Bleed Like Me (6 page)

“So what'd you do last night?” Dad asked, one hand holding Luis firmly in his chair. Luis wiggled and picked at his pancakes with his fingers.

“Saw a movie.” Just like every Saturday night. Avoided the house. Made out with Brooks.

“What movie?” Mom asked, cutting tiny bits of sausage and putting them in front of Alex.

“Mom. What're you doing? Alex is eight. He can cut his own food.”

A pained expression crossed her face. “Of course he can. I was trying to be helpful.”

I stared at the ceiling and counted to ten. My parents had no clue how to deal with the boys. They babied Alex, let Miguel get away with anything, and wouldn't let Luis breathe without telling him he was doing it wrong. But all of that was more attention than they'd given me for most of my teenage years. Hard to say which was worse.

My focus returned to my food, but not before I saw Miguel pluck a blueberry from his plate and throw it at Alex.

“Luis,” Mom said. “Don't throw food.”

Luis glared, but didn't say anything. I opened my mouth to defend him and then thought better of it. Long ago I'd learned to be quiet and either hole up in my room or get out as soon as possible. I stabbed a bite of waffle and pushed it around my plate, the sticky syrup tracing a path along the edges until several fat drops dripped off the side. Luis picked up a handful of hash browns and flung them at Mom.

Then it all started. The screaming. The stern lecture from Dad. The threats from both of them. Miguel smiled at me from across the table, picking up another blueberry and flinging it at Alex without anyone noticing. Alex started kicking the
legs of the table so orange juice and water sloshed onto the vinyl tablecloth. I might have been mortified if I hadn't lived through the scene more times than I could count. I eyed the people around us and gave them my “carry on, nothing to see here” smile.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I'm using the bathroom.”

My parents ignored me and kept badgering Luis. I bolted toward the back of the restaurant and slipped inside the bathroom, propelling myself to the last stall. My phone found its way into my hands without me being fully aware of what I was doing. My fingers lingered over Brooks's number for only a second before pressing it.

“What are you doing?” I asked as soon as he picked up.

“Masturbating. You?”

“Gross. Forget it. I'll talk to you later.”

He laughed. “Gannon. I'm messing with you. I was sleeping. What're you doing?”

“Escaping from a family breakfast by hiding in the bathroom.” My voice sounded too giddy, too excited about talking to him, so I coughed.

“You want me to pick you up?” I heard rustling in the background and then a crash, followed by him swearing.

“What're you doing? Seriously.”

“Jesus Christ, Gannon. It's frickin' ten thirty on a Sunday morning. What do you think I'm doing? I'm getting dressed. You woke me up.”

“Oh.”

“What, no apology?” I could almost hear his smirk through the phone.

“No. I don't apologize.”

He laughed again and then I heard the click of a lighter. He inhaled deeply. God, a filtered menthol would go so far in making the House of Pancakes experience tolerable.

“Where are you?” he said as he exhaled.

“You can't come get me. It's Sunday breakfast. My parents have a rule.”

His dark chuckle curled around me. “Yeah. I'm not so good with rules. Is there a window in there?”

I peeked out of the stall. “Yeah. It's sort of high up and it doesn't look like it opens.”

“Where are you?”

“House of Pancakes.”

“What side of the building is the bathroom?”

“The back. What're you thinking about doing?”

“Stay there. I'll come get you in twenty minutes.”

I laughed. “I'm not staying in the bathroom for twenty minutes. It smells like the El in here.”

“I don't give a shit if you stay or you don't. Just make sure you're back there in twenty minutes. I'm coming for you.”

“Did you even hear me? The window doesn't look like it opens.”

“Well, sweetheart,” he said, “it's your lucky day. If you recall, I'm good with windows.”

“But—”

“Twenty minutes. Don't disappoint me.”

He clicked off and I looked at my phone. There was no way he was coming to get me. And if he was, he wouldn't be able to get through the window. But I felt better knowing he had considered it. Knowing that someone might break a window to save me from family breakfast. I shook my head. So messed up.

Things had calmed down at the table when I returned. Luis was sitting too close to Dad, wearing a sneer on his face. Alex had ordered his second meal. He did it to my parents all the time. Ordered something and refused to eat it, deciding he wanted something else. I thought they should just tell him tough shit, but my parents were psycho about Alex eating because he was basically starved when they found him in Guatemala City.

Seventeen minutes later my parents had asked for the check and were finishing up their coffee. Luis sat with his arms crossed, glaring daggers at Mom. He didn't blame Miguel for throwing the blueberries. He never blamed his brothers for anything. He protected them against the enemy, who he'd long ago decided was my parents.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Again?” Mom looked at me, and I shrugged. It was probably an exercise in futility, but I needed to check.

I bolted to the bathroom and hauled open the door. Brooks was standing next to the window with a smug smile on his face. I opened and closed my mouth.

“How?”

He pointed to a broken lock I hadn't noticed on the side. “Kicked it.”

“You could have broken the window.”

“And?” He quirked his pierced eyebrow and my feet inched toward him.

“There could've been an alarm on the window.” Another step.

“At the House of Pancakes? Not likely.”

I could smell his sweat mixed with lingering cigarette smoke, and somehow I didn't mind it. I shook my head to clear it and took a step back, but he grabbed me. I licked my lips and his gaze darted to my mouth.

“I need to get back to my parents,” I whispered.

He shook his head. “After I've done you the courtesy of getting you out of a family breakfast? I don't think so.” His arms snaked around my hips and he tugged me in to him. “You're welcome.”

His mouth descended and I reached my hands into his hair, pulling him closer. His lips nipped their way down my neck until they reached the nearly faded hickey. He pushed the collar of my shirt back and sucked hard, marking me again.
Then he lifted me up and settled me on the counter before wrapping my legs around his waist.

“I need to go,” I said again. This was crazy. And sort of amazing.

His fingers tightened at my hips and suddenly I was being lifted again. “Out you go, then.”

I wriggled, but he gripped me harder and boosted me up to the window. I clung to the ledge and slid the window farther to the side. Then one leg after the other dropped to the ground. Brooks grunted, then hoisted himself out behind me. The screen was in pieces on the ground next to the window. I raised an eyebrow and Brooks shrugged. He pointed to his crappy Honda Civic and pushed me toward it.

“My parents—”

“Will come looking for you soon so you better get that cute ass into my car.”

I'd pay for this later. My parents didn't need to be hunting me down and would freak out when I got home. But I couldn't stop myself. I watched as Brooks unlocked the passenger door. On the seat was a pack of filtered menthol cigarettes. I turned to him and he gave me a crooked smile before dropping a kiss onto my nose.

“You're welcome.”

“Where are we going?” I asked Brooks, taking another drag off my cigarette.

“I gotta take care of something.”

“You inviting me into your crap salad?” My phone buzzed in my pocket. Text from Mom. I ignored it and turned back to Brooks.

He lifted his shoulder. “Can't be helped. I didn't think I'd be seeing you today, and I gotta do something.”

“That's helpful.” I didn't want to be a bitch, but if I was going to have to take heat from my parents, I hoped for a bit of a game plan.

“You called me, right?”

I blew out a stream of smoke. “I didn't tell you to come get me.”

He peered at me from behind his blue hair. “Then why did you call?”

I swallowed once. Twice. “What happened to your back?”

He veered his car to the side of the road, eliciting several honks and one particularly vehement hand gesture. He snatched the cigarette from my fingers and took a drag. Then he rolled down the window and spit. “Frickin' menthol.”

I grinned. “Leaves your breath minty fresh. Sort of like Junior Mints.”

He handed me back the cigarette and stared at me. I almost told him to forget my question, forget all the seriousness, to let me return to the ease of kisses in a dark theater. But in that moment I wanted more. I wanted to know.

“Okay.” He released a breath. “So I live with an old woman. She takes a bunch of us older kids in. She has a ‘no questions asked' policy about most stuff as long as we stay clean.”

“Like your guardian? Are you related to her?”

“No. She's sort of like a foster mom.”

I should have expected it, but it kind of surprised me. I'd never met anyone in foster care before. Did she know the reason for his scars?

I tossed the cigarette out my window. “Where are your parents?”

“Mom took off before I was two. Left everything she had, like she might come back one day. Clothes, movies, jewelry.
She was a meth head and couldn't pull her shit together. She had me too young. She was in a shitty marriage with a controlling asshole. I don't know where my dad is.”

I played with the box of menthols, opening and closing the flap. “How long have you been in the foster system?”

“Five years. I've been bounced between foster care and a group home since then. Switched schools a couple times. I've got less than a year and then I'm out of the system.” He pushed the hair out of his eyes and fidgeted. His other hand tapped the steering wheel. I reached out and put my hand over his. He curled his fingers around mine.

“So the scars . . .”

He looked forward and said nothing.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered.

He squeezed my fingers. “Thought you didn't apologize.”

His smile broke through something inside me. It was too much. I pulled back, reconstructing my defenses. I released his hand and found the cuts on my stomach. I pressed into them and the familiar bite soothed me.

His gaze zeroed in on my hand. “Don't do that. Not for me.”

“It's not for you.”

He yanked my hand away and shifted me closer to him. The car seemed too warm even with the windows open. I wanted another cigarette.

He locked eyes with me and didn't drop his cold expression.
“I don't want to talk about the marks on my back. They're part of the package and you don't really need to know about them.”

“Did one of your fosters give them to you?”

He shook his head and stared past me out the window. Everything felt too bright, too crisp, like we shouldn't be having this conversation during the day.

“When's the last time you saw your dad?”

“Not once since I was put in the system.” He paused and released a breath. “So that's all I've got for you. That's a big enough serving of the crap salad. And we're not talking about this again. Ever. Also, you owe me now.”

I moved back from him. I understood what he wanted, but I wasn't ready for it. Not with him. Not with anyone. He didn't want to talk about the marks, but I was still reeling from the image of them, guessing it must have been his dad who'd beaten him.

“I owe you . . . ,” I started. Only no other words came.

“I can wait,” he said, and turned back to the wheel.

He screeched into traffic and turned up the radio so loud we couldn't talk. I thought about what he'd said. The tremble in his voice. His unspoken memories circling around the two of us, squeezing out all the bullshit notions of what family was supposed to be. I didn't understand everything. And I wanted him to tell me exactly what had happened to his back, but I kept my mouth shut. I lit another cigarette and stared at the mile markers along the highway.

He pulled off the ramp onto the side streets of the West Side. My parents called it the “rough neighborhood.” They'd seen a news special on TV about how the West Side of Chicago had a higher crime rate than any city in the United States. Shit happened there. I wasn't stupid. But I'd heard tons of cities claiming to be the crime capital of the country and they couldn't all be the worst.

Brooks parked in front of a decaying gray-and-black house. A pit bull barked from the gate on the side.

“I'll be right back.”

“What? Where are you going?”

He sighed. “I told you, I have to take care of something.”

“And you're leaving me in the car? Hell no. I'm not some trophy girl waiting for her guy while he takes care of business.”

He raised an eyebrow, the barbell reaching toward his forehead. “You want to come in?”

My gaze shifted to the crappy-looking house and the pit bull. I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

“Suit yourself.” He leaned over me and shoved my door open.

I stepped out and looked at the house again. The paint had peeled off on most of one side. The steps leading up to the front door were covered in gang-symbol graffiti. Crap. What the hell had I gotten myself into?

Brooks climbed up the steps without even checking to see
if I was following. He banged on the door and a guy in a dirty white T-shirt opened it. He nodded at Brooks and pulled the door open wider. I stepped in and saw six guys sitting around a table, smoking a bong. The house was dark and hazy, navy blue sheets covering the windows. I couldn't really see the details of the guys' faces. They looked at me for less than a second before turning their attention back to the bong. The air reeked of weed, and the walls were covered in weird African print pictures.