I pop open the trunk of my Audi SUV and take out the paper bags of groceries. I will get them all the way to the fourth floor, like I do every month.
I knock and she doesn’t answer, but that’s nothing new. I don’t give a damn. I kick the old door open, which is easy because this building is rotten and everything is decaying, including my sanity, and walk into the apartment. She doesn’t greet me, but she’ll come out once she’s sure it’s just me, and for just a couple hours, I’ll feel close to Gwen again.
Arranging the peanut butter and jam and bread and pickles on the shelves—Shelly’s diet consists of that of a four-year-old mixed with pregnancy cravings—I hear the bedroom door creaking open.
“Pierce? Pierce, baby, is that you?” Her tentative voice followed by a deep cough punctuates the question as she makes her way to the peeling kitchen in her ratty slippers. I turn around and lean my waist against the counter, folding my arms on my chest and taking her in. Shelly is in her early thirties, but she might as well be sixty. She was beautiful once, but drugs, alcohol, and life ruined her.
“Who else are you expecting? The Pope?” I quirk a brow, and she laughs and coughs, tucking strands of greasy hair behind her ear. She clasps me into a hug I accept, for no other reason than the fact she was my sister’s best friend.
“You look good, kid,” she says. Tell me something I don’t know. If teaching high school girls has taught me one thing, it’s that I’m easy on the eyes. Young girls with crushes can be dangerous, so I lay low and stay my asshole self. It seems to be working fine so far.
Things got really difficult when Gwen left me. I would say ‘left us’, but it’s me she left, really. My parents stopped giving two fucks the minute she failed to be the person they wanted her to be. They cut off her cash flow and let her fend for herself instead of helping her with her addiction. For me, it wasn’t that simple. Maybe because my parents were always so busy with keeping up appearances and their precious careers, they didn’t make the time to actually parent me or get to know me, but Gwen did. Gwen took me to swimming classes twice a week and tried—but failed—to make me birthday cakes every year and mothered me more than my mother ever has. Now that she is gone, a part of me is, too. A part I miss and would really fucking appreciate having back.
“Thank you,” I say, exhaling harshly and grabbing a garden chair—the cheap kind you get for a buck at Dollar Tree—which is a part of her dining area. I plop down on it, throw my head back, and close my eyes on a sigh. “I miss her,” I say.
“I miss her, too.” Shelly puts a hand on her shoulder. “They say it gets better.”
“They lie.” I suck my teeth. I hear her laugh, but there’s nothing happy about it.
“You’re still so young and successful, Pierce. I may not know much about life.” She laughs bitterly. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll make it to next month, but I do know you can be happy again. Put this all behind you and live your life before another life is wasted. Maybe find a girl. Have a family of your own one day. Don’t you want that for yourself?”
I guess that’s the saddest part. Women don’t occupy my thoughts. Not for more than one night at a time, anyway. I have no recollection of showing interest in more than a warm body to spend the night with in the last few years. Remington’s face flashes in my mind, and I shut it down as fast as she came. I don’t even know her, but I find her fascinating. It’s like watching a car crash. She is spectacular in a sad, beautiful way. I know there’s more lurking behind those big, green eyes. Luckily, I’m not crazy and self-destructive enough to ever find out.
“Thanks for the tip, Mom,” I bite out, and that awards me a light punch to the shoulder. “What about you, Shell? Don’t you want that? How is what you’re doing to yourself any different?” Her eyes glaze over with tears that she tries to conceal as she focuses on a piece of lint on her pants.
“You forgot my cigarettes,” Shelly says, avoiding my question altogether.
“I didn’t forget. Those things will kill you,” I retort, even though I know I’ve found myself smoking more in the past few days than I have in my entire life. Smoking is Shelly’s least dangerous vice. We always go through the motions of this conversation. I will most definitely go get her cigarettes. And I will do so because I know she’ll be waiting upstairs, taking out the old albums of her and her late best friend—Gwen—and she’ll tell me all about their adventures in being young and wild and free. Then, I’ll question her about Ryan’s whereabouts, and she’ll deny me. If I’m lucky, she’ll inadvertently give me another small piece to the puzzle.
“Camels. Soft packs. It’s crucial.”
“They’re going to kill you.”
“No, baby. The drugs will.”
“Is that the goal? To die? If so, you’re right on track.” I finally get up from the chair.
“At least I’m good at something.”
I decide to walk to the Rebel gas station a few blocks away. It’s a rough part of town, but I actually like it. How real the streets feel. In Summerlin, it almost feels like nothing bad can touch you with its secluded, gated communities. Which is, of course, bullshit. A lot of bad things touched me. Touched Gwen. They left marks. The permanent kind. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they’re not there.
I round the corner when I hear the exhaust of bikes behind me. I tune it out and push open the door. The overhead bell dings. A large, sleepy guy with a curly black ponytail lifts his head from a Playboy magazine and picks his nose as he follows my movements behind the counter. Hello to you, too.
“Three packs of Camels, soft, and a pack of Reds.” I point at what I need. I decide to cut my visit with Shelly short this week. I’m in the mood for fucking. To blow off some steam. Especially after today. The fucker who left an imprint to last a few weeks on Remington Stringer’s thigh has been occupying my thoughts. Hurting women is not my style. In or out of bed. Hurting people who hurt women, however, is something I’m completely open to.
Especially as I know exactly who he is, and I want to do a lot of things about it, but none of them will benefit her. Or me, for that matter. I need to be patient and play my cards right.
I still don’t know what role he plays in her life, and reporting this to Headmaster Charles would drag her into a lot of drama I’m sure she doesn’t need. But I can’t, in good conscience, turn a blind eye.
The cashier rings me up, and I grab my stuff. Just as I turn around, I bump into a shoulder.
Speak of the devil.
Ryan Anderson, AKA Remington Stringer’s ride, is looking me right in the eye. I stare at him hard but impassive, my face not giving away one damn thing. We hold each other’s stare far too long for it to be a coincidence, until someone in a leather cut without a shirt underneath and holey jeans grabs onto his shoulder and pulls him away.
“C’mon, Ryan. We have shit to do. Let’s get outta here.”
I want to kill him for doing what he did, and not just to my sister, but I find myself helpless. For now. Just for now.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” I lift my chin up and inspect him. This part is crucial for me, because I need to know how I proceed with Ryan Anderson. What my angle will be. He doesn’t say a thing, just looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. If he recognizes me, he doesn’t let on. What the hell is wrong with this guy?
“Doubt it,” he snorts. “I don’t go to no country club.”
“I’m Remington Stringer’s teacher, Pierce James,” I spell it out for him myself, because there’s no way this Neanderthal is going to connect the dots without a little help. He gives me a slow once-over, assessing the situation, and his forehead crumples.
“Oh, yeah? I’m Ryan,” he spits out, not offering his hand.
“A family friend?” I feign ignorance.
“Stepbrother,” he clarifies, adding emphasis on the word step as if that makes a difference. “I also own her.”
You’re also about to get your ass whooped.
“You do?” I smile casually. “And here I thought that was illegal since 1863.”
Of course, this idiot doesn’t get the reference and stares at me blankly.
“She’s mine,” he says again, slow this time, taking a step in my direction. I make no move. This asshole doesn’t intimidate me. “Make sure you remember that.” He delivers the threat directly into my face, the veins in his neck popping.
“I’m her teacher.” I bypass him with an easy smile, unaffected. “I will make sure my students make it through the year healthy and safe, no matter the consequences.” The edge in my tone doesn’t leave room for doubt. I’m returning the threat. “It’s literally my job.”
Before he comes back with another idle threat—men like him always need the last word—I walk out of the gas station, my hands clutching the plastic bag.
I go straight to Shelly’s house, only staying for half an hour this time. I leave out the part about my new connection to Ryan—though, I’m not sure why—and complete my mission for the night. I make a short trip to the bar, pick up a random woman, make use of the condom in my wallet, and end my night in bed alone, smoking and staring at the ceiling.
Ryan Anderson. I now have a way to get to him, and I will.
He is going to pay. I’ll make sure of it.