Spider
I eye the money suspiciously even as my fist clutches it tight. I’ve never seen a hundred-dollar bill, much less three at one time. It’s enough to keep me in candy bars for months.
“What do you want from me?” I know what happens when men give women money. They always want something in return.
He frowns again and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Nothing. Just get something to eat, and if things get tough at home, call the police okay?”
“Police ain’t any good. They’ll just put me in a home, and it might be one that’s even worse.” I give him my you must be an idiot look.
“I ran away a few times too, kid. Been there.”
“Yeah, so?” I shrug.
He laughs at me, and I stare up at him, fascinated once again. The more he talks in that weird accent, the more I want to look at him. I check out the skull ring on his finger, the swirl of a tattoo that peeks out from the sleeve of his turtleneck. He looks like a bad man, but he isn’t—even if he is in the back lot of the Quickie Mart.
It’s the heart that always knows, and mine does.
“How old are you?” I blurt out.
He grins at me with a flash of even white teeth. “Sixteen.”
“I’m eleven.” I spear him with a look. “Do you dye your hair that color? It’s awfully white. At first I thought you might be an albino, but your eyes are the wrong color and your skin isn’t pale.”
He tosses back his head and laughs . . . like he’s untouchable and owns the world.
My stomach rumbles.
He sobers. “You need to eat.”
I shrug. It doesn’t help that I went to bed hungry.
“Why are you looking at me?” I ask after a few moments of his watching me.
He shakes his head, as if bemused. “I don’t know. You intrigue me, and I’m bored.”
I indicate the bulge in his side pocket. “You got your drugs. What’s keeping you in Tin Town?”
He scratches his head, and we have a bit of a stare-off.
“Give me your arm,” he says a few ticks later as he steps closer to me.
I flinch, an old habit, and take a solid step away from him. “No.”
He holds his hands up in a placating manner then pulls a pen out of his jacket pocket. “I’m not going to hurt you . . . just let me give you my digits in case you get in some big trouble, okay?”
I nod, watching him warily as he eases in closer, picks up my arm, and writes the numbers across my forearm: 555–481–9066. “That’s my mobile number.”
“It’s called a cell, and if I ever get one, I’ll call you,” I say coolly, trying to play older than I am. “Might be a while. I’m not rich, you know.”
His lips kick up again and he shakes his head. “You remind me of someone.”
I cock my head. “Who?”
“No One Important.” He pauses, his face rueful. “Me.”
I smile.
“You’ll be okay, right? Will you call me if you need help?”
“Yeah.”
He nods and saunters away from me, walking backward as if he wants to keep his eyes on me the entire time.
But it isn’t a weird, sleazy look like Lyle has when he watches me; no, it’s more . . . as if he doesn’t know what category to put me in.
I get that.
I put everyone in a category.
I have a nose for it.
Lyle—bad. Granny—good. Mama—who the hell knows.
Beautiful Guy is one of the good ones.
Maybe he thinks I am too.
A warm flush colors my face.
“Where are you from?” I call out to him as the distance between us increases. I don’t want him to go.
“Across the pond,” he replies with a jaunty wave as he walks toward a black Jeep with wheels so shiny and crisp they glitter in the sun. He sends me one last look and cranks the car up, rap music blaring as he spins out of the lot.
I miss him immediately.
After devouring a bag of chicken tenders and two candy bars, I make my way back along the trail, my thoughts still on him.
He gave me money and wanted nothing in return.
Who knew such people existed?
I come to the tree line and my window is still up, the curtains blowing idly in the soft wind. Walking around to the front, I see that Lyle is gone already. I ease open the door and step into the den. The room smells like stale cigarettes and old food. I take in the overturned coffee table, the broken vase, and the bottles of beer littering the floor.
I’ve seen this before.
It’s fine.
She’s fine.
I find Mama behind the couch, her head cocked at a weird angle, her blank eyes staring up at me, reminding me of a dead fish from the market.
She’s scary.
My breathing changes, coming faster.
“Mama?” My hand grips the armrest on the couch.
“Mama?”
I inch toward her, touch her hand, and jerk back at her cold skin.
I drop my bag of food and scream as loud as I can.
Until my throat is raw.
Until tears run down my face.
Until the police run in the door.
And later, nothing falls into place until fate tiptoes in and sets me on my path.
Until I see him again . . .
SIX YEARS LATER
Spider
BUGGER ME.
Not only does my head pound, but I’m striking out big time with a lady old enough to be my nana.
The neatly dressed gate agent crosses her arms. She’s sick of me. Most women get to that point eventually.
“Sir, you can’t carry your guitar on. You’ll need to check it.”
“Make an exception for me? Please, Betty?” I say, glancing at her nametag and accentuating the English accent. Usually, my clipped tones get me out of sticky situations, especially with the female half of the population, but I’ve been hitting a brick wall since the moment I walked up to the desk. Maybe it’s my tattoos, leather jacket, and mesh tank top—I don’t exactly scream nice guy.
Her beady eyes sweep over me, lingering on the black widow artwork on my neck and then moving to check out my hair. I touch it self-consciously. It’s cobalt blue this month, swept back in a gelled pompadour style with the sides shaved close to my scalp. Next week, I’m dying it white. No matter the color, girls go nuts over it.
Not Betty.
“I’m sorry, but you already have a carry-on bag and a personal item. That’s all that’s allowed on the plane. Those are the rules, and they’re clearly marked.” She points to a sign on the wall next to me that explains the rules for flying with Delta. It’s the second time she’s pointed them out to me, and the stubborn arsehole I am, I refuse to look.
“But this is my one true love.” I lightly stroke the case.
“It’s a guitar,” she says dryly.
I lift the case up on the counter and pop open the metal snaps, giving her a view of the yellow and blue instrument. “She’s a Gibson Les Paul that’s gutsy as shit but lightweight at the same time. She’s made from maple with rosewood inlays—the best money can buy, worth over five grand. Paid for this baby myself. Dear old Dad didn’t even help.” I point to a small horizontal strip at the end of the fingerboard on the neck of the guitar. “See this here? That’s the nut on the bass and it controls the string placement. It’s made from real bone. I don’t know what kind of bone it is, but I like to think it’s from a lion or a tiger. Of course, they weren’t killed to make the guitar, but their bones were donated after they died in some majestic battle in the wild. Fitting, right?” I grin.