The Second Jam Page 2

  “I don’t have them with me. But it’s fine. You might need them yourself.”

  I palmed myself in the face. This was why I couldn’t ever keep a boyfriend—eventually my snarkiness just ground them down until they were rounded instead of square and I’d sucked them dry.

  “Yeah, she’s old, but she runs just fine. Take them. I’m pretty sure I have another set at home. I wouldn’t want you to get stranded somewhere. The next guy might not be so nice. If all else fails, you can whip his ass with them—makeshift nunchakus.”

  I took them from him without a response. At that point, I was afraid I’d accidentally tell him to go to hell or worse.

  The standoff lasted for a good two minutes before he shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against his truck. “I’m not gonna leave until I know you get out of here safely. I’m sure you have an after-party to get to, right?”

  I couldn’t exactly answer him with my teeth clamping down on my lips, so I mustered one of those Mr. Bean smiles instead, jumped in my car, and sped away before I did some real damage. A guy like that was way too sweet for me. He would never stand a chance.

  They didn’t call me Beatz ‘Em Down for nothing.

  As soon as I entered the bar and grill, I spotted the blue hair of our Coach, Nellie Black and she was talking to Scout in hushed tones. They saw me immediately, but I did catch a small bit of their conversation—something about someone who’d snuck into the bout and thought they weren’t noticed. Why would anyone want to sneak into a bout—they were open to the public?

  “What took you so long? Your friend Zuri is already on the table singing.”

  I glanced down at my cell phone. “I’m only thirty minutes late. She didn’t waste any time.”

  Scout threw an arm around my neck and dragged me to the main dining area. “Come on, there’s celebrating to do. You kicked some ass tonight. Seriously, my dad said that he hasn’t seen anyone skate that fast since Aunt Reed. I wish someone would’ve timed you. Maybe we can get one of those radar guns and get an average on you. I think I know a guy who can get me one. Man, I’d love to do the math on that one…”

  “Scout!” I whisper-shouted. Scout and I were just beginning to be friends, but she’d told me in the beginning that she had a Mad Hatter tendency to get on a tangent and never ever leave until someone dragged her away. The word around the team was that Scout was some kind of prodigy in her own right. She’d been begged to attend every elite college around the country, but had settled for somewhere local—they said to stay around family and her best friend. The funny thing was, she never mentioned a best friend to me.

  She did talk like Einstein on crack—so that rumor was true.

  “Sorry. You really were fast though.”

  I ignored the compliment. “I’m starving. Please tell me there’s some wings or pizza—something extra messy.”

  Scout laughed and pointed toward the table filled with the team who were all clinking glasses at our win. “Chili-cheese fries too.”

  “Excellent.”

  The next morning, I rolled out of bed way too early. No matter how much I tried to sleep in, my internal clock buzzed at six. Sunday was my only day to get things done, anyway. I had to down three aspirin with a cup of black coffee just to make myself presentable for the public.

  After stopping at the panaderia for my dad’s favorite breakfast, I headed for his house to see how big the hangover was. There was a time when I tried to stop him drinking his sorrows away on Saturday nights, but eventually, I knew that there was nothing I could do to stop it. Once, when I was really trying, I ended up singing with him to my mom’s picture—a very off-key version of Tú Sólo Tú and fumbling on an old guitar he’d bought off of the home shopping channel. That was the first and last time I’d done a shot of tequila. It was also the last time I’d allowed myself to really mourn my mother.

  “Papa!” I called out, surveying the kitchen for traces of the night before. Other than an overturned chair and the remnants of a candle that had been long burned before being blown out, the place was decent.

  “Aqui estoy, mija.” He called out from somewhere in the house. His voice sounded normal. The tangy smell of coffee tickled my nose, letting me know that maybe the night before hadn’t been a bad one. He’d made himself coffee and he wasn’t slurring.

  “How are you doing today?” The best way to act on mornings like this was just to pretend everything was fine. My dad had early onset Alzheimer’s, but its progression hadn’t prevented him from forgetting that Saturday nights were the nights that my parents went on a date—from the time they were sixteen to the night before cancer claimed her once and for all. He also remembered that it was me who brought him breakfast on Sunday mornings. He remembered the damndest things.

  “I’m fine. Did you bring me quesadilla?”

  I looked in the bag, pretending not to have his favorite sesame-seed topped cake. “They were out.” I could barely contain my serious tone.

  He sat down at the table, after pulling out a chair, while he cradled his growling and pudgy stomach—he was appalled. I only let it go a few seconds before giving in.

  “How many years have I been bringing you Pan de Dulce?”

  He shrugged, upset with the prospect of a morning without his bread.

  “Papa, it’s here. I’m just kidding.”

  “Dios mio, that’s not funny. Don’t mess with a man’s desayuno.”

  My dad took his cake very seriously—and breakfast in general.

  Halfway through his ritual of bread dunking and coffee slurping, he finally noticed my hair.

  “Did you report it?” He asked and I sighed—sometimes I didn’t know if he would bust out with nonsense or it would be a good day. This latest outburst had me wondering.

  “Did I report what?”

  His moustache began to twitch as he hid a smile. It was his signature move. A chuckle finally broke through and he stuttered out, “Someone stole your hair. It was a drive-by shaving.”

  I sighed and let out a laugh with one of the few people that I allowed to hear it. Definitely a good day.

  Chapter Four

  Cyrus

  Sundays were supposed to be for relaxing and laying around—not dealing with an angry landlord. Apparently, what was once a blessing was now my curse. The guy who’d fired me just happened to be the brother of my landlord. When I’d first secured my apartment it was convenient to find a place to crash and a job all in the same shot.

  But after being woken from a dead sleep by the landlord asking me how I was going to pay rent in four days, I regretted the decision.

  I didn’t make shit at the local burger joint. I probably would’ve made more money dropping fries, but I’d refused to shave the beard. They made me wear a mask like surgeon’s wear. I looked like a moron.

  People with beards take out the trash and mop, at least at that restaurant.

  “I’ll get the money. I still have another paycheck coming.”

  He blew me off with a wave of the hand. Hell, I didn’t even believe myself. I watched him clunk down the stairs two at a time, cursing me all the way. The beginnings of a stress headache pounded on my temple when a text came through on my phone. There was only one person in the world who had my phone number. I’d gotten a prepaid phone and turned my old one off. It’s not like the rest of the Black family even cared if I was alive or dead.

  And I’d only given him the number in case of an emergency.

  It was my dad. He wanted me to meet him at a place in town. I responded yes and then went into my cube of a bathroom to shower and get ready. I pulled a red t-shirt over my head and pulled on some holey jeans and did what I could with all my rebellious hair.

  Half an hour later, I stood next to my dad at the shooting range. He’d brought my gun from home and his own, along with enough ammunition to last the zombie apocalypse. No words really needed to be exchanged; he simply gathered information from my appearance and attitude. I knew how the man worked.r />
  He was a little shorter than me, though he’d be last to admit it. I had my mom’s hair and his eyes. My sister was the opposite. She had my dad’s black hair and his temper too.

  I wasn’t the only one in pain.

  My dad was working through some shit of his own. He ran through two boxes of bullets in no time and hadn’t let go of the clench in his jaw since the first shot. I hoped my mom and sister were okay. He would’ve told me right away if something was up with them.

  I had a feeling this was about Mama Sylvia—somehow her passing had hit him the hardest—down to the core. It had only been six months since his mother had died. But he was just as torn up as the day of her funeral.

  “Job?” He finally put the gun down and braced himself on the ledge like having to ask me these things was a curse.

  “Fired yesterday.” There was no point in trying to lie to my dad. Owen Black knew a liar just from the way he breathed. I’d tried to lie to him about smoking a cigarette in the eleventh grade and he just laughed and told me to hand over the keys to my car.

  “Place to live?” Sometimes talking to him was like conversing with a caveman. That’s why Mom always called him an oaf.

  “Not for long. I’ll find something.”

  He hefted out a weighted breath before turning on me. Concern was written all over his face, but Dad wasn’t ever good with the mushy stuff, which was perfect because I didn’t need the mush—I needed some berating—maybe even a good beating.

  “They love you.” He whispered. His words slapped me. I retracted from the space I occupied, needing a wide berth between his sentiments and me.

  “Don’t do this, Dad. I fucked up everything. It’s not forgivable. I ruined her whole life.”

  “You didn’t. If you’d check in once in a while…” I didn’t hear the rest. By the time he finished his sentence, I was on the other side of the door, waving at him while he begged me with his eyes to stay. I didn’t get to see him often. He had to choose those few minutes to remind me of what I’d trashed. It tore me up to leave, but staying to hear more of his crap would burn the worst.

  While I drove home, I mentally ripped myself to shreds, thinking about what had happened a year ago. It seemed like the day before.

  Scout had given up her dreams for me—and not just in that defining moment—all of her life. It started in elementary—maybe even before that. At some point, Scout had realized what an imbecile I was. My parents knew too—putting me in special programs and tutoring. There was no point. My temper and lack of patience mixed with undiagnosed dyslexia swaddled me in constant disappointment. I was the family Tweedledum.

  I had one affinity—fixing things.

  I was the only kid I knew who had his own workshop in the garage. My parents would scour garage sales and thrift stores buying me toasters and any small appliance. Uncle Rex bought me tools every time he got paid. I had a small appliance repair business, ran right out of our garage when I was seven.

  My mom boasted about it like I’d won the national spelling bee. I’d never known a mother who was so proud of someone so mediocre.

  As I grew up, it became a source of discontent for me, especially when the other kids used it as a fountain that they drank their bullying juice from.

  I’d gotten my Dad’s stature and sooner than later, I’d learned to use it. Before long, kids were scared of me. The first time I was suspended from school was defending Scout. By that time, she was letting me cheat off of her tests and homework on a daily basis. After that, it became an exchange, my brawn for her brains.

  She called it helping me.

  I called it helping her.

  I never thought it would go so far.

  I hit the steering wheel in frustration at what I’d become. I’d have to spend the next day swindling—that’s what I would call it. For a person like me, I had to convince them to do the work for me. I was fine as long as someone told me what was expected. If I heard the instructions or watched something being done, I could copy it step for step.

  It was that other part of the job that cut me off at the neck.

  At a stop light, a muscle car pulled up beside me and revved its engine. I didn’t even bother looking over.

  It did make me think about the girl from the night before.

  What kind of girl drives a 1967 Nova?

  I was in such a stupor, I hadn’t even gotten her name. I’d seen plenty of derby girls in my time. Derby girls were off limits in my book. It would be like dating my mom, or one of my aunts, or Scout.

  Just no.

  This girl was different. She spoke with the hint of some accent I couldn’t pinpoint. Her hair was like the best of both girl worlds. One side was shaved like she was some fierce lioness and the other side was long and blonde—like she couldn’t decide to be a good girl or a bad girl and had settled for both.

  I wouldn’t mind helping her figure it out.

  I got out of the truck, my stomach making the decision that it was time to eat. After taking the time to parallel park, I got out and had barely let my feet hit the pavement before I heard a crack. I closed my eyes, just living in the unknowing peace that there was a slim chance it wasn’t my truck I just heard cracked wide open.

  But as I turned around, I found that it was my truck and there was only one fully-restored Nova that I knew—and it was plowed directly into my taillight.

  “What the hell?” The girl from the night before lurched her head out of the window, cursing worse than I’d ever heard—sending my truck straight to hades and back with her words. I’d never seen her before and now she was on my ass like white on rice.

  “Are you okay?” I walked over to her out of instinct. My first reaction was never anger, that trait I’d gotten directly from Mom. It took me aback that this woman’s knee-jerk reaction was defense.

  “Look at my car!” It was barely scratched on the bumper, but I couldn’t say the same for my truck. Pieces of the taillight were scattered across the hood of her car and on the street. It was fixable, but the last thing I needed was another place to put money I didn’t have. She wore a shirt that read ‘Derby girls…’ something. I had a hard time making out the rest of the words or taking her seriously after I saw that.

  “Your car is fine.”

  “It is not. Why weren’t you parked right?”

  The gall of this chick was flabbergasting. She had balls bigger than anyone I’d ever known.

  “You’re the one who came around that corner like a mobster. Let’s just call the police. Are you alright?”

  I asked her again because certainly her acting this way was just the reaction to a concussion or something. She couldn’t really think that hitting a parked truck was the truck’s fault—or mine.

  “Well,” she looked down and seemed to be debating herself. “Let’s just exchange information. No need to get the cops involved. I’m sure it’s not a lot of damage.”

  Apparently, she didn’t like the cops—that I could use to my advantage. She was also bound and determined not to answer as to whether or not she was okay. Talking to this girl made me feel like a dog barking at his own reflection. Nothing was getting done but I felt so threatened at the same time.

  “Look, I’m going inside to get something to eat. Just park somewhere and meet me in there.”

  I went inside, not even caring about the taillight anymore and ordered a sandwich and a drink. There were higher stakes in my life than a busted light. I started eating with other things on my mind. I didn’t expect her to show up. Arguing with a stranger was the last thing I wanted to do. It was bad enough that I’d argued with my dad on one of the few occasions I got to see him.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw her coming up the sidewalk. Her hair was waving in the humid Louisiana air. She had shoes on that sharpened the sway of her hips as she tossed them from side to side.

  I might not make it out of here alive.

  I’d have to lie to her if she forced me into exchanging information. If she was on
the team, then she knew the last name Black. I knew how those derby girls gossiped.

  Scout didn’t need to be bothered with my existence.

  She sat across from me and blew out an exhausted breath, not physical exhaustion, but like she, apart from her body, was exhausted.

  I could relieve some of that. There was no need for her to worry about me or my truck. But before I could speak up, she started.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that out there. I was thinking about something else and I wasn’t paying attention. I live on a pretty tight budget, so this accident will hike up my insurance. I just can’t afford that.”

  I quelled a chuckle, but barely. She was apologizing and obviously out of practice. This beautiful girl was just another paper tiger. She looked fierce and she acted tough as diamonds. But the thing with paper was, if a strong wind came along to challenge it, the paper would fold. She was deflated before me, her shoulders slumped and her heels I could hear tapping on the floor.

  I never had been any match for a tigress, paper or otherwise.

  “I get it. Don’t worry about my truck. I’ll find whatever I need at a junkyard. I know a guy—he’ll be on the lookout.”

  Four sentences and she was bowed back up, ready for action. “Don’t get soft on me, man-bun. Find whatever parts and I will get you the money.”

  I shrugged. “That’s fine.”

  “I’m serious.” Her tone escalated. “Look, I can call my uncle, he owns a junkyard.”

  I reached out and put my arm on her hand, trying to tame her a little. “I said I know a guy already.” She twisted her wrist and freed herself.

  She hefted out a second breath. “So you’re not gonna call the cops?” Coupling any request with a smile like hers probably brought most men to their knees. I wanted to see her squirm. I reached for my sandwich, unwrapped it at a snail’s pace, and dug in. It worked for a while until I reached for my drink and she jerked it away.

  “Cops?”

  I swallowed. “What’s your deal with the cops? Do you have some kind of warrant? Are you a felon? Am I doing the community a disservice by not reporting you?”