Mrs. Jin went to work on stopping the onset of my panic attack by fanning me and talking too fast for me to track. When I was finally told the story, I understood my father was not there when it all went down. The security downstairs called the police when a group of men charged the building. The cops were calling it a push in robbery, basically making it vanish from their list of priorities. Easy enough to do with no victims and damage that insurance would cover.
In Slayton’s world, it was far from forgotten. The men who charged my place were from Zee’s gang, whoever he was. They were after my father, looking for payment for the drugs he was supposed to hold, but sold to help pay his debt to Malcolm.
I didn’t see my father or Slayton for four days after the push in. I was instructed to go to work like I had always done before. Those were the longest days of my life. I wasn’t sure I’d see either one of them again.
I struggled to get Mrs. Jin to explain the law of the streets to me. She was guarded with her words in general. Most of what she knew was a generation old; the rest was what she observed from the outside looking in. But I still managed to figure out what was going down.
Malcolm still had the largest territory, and the oldest since he’d taken over for Odin decades before. If another gang had a problem with someone his people were already watching, then they needed to come to him and ask to strike.
My dad, like Slayton said, was not a big fish. He was just someone who had been caught daring to play the system. But my presence, Slayton’s interest in me, had imploded his importance. The bottom line was Malcolm’s people were present, and Zee’s people crossed a boundary. Because they did, retaliation and a lesson had to commence.
Day five after the break-in, Channing’s Escalade was parked in its familiar spot when I got off the bus with Mrs. Jin. I refused to look at him, to read an expression that would tell me that either Slayton or my dad wasn’t coming back ‘round. With each step I knew I was dancing on a hazardous line, that at any second I’d feel utter relief or detrimental grief.
Three hours later, I heard Slayton’s bike park outside. I lost all feeling in my legs as I crouched to the floor and measured my breaths. When Slayton stepped in the back door, and his gray stare found me all but in a ball, relief and confusion flashed in his expression.
“Is he alive?” I whispered.
Anger tensed Slayton’s entire body; long seconds later he answered me with a quick nod then turned and went to his bike. The rest of the day I stared at the clock willing it to move faster so I could know the whole story. My agony didn’t end when my shift did.
Slayton mindlessly weaved us through the city, then to the deli for dinner. We watched shady guys drop bundles of cash off at his bike. Afterward, we took the drop to the same place he had fought before.
I was furious at him. Outraged we were back to our silent game, that I’d have to go in and witness the same sick, nasty world. A pit of hell that I knew not only had its hooks in him, but also both of our lives dangling by its will.
This time, he nodded for me to stay on the bike. I never even took my helmet off. Left and right people moved inside in droves, but every one of them walked around me like I was sitting in the center of a dome. Fifteen agonizing minutes later he came out. My stare flew to his hands, looking for tape or blood. There wasn’t any. He was as calm as ever.
Our next stop was the unit he stayed at. He ticked his head toward a bag that had my things from Mrs. Jin’s in it, a silent command to get cleaned up like he knew I was yearning to do. He was outside the door on his phone when I came out, then I heard him talking to Channing and a few other guys, the smell of smoke and the sound of laughter, mostly drunken, went on for hours.
When Slayton finally appeared again, I was sure he’d be trashed, but he was as sober as the day was long. He grabbed my bag and motioned for me to follow. Dumbfounded, I did. I promised myself when I climbed on his bike that if he took me home and tried to leave I was going to cuss him, and anyone who was watching could go to hell.
He didn’t. He took me to church.
Seriously.
One of the oldest parishes in the neighborhood had seen better days, but it was still a massive fortress attached to a school the nuns taught at. Slayton drove down a back alley then underground into a dark garage. He stopped at the back of it and moved up for me to get off. Once I did, he turned the bike off and walked it forward into a closet barely big enough for it to fit safely. After it was inside, he took a key from under the wheel of a black sedan that was parked close by, got in, and then backed it in front of the door.
I wasn’t so sure I liked how much work it took to hide the bike. My survival state of mind told me that if we had to leave in a hurry, it wouldn’t be easy. I hushed my fears knowing that Slayton was always vigilant and ten steps ahead of me.
He grasped my hand then led me up an old staircase. Up and up we went. We went down one dark hallway only to move down another. Then there were more stairs. Finally, we were in the attic of the church, but I felt like I had stepped onto the movie set of The Crow. The windows were charmingly stained. The arched beams stretched out above, even the wooden floor was beautiful.
Most of the far corners of the attic were cluttered with relics, but there was a wide space near a row of windows that had been cleared away. A mattress was under the largest open window; a clean sheet was fluttering in the warm wind that was blowing into the room.
I noticed clusters of candles set around the space that looked like they had burned for hours on end. They were my first clue that this nook was not newly claimed. The wardrobe of jeans and t-shirts busting free from a broken dresser was the second. Safes carefully hidden behind turned paintings were another.
As I basked in the divine stimulation of the room, the questions it presented, and the air of safety it blanketed me in, Slayton did something I’d never once seen him do. He took his boots off. His jeans followed, then his shirt.
Desire, anticipation, and a host of other sultry emotions of mine didn’t give a damn that we were in church. My mind, body, and soul were reaching for this dark prince of mine. And each and every one of them came crashing down as he did something else I’d never seen him do. He relaxed.
Seconds after his large, lean build landed on the well-worn mattress his eyes closed and a sound breath escaped his lips. I wanted to be a bitch and scold him, demand answers, do anything to get us back to where we were before the break in, but I couldn’t.
His face was soft with sleep already, his even breaths—I knew he was exhausted. It was hard as hell, but I let him be. I watched for a while. Explored some, then finally I crawled to his side. The attic was hot, but the windows were open and on the opposite side he had a fan blowing out, which pushed even more air in the window we were under. Rafters were open at various points in the floor letting the cool air from below rise. I still shed my tank and shorts, knowing the cooler I was, the deeper I’d sleep.
Even though he was sound asleep, once I was at his side he moved his arm across my waist and pulled me flush against him, then nestled his chin against my neck. Safe had become a word I used fleetingly, if at all, but right then I felt such a thing and let myself drift into the first deep sleep I’d had in weeks.
***
The church was our new home, or so I assumed as the days went by and it became the place we landed late each night. Each moment of those first few days felt like a prison I could not break out of. I wasn’t afraid of Slayton’s anger, but I respected it. I knew he drew the emotion up with reason, or at least I hadn’t seen him flip his switch without being provoked. He stayed tense with anger when he was awake, he’d rarely if ever meet my stare, and when he did I saw a pain I could not understand. It was the kind of look that pushed me to imagine the worst. I didn’t want to stop time where I was, but I wasn’t so sure I was ready for an end. An end could mean anything, I was aware. But I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew an end to my drama meant an end to Slayton in my life.
I w
anted peace, but I wanted him. Having both was a pipe dream I only let myself hold onto for seconds at a time.
“You swear he’s alive,” I asked right when we returned to the attic. Slayton had been in a good mood, a quiet one, all day. He’d kissed me longer and let his touch entice me more. There were moments that I let myself believe we were only kids lingering in a day that seemed both timeless and endless. There were no demons or unspoken truths lurking outside our door. It was a pipe dream kinda day.
I thought if any day was a good one to ask, it was this one. I was wrong.
“You have no hard limit,” he snapped as he moved to open more rafters in the floor, it was earlier in the night than it usually was when we came here, so it was hotter.
I swayed back confused and appalled at once. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He glared at me. I watched him struggle with his words, trying to pick kinder ones and not what he really wanted to say. I resented him for the effort, for thinking I was breakable. “Bloom comes face to face with me, then sells shit that’s not his. Risks your life. All but put it on a platter, and you still cry for him?” Slayton lifted his chin in fury. “You don’t see me for days. First words—first reaction is about him.”
He was jealous of my father? Seriously? Worse yet, the idea that he was, infuriated me and made my heart flutter at once. It made me think he really did care about me, but at the same time, I felt like a possession, property. A job he had to do.
“You told him to sell it,” I yelled. He lifted his hand then pointed at the floor, a warning the church was not empty.
“I told him to sell what I could cover if I had to,” he whispered bitterly.
I stared wide-eyed at him, lost as ever.
A pissed smirk flashed on his face. “He openly volunteered to house more. Sold it all. Half a million dollars worth,” he continued resentfully. “Then he bet it all and lost.”
I shakily sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting a sick sensation. “You’re going to kill him.”
“I’m not,” he said grudgingly.
I looked up at him with wide eyes full of fear and doubt.
“He’s been given a deadline. Bloom claims he had to double cross because those who owed him had not paid. That he had the money, just not the time.”
I didn’t trust that my father was telling the truth, and the look in Slayton’s eyes told me he didn’t either.
“What happens when the time is up?”
“We’ll deal with it.”
“You just said—,” he stopped me short with a growl as he stood up and charged toward me.
“I’m busting my ass pushing every fucker that your father took bets for—that he never should have—to get the cash. Shit, I don’t have time to fuck with—all for you. That asshole father of yours fucks up everything he touches.” He gave me a hard once over. “You have no hard limit. If anyone deserves your cold shoulder, it’s him.”
I didn’t care that what he said was true. It made me mad. It hurt. It put my defenses up, ones Slayton saw coming before they were locked in place. They fanned his fury and frustration with me.
He balled his fists. “I’m getting him out of this shit. If he fucks up how I have to get him out—if he fucks up again—I won’t be responsible for what I do.”
Treacherously, with anger as a shield, I said. “I’ll never forgive you.”
Slayton growled a curse then turned and left me alone in the dark attic. Sunday Mass the following morning had begun before I saw him again. He was holding our breakfast in the crook of his arm with a look of defeat on his face. I could tell by the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn’t slept, but I was sure I never heard his bike roar down the streets either. I had no idea where he had been, only that it must have been close.
“You’re my hard limit,” he said in a broken undertone. “I can’t say why,” he paused listening to the choir below, the words of grace. Slayton swallowed tensely struggling for words. “I don’t understand it enough to say.” He swayed his head. “Forgive me or not. I’m going to protect you.”
I dropped my head, a single tear rolled down my cheek. “I’ve got to get him out of this city.”
The humbling apology Slayton approached me with was fading behind his resentment and jealousy. “You think his enemies won’t find him?”
“I think I would regret not trying. Letting someone I love fall into ruin.”
“Why?” he snapped.
“It’s not in me to give up, too stubborn.” I met his cagey stare. “I was taught to be merciful, forgiving, even when rebelled against.”
Shock lit his gaze as he fisted his hands, glancing at the numbers tattooed there. A second later he dropped his head in contemplation. I don’t know what his thoughts were, or why his fists remained tight as the rest of him eased. But once he found a way to agree with them he sat the bags in his arms down and ticked his head for me to come to him.
And I did.
We swayed to the voices of a choir and congregation that were oblivious to us, but not our hell.
TEN
I never let myself come to the realization that I’d become a squatter that constantly let gangsters frame my day as I waited for the other shoe to drop. I moved from minute to minute the best I could.
Instead of surfacing at Mrs. Jin’s place or Slayton’s, I showered in the locker room of the school late at night, sometimes for hours. The colder, the better. I wasn’t sure how much more sexual tension I could take between Slayton and me. Sleeping next to him every night in barely any clothes was a new kind of torture—he felt like he was a million miles away.
On the days I did work, Slayton took me to and from the cleaners, but he never stayed anymore. Once I was home, fed, and safe he’d vanish with little explanation. I’d always wake with him at my side, in a possessive hold.
More than once I saw that his knuckles were busted open, even bruised. When I asked him if he was going in the ring to help with my dad’s debt, he never answered. His stare would grow darker telling me it was a topic better left untouched just then.
Little by little, I was falling harder for him, understanding him. Even though he kept his secrets, any life outside of our dilemma shrouded, I read him.
I asked him once where he was raised, and he looked around the church, and simply said, “Here.” I asked him where his mother was. “Dead.” It was the same when I asked about his father. When I asked if he had brothers or sisters he flinched and grinned sadly, answering, “I’m sure.” But that was as deep as Slayton Winslow would go with his history.
The silence in his answers had me believing he was one of Odin’s princes as Mrs. Jin had assumed. It made me afraid for him. I didn’t like knowing he was walking into Malcolm’s lair, working so closely with him. Or the look of envy or hate in some of the others that ran with him.
Slayton knew my story, though, word for word. At times, mostly during one of my cold showers, I wished I’d held back, or maybe even exaggerated when he pulled each word out of me. He’d always seen me with rose-colored glasses, blameless. But hearing of my small town upbringing, my sweet grandmother, friends, even about some of my past boys, caused him to pull back from our physical side even more.
He’d stare at me with desire, but kiss me innocently before he left. It was like we were fighting, but worse. We weren’t mad. Just surviving days that felt like years.
Not surprisingly, Slayton had dropped me off tonight. The sun was still up, and the attic was blazing. I fell into my new routine and melted into one of the pews in the sanctuary, watching people walk in and out of the confessional booths. As the candles were lit, they’d flickered from a breeze I could not feel or see. If I let myself focus on such an easily overseen observation, I’d feel safe, watched over by the same force that made the purity of fire dance with delight.
I would sit there for hours each day and see soul after soul, the emotion or devotion in their eyes, and I found peace.
I didn’t feel like
nothing bad was going to happen. I knew it would. I just felt sheltered; like I knew one way or the other I’d be better for it down the road. Wiser from my trials. I know it sounds foolish, but it was my truth. The one I battled with constantly. I was afraid of the pain I felt encroaching around every corner of my life. Believing there was a way through life after hell, was my survival.
When the choir came in for practice, and I felt like one too many pairs of eyes were on me, I slipped into the school and stole a cold shower. Dreading going back to the attic, I cruised through the kitchen. I’d rather starve than steal food from a church, but I wasn’t above taking ice.
I filled a plastic bag to its rim with ice, then went up to my space. The candles were the only safe light, low enough to not be questioned. I lit them then began stripping. I hesitated before I pushed down my satin panties, wondering what line I was crossing and if I could live with it once I did.
The heat shattered my doubts. I was sure it would be cool enough later, before Slayton showed, for me to cover blatant temptation. Something he was a pro at ignoring.
I lay on the sheets and reached down for the ice. Piece by piece I glided it from my forehead down my closed eyes, parted lips, to my neck...
Long moments into my lazy, mindless action I grew more daring. The cubes each circled my nipples, hardening them. By the time I eased them down my stomach, they were nothing more than a pool of water resting in my navel.
When a breeze blew through the window, I arched my back taking in the sensation of cool relief sliding across my glistening chest, gasping in a breath as it did.
My eyes had fluttered closed, my fingertips had edged past my navel, and I was daring to forget where I was when I felt a commanding presence in the room and realized the sigh I’d just heard hadn’t come from my lips. A blush of red that I hoped the candlelight was hiding slid down my nude, wet body. I told myself a thousand times to be bold, to not let him see the timid girl I was before I finally opened my eyes.