Innocent
We are born innocent. Our parents love us, guide us, and hope above hope they will do a better job raising us than their parents did with them. But, hope is never as strong as our environment. Parents make mistakes. Their decisions eventually corrupt us. When it is time for us to make our own choices, we often repeat the cycle of behavior. In some situations, repetition is healthy. Other times, it is a gateway straight to becoming someone we loathe.
SHAME
Six years earlier . . .
OLD PEOPLE MADE it difficult to make a living, especially old women. Dangerous lurkings in the neighborhood no longer scared them. They welcomed death, like a sanctuary of peace they never felt living in Southie. They were prepared to die and ornery enough to test me.
“I’m calling the police, Seamus. Do you hear me?”
I ignored Mrs. Callery, otherwise preoccupied with the guy whose shirt I had wadded in my fist.
“Go back inside, ya nosey old bitch,” Tank yelled up to the old lady’s balcony. She didn’t budge. “Come on, man. We gotta get outta here,” he ordered, yanking on my arm. “I ain’t up for a trip to the barracks for this cock sucker.”
I looked at my best friend. My old man gave Tank the nickname when we were kids because of his ability to withstand a solid ass kicking. Of course he had to, on account he had been dippin’ pockets since he could walk, and wasn’t all that good at getting away with it. Eventually, he grew into the name, though. No one messed with Tank, well . . . except for me.
“Not yet,” I responded. My knuckles screamed as they again connected squarely with the guy’s mouth. His warm blood burned against my freezing hand as it caressed my knuckles, or maybe it was my blood. His teeth had pierced my skin, and I could no longer tell. “I swear to God, I’m gonna keep poundin’ your face in until you tell me where Cole is.”
I searched the banger’s gaze for a single trace of fear and found zilch. Him not understanding how far I would take things to get the lowdown on Cole irritated me. I didn’t know the guy, but he should have known me. He should have feared me. Threats were not something I made without the will to act. If need be, I would kill to get information.
Light footsteps pranced through the puddles still lingering on the street from the earlier rain. Blinded by the corner of the building, I couldn’t see who would discover us. I didn’t particularly care, either. Unlike Tank, I welcomed a trip to the barracks if it meant getting information. The inside often served as the best place to gain answers.
“Michael, where are you?” I turned my head as a familiar redhead rounded the turn. “Oh, my God . . . Shame?”
I stared at my past life—at a stranger. “Maddie?”
“Leave him alone!” she screamed, charging toward me.
In the frigid air, each breath she exhaled clouded her face, but her identity could not be mistaken. My big sister had not shown her face in Southie since our old man died five years earlier. She looked different, like a high-class snob invaded her body. You would never know she grew up in the neighborhood.
Tank and I exchanged a quick glance. His surprised expression to see my sister mirrored my own.
“You know this clown?” I asked her, pressing the guy firmer into the brick wall with my forearm.
“He’s my fiancé.”
Fiancé?
No way my sister could be engaged to a banger—especially that banger. Michael Delarosa may have been new to town, but he worked for Dixon. My sister had unresolved issues with our old man, but she would never betray him. She would never lay down with a Villain. They killed Pop.
My fists throbbed, but I was far from finished.
“My sister can’t save you,” I told the guy, shaking my head as I looked him right in the eyes.
“Make him stop, please?” Maddie begged. I assumed her pleading fell on Tank. I turned my head to see him holding her back while she struggled to work free.
As I raised my fist again, Maddie screamed, “No, please . . . Don’t! I love him.”
I hesitated, exhaling through my nose. “You love this piece of shit?”
“Yes. Please . . . don’t do this,” she pleaded.
Her large brown eyes begged me to stop, but she didn’t know me anymore. Her sweet little brother died the moment he swore to honor the code of the brotherhood, to take his father’s place and represent The Irish Bastards with dignity. Time to show her she left a boy behind and the man who emerged didn’t offer mercy.
“Sorry, Mad.” The handle of my Glock felt particularly cold when I pushed the end of the barrel firmly under Michael’s chin. Delighted by the fear now shining from his eyes, I grinned. “I’ll ask you again. Where. Is. Cole?”
Finally willing to tell me, he opened his mouth. Then his eyes moved to the side before I heard, “Freeze. Drop you weapon.”
The clicking of police officers readying their firearms echoed around me. I wanted Cole, but I wouldn’t accomplish anything if I pulled the trigger.
I lowered the gun and turned around, making eye contact with the officer closest to me as I knelt. As soon as the gun connected with the pavement, uniforms surrounded me.
“Bobby.” I greeted the officer applying handcuffs to my wrists.
“Don’t you ever get tired of this crap?” he asked as he lifted me to my feet.
“I’m innocent,” I pleaded, smirking over at Delarosa, who still looked ready to crap his pants. My sister consoling the loser felt like a dagger to the back. As a silent threat, I tipped my chin at her right before Bobby jerked me away.
Bobby and I grew up together. We were on the same hockey team from mighty mites through high school. After graduation, we ended up on opposite sides of the law. Still, he helped me out, gave me a heads up when the department caught a lead on some of The Bastards’ extracurricular activities.
“One of these days you’re going to go after the wrong person,” he said as a warning, which made me laugh.
“Let’s hope,” I replied.
Bobby shook his head. “You’re exactly like your old man.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I grinned.
“It’s not. Keep this up, and you’ll end up in the grave like him, too.”
“Aw, are you worried about me, Bobby?” I teased as he steered me to the cruiser. He didn’t answer. “That’s sweet, but I ain’t scared of dyin’.”
Bobby just shook his head and lowered me into the back of the cruiser next to Tank. He further showed me his disappointment when he slammed the door.
“Fuck this shit, man. I can’t believe you got us bagged,” Tank whined. “We better be out by tonight. I got hot pussy waitin’ for me.”
What was his problem?
There was always a buffet of pussy waiting at the clubhouse.
“You got a regular?” I asked.
I glanced over and ignored the way Tank scowled. “Fuck off,” he mumbled.
Maybe I should have kept quiet, but I couldn’t deny myself the opportunity to mess with him. “Ah, brotha, don’t tell me the screamer’s comin’ back over.” Tank shook his head in exasperation as I mocked wild, donkey noises. “What’s that? Three times now?” I probed. He ignored me. “That’s a record for The Tank. I think she’s earned a club name. How ‘bout Eeyore?” He shot me a sideways look of warning. I shrugged, but couldn’t help adding, “Fitting.” While he tried to look pissed, Tank laughed. “Hey man, thanks to her, at least all the guys know you have a super-sized cock.”
“Jealous?” Tank joked.
I chuckled and answered, “A little bit, man. A little bit.”
The broad wouldn’t be around long. They never were, but she did provide ammo to give Tank shit, which if nothing else entertained me.
My sister and I locked gazes as the cruiser strolled past her. The hard look she gave me reminded me we might be blood, but we were no longer family. She opted out the day she left. Protecting her, or her corrupt fiancé, was not my problem. She took a side. The wrong side, but she knew the risks. No longer could I think of her as my innocent big sister. Of course, we all lost our innocence the day The Villains rolled up on the clubhouse and filled Pop with bullets. I was nowhere near done with her fiancé and God help Maddie if she got in my way.
It took only two hours for Tank and I to get released. There wasn’t a cop or judge in the neighborhood who would hold us. Yes, the club paid them well, but law enforcement did not want change any more than we did. They knew in a battle they wanted to be on our side.
The Sacred Villains influence scared them a hell of a lot more than the Irish ever did. We were allies in a quest to keep the streets from falling into the wrong hands. When it came to The Villains, no one was off limits, not women or children. They were like the Kahns of old, raping and pillaging communities.
With the law on our side, we were living large and happy to be offering a service to the people who called Southie home.
Southie was a Kingdom and I was fucking King.
Once we are no longer innocent, we crave the wrong things; power, money, opportunity and independence. We immediately set out to prove we are no longer children, that we are not naive. When we let go of our innocence, we are defined by the choices we make. If we chose wrong, we will lose our innocence forever, and possibly who we are all together.
BREEZE
“This is never gonna work,” I told Pocket, staring aggravated at the gold, four-inch heels she held out to me.
“Of course it will.” Her eyes worked over me from head to toe as she stood back to examine me. “I’d totally believe you’re eighteen.”
I glanced in the mirror above my dresser. The term cake face came to mind. Pocket spent what felt like hours on my makeup. I hated the way it felt. She threatened to hurt me if I washed it off, so I abandoned the thought. I still didn’t understand why I needed wings on my eyelids, and I swear they looked as though they were drawn on with a Sharpie. The foundation itched something fierce and the mascara felt like tar, but I guess I looked older. However, the ponytail made me look way too young. With a quick yank on the elastic, my blonde waves bounced around my face and fell below my shoulders. It might not have helped, but at least I felt more mature.
The ridiculous shoes still dangled from Pocket’s fingers. Not only were they heels, they were gold and plastic. They belonged on a stripper and they weren’t going anywhere near my feet.
“Can’t I wear boots?” I whined.
She looked irritated, and a little scary, with the tips of her blunt, black bangs covering half her bright, blue eyes. “Why?”
“Uh, because it’s January and I can walk in boots.”
Her lips formed a mischievous grin. “Have another hit, then you won’t even care.”
I took the joint from the ashtray on my nightstand and inhaled a long drag. Getting stoned didn’t affect me like it used to. I wished it did. I needed to mellow out if I stood a chance of pulling tonight off.
“How long’s he been out?” Pocket referred to my dad, because she witnessed him passed out cold on the couch when she arrived.
“Which time?” I answered with a huff.
“He’s drinking a lot more, huh?” she asked.
“How could you tell?”
My sarcasm didn’t affect Pocket. Pissy answers always accompanied her stupid questions. She loved me anyway.
My dad had been drunk since my mom bailed. I liked to refer to it as the night I lost my innocence. Of course, innocence was hard to hold onto when you found your mom snorting cocaine through a rolled-up dollar bill. She packed her bags and left me behind. Not as though my cop dad would have let her take me. In truth, neither of them were fit to raise me.
So, I raised myself.
Losing the love of his life, the once good cop had been reduced to deskwork. Even then, he couldn’t hack it. By the time I turned ten, my dad accepted an early retirement.
I turned away from Pocket because she had that sad look in her eye. She rubbed my arm. “He’s lost,” she coaxed. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
“Whatever,” I said, and took another hit off the joint. I spun back around and blew the smoke in her face. “Yes, he’s drinking more. Happy?”
She waved a hand in front of her face to clear the smoke. “Do you know why?”
“Nope,” I answered. “And I don’t care.”
That was a lie. Of course I cared. My dad had been lost for seven long and miserable years. Maybe he loved me. Didn’t matter. He faced his demons the easiest way he could, at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam. “The Irish can hold their liquor, Breeze,” he would tell me as a means to justify his addiction. I didn’t think heritage mattered after you polished off a bottle . . . or three.
“Right, Breezey doesn’t like to talk about her daddy issues.”
While she joked, I smiled, because she knew me well. Without my father involved in my life, I had only Pocket to look after me. Our dads were on the force together. They used to be close, but my dad drove him away like everyone else in our lives.
Pocket’s mom left her a few months after mine, a lost battle to cancer. While Mrs. Benson didn’t intentionally bail on her family, her death bonded Pocket and I for life. For Pocket, at least a funeral provided closure.
My door remained open. On occasion the woman who gave birth to me popped back into town, bearing extravagant gifts to compensate for being absent. The last time, I refused to spend time with her and asked her not to come back. I was ten.
Pocket and me were like sisters, so when she looked annoyed as I slipped on my boots, I wanted to slap her. “What’s your fucking problem, Henrietta?”
Lucky she didn’t pop me in the mouth, which Pocket was prone to do when people used her real name. The name belonged to her grandmother. Pocket hated it.
As a little girl, she would always check her dad’s pockets for gum. One day he called her Pocket and it stuck.
“You know exactly what,” she warned, her stark, blue eyes narrowed at me.
I straightened, sighed and changed the subject. “This skirt’s short enough to find trouble. Trying to walk in those shoes would easily give me away.” I released a few buttons on my shirt and squished my boobs together. “Besides, I have these.” At thirteen, I had C cups, verging on D’s. While I hated developing early, I learned quickly my boobs were sufficient tools to manipulate guys. “Are you sure we should be doing this?” I asked, giving her one last opportunity to back out.
My worthless dad would have to pay attention to know I snuck out. He never noticed the empty bed in the middle of the night, or who I ran the neighborhood with at all hours. Not that he cared. If ever he did find out, I would listen to one sentence, “You can do better.” Then all would be forgotten. Pocket’s dad . . . he was another story.
“I have to see Liam,” Pocket insisted. “If you’re scared . . . don’t come.”
I didn’t feel scared.
Should I?
After all, we were going to a party inside the clubhouse of the Irish Bastards, a gang of thugs who ran most of the criminal activity in Southie. Before my dad fell off the wagon, he pursued the gang relentlessly. He never achieved a single arrest that stuck. The Bastards were virtually untouchable.
“I’m not scared,” I scoffed. “And I’m not letting you go alone.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said and she would be, but I had other reasons for wanting to go.
I had a mild obsession with Liam’s brother, Seamus O’Rilley, who also happened to be the guy in charge of The Bastards. Although I didn’t know him personally, I had seen photos, and I had heard stories of the man who ruled Southie. The crush I harbored on the gorgeous and dangerous gangbanger might have been foolish, but I wanted to find trouble.
“I’m going,” I replied, avoiding eye contact.
“He’s too old for you and this obsession is unhealthy.”
“You sound like that quack shrink,” I responded, growing annoyed with her.
She rolled her eyes.
For years after my mom left, the state forced me to speak with a psychiatrist. I could still hear Dr. Henderson’s voice, telling me I was being rebellious. Of course I was. I needed to be to make my dad wake up and be present in my life.
Isn’t the root of all childhood evil rebellion?
I popped a piece of bubble gum into my mouth and then asked, “Where does your dad think you are?”
“At Chelsea’s.”
Ah, imaginary Chelsea . . . Pocket’s other best friend. I found it humorous her detective father had yet to determine Chelsea did not exist.
“You’ll be grounded forever if he finds out you’re with Liam,” I reminded her, because when it came to Liam, Pocket couldn’t see consequences.
“He’s not going to find out,” she insisted, thrusting her hands wildly into the air. “And you better not tell him.”
“Whoa—” I raised one hand in defense. “Chill. You’re my best friend. I would never do that to you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I wish he was more like your dad. He doesn’t care what you do.”
Here I wished my dad cared even a teeny bit. My throat hurt as I choked back laughter, and maybe a few tears. “Mine doesn’t even know I exist.”
She frowned and waited a minute. “Hey, remember, no matter who asks, tell them you’re eighteen.”
I felt grateful for the change in subject. Talking about my dad usually ended in us arguing because Pocket defended him.
“I got it, but I don’t see what the big deal is,” I argued, swiping another coat of watermelon lip-gloss onto my lips. “Liam’s only seventeen.”
“Liam doesn’t count. He’s family. We aren’t allowed in the clubhouse unless we’re eighteen. It’s the rules.”
That seemed almost laughable, considering The Bastards were legendary for breaking all the rules.
After swearing not to tell anyone my true age, we crept past my dad to the front door. I didn’t want to wake him. Not because I worried about getting in trouble, but he would need something; food, booze, help to bathroom.
“Princess,” he murmured.
I froze and immediately exhaled when I realized his words were merely incoherent babbling in his slumber. I despised he still called me Princess. He should have called me servant or subject, only that would mean he was a king. And my father was nothing more than the town fool.
Excitement zipped through me as Pocket and I left my house. Walking out my front door always felt good. Even if only for a night, being away from my dad provided me with freedom from the prison my home had become since my mom left.
We headed up the road for Main Street and O’Rilley’s garage, which shared the same lot as The Bastards’ clubhouse. A coat would have been smart. I left it at home because it would cover the only asset I could use to establish an acceptable age to enter the clubhouse.
My legs and arms broke out in goose bumps, but most likely it had nothing to do with the below-freezing temperature. A little, sure, but my nerves were undoubtedly responsible for my body shaking. Two more blocks and I would be inside the infamous clubhouse of The Irish Bastards. Maybe I had become infatuated, and obsessed, but I couldn’t wait to see Seamus in the flesh.
Liam met us on the corner and wrapped his arm around Pocket.
“Hey, Breeze,” he greeted me with a sloppy smile.
“Hi.” I waved, looking at the Celtic cross and the words Irish Bastards on his T-shirt.
“So, do we pass?” Pocket asked as she wiggled her hips.
“I’d say Breeze’s rack will keep any of the guys from asking questions.”
“And I wish you’d quit staring at it,” I said as dryly as possible.
Pocket giggled and I shook my head. Then they kissed . . . with tongues. Hands everywhere and slurping noises. I wanted to go inside, so I smacked Pocket on the back.
Once he freed his tongue from her mouth, Liam said, “We’re going straight to bed.”
Gross.
My best friend had been having sex for months. I had never even kissed a boy. Couples at school kissed. Liam and Pocket kissed constantly. It looked awkward and there was so much spit to contend with. Were you supposed to swallow with some guy’s tongue in your mouth or let the drool spill out the sides? I didn’t know for sure, but curiosity made me wonder what it would be like. Maybe I was more innocent than I realized.
There had been opportunities for me to kiss boys and have sex. I mean, I flirted all the time. I even showed my boobs to Davey Flannigan once for twenty bucks. Teasing guys came easily . . . but actual sex—hell no.
Sex was a weapon. Nothing more. My heartless mother taught me sex had to serve a purpose. It had to consist of more than some loser grunting for all of five seconds. If some guy wanted to hurt me, it had to be the right guy to get my dad’s attention. Like say, Seamus O’Rilley. He would be worth surrendering my virginity. At least I thought he would. The shrink’s voice rang in my mind, again. I ignored it.
“Hey, Doze, what’s up?” Liam said to a large guy at the door with a buzzed head and a full blond beard. I spotted a large Celtic cross tattooed on both sides of his neck and quarter-sized gauges in his earlobes. Liam slapped the bruit on the shoulder. “This is my girl, Pocket, and this is her friend, Breeze. She’s cool.”
Doze’s stare attached to my chest. I had to fight telling him where my eyes were when I remembered my boobs were the best place for him to look if I wanted in the clubhouse.
“Go on in,” he told us.
The instant we were inside, Pocket and Liam wandered down a hallway, already half naked before they disappeared into a room. Admittedly, being alone scared me. The volume of the music battled my racing thoughts, and the bass vibrated my skin. Using my hand, I fanned away thick, skunky clouds of marijuana. I walked into every R-rated movie a girl my age had no business watching. Men and women swapped bodily fluids all around me. They didn’t even notice people were staring, or maybe they didn’t care.
A bearded guy offered me a bowl of what appeared to be candy, until I reached inside, and noticed it was an assortment of pills. The smart girl somewhere inside made me shake my head at him. The last thing I wanted was to be so loaded I lost control. The guy shrugged, as if telling me to suit myself, before he strode off to the next person.
Nothing could quell my growing curiosity, but it could be replaced with shock, and soon it was. Across the room from where I stood, a naked woman with brown hair sprinkled white powder onto her nipples and the guy in front of her licked it off.
I was in way over my head, like a gazillion feet over, but I had no desire to leave.
As an excuse, I could have said I didn’t want to abandon Pocket, but my friend didn’t need me. Nope. I wanted to find the man referred to on the street as Shame. I wanted to see if he was as awe-evoking as his reputation. And in all honesty, I wanted to get myself into enough trouble to bring a mountain of guilt down on my dad.
This made me a terrible daughter. I knew that. Only, I didn’t care how low I sank. I desperately wanted someone to love me.
I found a quiet corner to do my stalking. My eyes scanned the crowd for a while, absorbing more shocking behavior. Morbid as it made me, I became fascinated with each new couple I witnessed. Their uninhibited sexual acts created a physical reaction inside of me. My skin tingled, I felt heat between my thighs, and the most intimate part of me throbbed something painful.
Before I saw Shame, I felt him watching me. My hair tickled my eyelashes as I peeked through to see him.
With broad shoulders, he revealed himself to be larger than I expected. I would go as far to say his presence bordered on physically imposing. His unruly dark hair begged to be brushed and his urban attire screamed, I’m a badass. He had possibly the most beautiful lips I had ever seen on a guy, but his full beard reminded me he was a man, not one of the boys at school I could flirt with when I needed them to buy me lunch.
Any confidence I might have had evaporated. His eyes never left me. I felt like an outsider on full display. The room suddenly narrowed. Only a spotlight could further highlight my awkwardness. Then, he opened his perfect mouth and I swear he summoned me.
There are times when we are reminded we are still young, we are still naïve, and despite our resistance to the contrary, we are still innocent. We should pay more attention to those moments instead of trying to run from them, because they might be trying to tell us something.