Chagrin clouds her face. The bank had foreclosed on our house in Lower Haight way before my parents burned it down, but because there was a kid living there— me—the bank was having trouble evicting us. We all had things we guarded with our lives. Destiny’s was the fact she had a job at McDonald’s and she’d used that money to buy her crappy green Dodge Neon, which she didn’t tell our parents about and never parked near the house. Mom’s was the coffee maker on the counter. Mine was my guitar and my doorknob. Metal had started to go missing around the house—things like cabinet pulls and door handles. Since our parents stopped paying anything a few years before they blew up the house, the only reason we had electricity was because Destiny made payments on the bill. And appliances mysteriously started to go missing. The washer and dryer were the first to go, followed a few months later by a gaping hole in the kitchen when the dishwasher disappeared. The refrigerator survived, as well as the stove, probably because Dad needed it for his new line of work.
For the last few years, it was sort of an open door policy—all my parents’ tweakbuddies crashing on our floor or whatever. Our house always had squatters, and they got so creepy I started keeping a carving knife under my bed. My parents never cooked anything but meth, so they didn’t miss it. Destiny got caught up in that life more than me, I guess because she was older. She barely graduated high school from what I remember.
“I know first and last months’ rent cleaned us out when we moved here.” I nod at the money. “I just want to help.”
She takes a deep breath and steps out from behind the counter. She’s dressed to slay, in fuck-me heels and her shortest, tightest little black dress. “Listen, Li. I’m working on something that will fix everything. I’m going out tonight. Might not be home until morning.”
There are nights that Destiny doesn’t come home, but she’s never brought a guy back to our apartment. I think she’s trying to shelter me, even though she knows I’m no virgin.
Which she discovered at the same time she discovered I was using. Overall, not my best moment.
Tyrell was our apartment manager’s son. We met when I had to walk the rent down to their apartment five months ago because it was already late. He invited me in and we hung out, played some Minecraft, smoked some weed. He was six-five and blacker than night, which I remember thinking was pretty hot. To this day, I still don’t really know how old his was, but I’m guessing maybe nineteen or twenty.
Long story short, I started hanging out there every day after school and it’s the classic story of one thing leading to another. Over a few months, pot led to crack and making out led to sex.
I don’t blame Tyrell. I don’t think we were really in love or anything, but he’s mostly a decent guy. Just a little misguided. I let my like of him fuck with my guidance system too. My mistake.
But, whatever.
Anyway, the pieces started to click—though I’ve never asked her quite which pieces and how—and one day about three weeks ago, Destiny, who was supposed to be at work, was instead pounding on Tyrell’s door. She dragged me, half-naked, out of there, screaming at Tyrell that I was only sixteen and she was calling the cops. She didn’t, but three days later we were in a U-Haul on our way to Oak Crest.
And she hasn’t looked at me the same since.
She inhales and grabs her bag off the other kitchen chair at our tiny table. “Lock up after me. I’ve got my key.”
I follow her to the door and she gives me a hug before passing through. When she’s gone, I go to the table and drop into a chair. I pull the stack of money toward me and start counting. Including Bran’s twenty, there’s a hundred sixty nine dollars and thirteen cents. Not bad for five hours of solo work.
Who would have thought Podunk would be so profitable?
Destiny’s best friend from high school went to Sierra State and moved in with her boyfriend not too far from here after she graduated in May. She told Destiny it was cheap and she should come. So here we are.
And she was right.
Our apartment in San Francisco was in the Tenderloin, the scariest part of the city. It was a studio, so Destiny and I both slept on a pull-out couch. Here, we each have our own bedroom, and the great room with the kitchen and living room is bigger than our entire apartment in the city. It may be nearly as run down as our old place, with water stains on the ceiling and appliances that are older than my parents, but so far I haven’t seen any roaches.
This is a much safer town, but old habits die hard. I take the money with me to my room and stuff it into my pillowcase. I get ready for bed, but once I’m in with the lights out, I find I’m anything but tired.
I never really sleep. Nightmares will do that—screw with your head when your defenses are down. I doze, but then images of flames tickle the edges of my awareness and pull me from the arms of slumber. And just before I snap my eyes open, there’s always blood. Destiny’s, I think, from the cut on her head.
But tonight, I know I’m not going to get that far. I feel like I drank a thousand cups of coffee, every nerve ending still buzzing from the last five hours of Bran Silo’s eyes scorching over my skin. But it’s more than that. His physical form is impressive, but his presence is immense. And raw. And totally invasive, winding its way into my synapses and taking up residence there, leaving me so fucking wired I feel like I could crawl up the wall and stick to the ceiling like Spiderman.
This feeling is way more addictive than booze or any drug I’ve ever tried. But addictions are dangerous. Addiction robs people of control, steals their free will. People do stupid things for addiction—fuck up their lives, give up their futures. I’ve seen the end result of addiction up close and personal, and it’s not pretty.