly cautious since I had needed to show my face at the last job.
"You look like you're for hire," Atlas informed me as I came out, making me throw my perfume at him as I laughed. I hated the smell of this stuff too - all fake perfumes, all "fresh" scents that weren't fresh at all, and were giving me a wicked headache.
"Gee thanks," I said, grabbing the lightweight distressed jean jacket Rush handed me. I wouldn't be caught dead in a jean jacket normally, not even on a job, but Rush had been in charge of buying the clothes this time since I had been in a sour mood.
"We all set?" Kingston asked, a little more tense than usual, as he always was right before a job.
"Yep," I said, giving him an encouraging smile
And then we went and did the job.
And... nothing.
There was none of that 'high' I usually got from the adrenaline rush. There was no sense of accomplishment. There wasn't even any relief that we were one job closer to being done.
I should have been happy.
Two more jobs.
Just a couple more months.
Then all the stress, all the worry, it was over.
We could find a place and settle.
King could finally, finally be able to have a life of his own, free of the ever-nagging worry about his little brothers and sister.
I would be free.
Except, the niggling little voice in the back of my head said, it wasn't freedom. Free wasn't free when it came with clauses and amendments. I could do whatever I wanted in China or Russia. I could be who I wanted to be, except Scotti. I could make friends, but never, ever tell them where I had been and what I had done. I could have a man, but not ever Mark Mallick.
"Come on, Scott, you need it as much as we do," Rush reasoned, watching me in the rearview as I scrubbed at my face with baby wipes, wanting the pancake makeup off. My face felt like it couldn't breathe.
I honestly could have used a round or two or five. I could drown the bad mood in tequila, pretend the world didn't feel just slightly less bright and wonderful as it used to. I could flirt with a man. I could even go back to his place if I wanted to.
But the bigger part of me wanted to go and take a long shower, wash the day away, maybe take a walk through the garden which I had found to be cathartic. I had never been in one place long enough to even think about having a plant, let alone a garden. And I found as I got down on my hands and knees and pulled weeds, gave the other plants breathing room, as I sprinkled eggshells to stop the slugs, as I picked greens for truly fresh salads, that it was something I really did enjoy.
It was maybe the first thing I had truly learned I like to do, being the only thing I had really been able to explore doing.
Where did that leave me with career options if I wanted to go that route?
I wasn't sure. Maybe I could be a florist. Maybe I could get a job at a farm. Maybe, some day, I could have my own little farm and sell my goods to make ends meet.
Or maybe I would just have a backyard garden and backyard chickens that I could piddle around with in my free time.
At least it was something.
At least it gave me something outside of robbery and family to be passionate about.
"I have a headache from all this perfume," I insisted. They knew how I was about scents and it didn't fall on their ears as lies, though one look at Kingston said he knew it was just an excuse, even if it was halfway true. "But just drop me off, and you guys go yuck it up. You deserve it. This has been a busy month."
"We were thinking of crashing there," Nixon hedged, feeling me out.
I was really never left alone. Sure, some nights one or two of the guys would find a girl and go home with her, but someone was always back at the crash pad with me.
But in this case, the crash pad was in the middle of nowhere, and there wasn't a bar for almost forty-five minutes, in the closest town. And they all wanted to let off some steam, so none of them would be able to drive.
"That's fine," I insisted, shrugging. "I'm perfectly safe in this house. And don't worry," I said, giving them a teasing smile for thinking I was so helpless that I couldn't spend one night on my own, "I will make sure I lock the doors and check the windows before I go to bed."
"If you're sure," Atlas hedged.
"Oh my God, I'm twenty-seven years old, guys. Stop treating me like a seventeen-year-old. Actually, if I remember correctly, at seventeen, I put myself to sleep many-a-nights since you guys were all out hamming it up and Mom was working."
"Fair enough," Nixon agreed. "Need us to bring anything back tomorrow?"
I don't know what possessed me to say it, but I did. "Yeah, can you pick me up a pot and rooting hormone."
"Ah... what?" King asked as we pulled up to the house. "A pot for planting something in and a little container of a rooting hormone. Any brand. Stop looking at me like I cracked," I said, rolling my eyes. "I really like this place. I've found some... peace here. And I am going to take a clipping from here and root it to keep with me. So get me a pot and rooting hormone. Geez." I grabbed the bag they passed at me, knowing part of my job for the night would be to burn everything we used in the robbery, then climbed out. "Have a good time, guys," I said, and I truly meant it.
I wanted them to have a good time.
And I was going to enjoy my solitude while it lasted.
Maybe I would download a language app on my phone and try my hand at Russian and Chinese, see which one was easier for me to pick up.
I was determined to keep my mind toward the future, to not dwell on the past, to stop thinking about all the things I might have missed out on or left behind. It was better for myself and everyone around me if I started pinning my hopes on the possibilities of the future instead of the memories of the past.
So I watched my brothers pull away. I got a fire roaring. I slowly loaded in all the clothes and wigs and even the bags themselves. Then I took myself to the bathroom, took a shower that went on forever because no one started slamming on the door telling me to hurry the fuck up because they needed to get in. I dressed in one of King's tees that swam on me and a pair of pajama shorts, then curled up on the couch with a gardening book I found on a shelf in the living room.
A quiet night at home.
I wondered if my future had more of those in store for me.
Just when the words started to swim on the page, I heard a tap tap tapping noise coming from the front door.
And all those assurances I fed my brothers about being able to be home alone, that I wasn't scared of anything, that I could handle myself, kind of flew out of my mind momentarily as panic flooded my system.
I pulled myself quietly off the couch, moving toward the kitchen where one of the guns were situated, loaded with rubber bullets. They might not kill someone, but they would hurt them enough for me to get the chance to beat the ever-loving-shit out of them.
And then... I don't know.
I would figure that out as I went.
I made my way to the front door, forcing myself to take a slow, deep breath before reaching for the handle, completely at a loss for what could be causing that sound.
Then I yanked the door open.
And I nearly emptied the gun into him in pure and utter shock.
Mark Mallick was on my doorstep.
With my little silky black chicken in his hands.
And I realized that was the source of the tapping- his little beak on the wood.
Before I could effectively choke on my own damn tongue, his head dipped to the side slightly, his light eyes intense.
"When the fuck is enough going to be enough for you, baby?"