3. Relic

Chapter three

Relic

N ext month, rent was rising to over a thousand dollars a month. If anything was criminal, that was. Wouldn't have been so bad if I had the money to make the original rent, but I didn't. Wouldn't be so bad if I actually wanted to go home. Once again, I didn't.

What was it like for people to want to go home? Did they experience peace when they turned onto their block? Did warm fuzzies hit when they saw light peeking out from behind closed blinds? Did the muscles in their body relax at the idea of opening the door and finding sanctuary? If so, I hated them because I'd never felt that a day in my life.

Anxiety rode me like a cowboy on a bull as I stood in front of my building. The mere idea of walking in made me so damn tense I could probably cut iron with my glare.

I hated this place, and I hated the man behind that door even more. Because of that hatred, I had yet to find the conviction to walk up those rust-eaten metal stairs for my second floor apartment.

The two-story exterior entry "Freedom" apartment complex had that yellow-orange brick of the 1960s. My building was named after the Freedom 7 NASA mission. Maybe someone appreciated this place back in the sixties, but I doubted it. More than likely, it had been built specifically for people like me: people who were born into and would stay in poverty.

The apartment's kitchenette and living room shared 130 square feet, not much bigger than a small bedroom in a small house. Our microwave shorted two out of three uses, and when I sat on the toilet in the cramped bathroom, my knees hit the wall.

The two bedrooms were barely big enough for a twin bed, and the entire apartment smelled like mold on dry days and garbage on wet. The roof leaked, the windows were useless, and yet the rent was still more than I could barely cover.

Sleeping in our broken-down minivan remained an option, but that apartment belonged to me, and I'd be damned if the man behind its door was going to keep me out.

I forced myself up the stairs and opened the door. The moment I laid eyes on the two men in the room, I knew I had made a mistake. I should have stayed in the van. Fuck, I should have changed my name and tried a new life in another country.

My dad sat on the loveseat that I had salvaged from a Dumpster. The frame of the faded blue plaid couch was cracked, and the fabric had more cigarette burns than I could count, but it worked for sitting and the occasional nap, and I wished he wasn't on it.

Dad lifted his head, looked at me, and the hope on his face made my fist clench. I couldn't even compare him to a stray dog because I liked stray dogs. Dad—he was bad news and he wanted me to forgive him every single time he screwed up, which was a daily occurrence. He was either too damn stupid or too damn selfish to stay legit for his family, and I had no patience for him. If it wasn't for my older sister, Lyra, I would have forced him to live on the streets. But Lyra loved him. I didn't.

The man leaning against the kitchen counter watching me and Dad as though we were his favorite reality show was Eric—a skinny-assed forty-something-year-old with bleached out blond hair. He looked more like a meth addict than he did the king of the streets, but the king of these streets he was—and, while he controlled some of the trade, Eric didn't do meth.

"Did you forget your dad was getting out of the halfway house today?" Eric asked in a calm voice that grated on my nerves. The stupid justice system released Dad from prison in January, and he had been ordered to live in the halfway house until today.

"I thought it was tomorrow," I lied. "Besides, I figured he'd be at the bar celebrating."

Knowing Dad better than most, Eric tilted his head in a that-could-have-been-true gesture. "He insisted that he come home to see his family. He's flipping over a new leaf, aren't you?" Eric turned those steely eyes onto him. "All he's talked about over the past few years is getting out and being the dad the three of you deserve. You'd know that if you had visited him."

No part of me believed this. I shut the door behind me and contemplated the best way out of this scenario. If it wasn't for Eric, I would have walked on by for my bedroom, the smaller of the two rooms since Lyra and Camila shared the bigger room. But Eric was here, so I gave Dad a nod. "Hey."

"Hey," Dad greeted with cautious optimism. As if my "hey" was absolution. "It's been a long time. You look good."

And Dad didn't look strung out but give him forty-eight hours and that could easily change. Dad had been Eric's best dealer until he messed up and used more than he sold. Addiction to meth when selling was an occupational hazard.

Dad grabbed a vape pen out of his pocket, and all sorts of fury wrangled through me. "Don't. Camila has asthma. We don't do that shit near her."

Dad glanced at Eric as if I had slapped him in the face and he wanted a red card called on me. Eric, though, stayed silent as he watched us.

"Sorry," Dad said. "I forgot."

Yep, Dad of the Year material right there.

"Where are your sisters?" Dad asked.

"Lyra's working at Chancey's, and Camila is staying the night at a friend's house." With one of those actual families that gave a damn about their kids, had hot water, and paid their electricity bill on time.

Dad's head jerked up. "Lyra's working at the strip joint?"

"She's a waitress." That was what she'd told me, and I informed her if she switched positions to not let me know. I didn't judge her. In fact, I thanked God she helped with bills, but I didn't need mental images of her and a pole. After Dad went to prison, my sister became my guardian as well as Camila's, but to be honest, I was the adult in this situation.

"Lyra works nights so I can be here with Camila," I continued. Because there was no way in hell I'd leave the two of them alone in this complex overnight. "Then she can be here when Camila gets out of school, and I can work after I get out of school."

Translation: we're doing fine without you so stay the fuck out of our way.

"That's good, I guess," Dad said. "How are you?"

I don't look like him. It was the only thought I had. His drawn face had deep circles etched under his eyes. His dirty brown hair needed to be washed, and his frame had that look like he used to have muscles but then laid in bed for a year and had atrophy. I resembled my mom, and I told myself a million times a day that my personality must take after hers, too.

Maybe. Maybe not. She split after I was born. I wasn't a splitter. I took care of my family. Camila's mom died in childbirth. Neither I nor Camila knew what it was like to have a mom.

"I'm tired and heading to bed," I said.

"Relic," Eric said as a warning, and the "What?" I snapped back wasn't the smartest move I had ever made, but I was done, and I was pissed.

Eric coolly stared at me. "Walk out with me."

Because I didn't want to deal with Dad, part of me was okay if Eric decided to put two bullets in the back of my head for snapping at him. But then that would leave Lyra solely responsible for Camila, and I couldn't do that to either of them. Lyra wasn't Mom material or responsible. She was a barely functioning adult and keeping a job wasn't her strong suit. When it came to budgeting, Lyra failed, spending money like it ran out of the faucet.

Outside the apartment, I leaned my hands against the aging metal railing, and it creaked under my weight.

Let it fall. Maybe Lyra could sue the complex for millions after I died.

Eric closed the door behind him and joined me at the railing. "Your family owes me. Your father lost some of my money when he was arrested, but he's my brother and I'm giving him a second chance. Brother or not, I want my money back."

Eric and Dad shared no blood. Just childhood friends, but that relationship was the only reason Dad still drew in air. "Dad's debts belong to him and are his to pay. I carry the financial burden for me, Lyra, and Camila only. I'm not responsible for my father."

"It's a family debt," Eric said.

Dizzy with dread, I leaned further on the metal railing. It creaked again.

"But I have an easy out for you," Eric offered.

Eric and the word "easy" belonged together as well as kerosene and lit matches.

"I've been watching over you your entire life," he said. "You're smart, resourceful, fast on your feet, and smooth even when shit hits the fan. You're like water—you fit into any situation required, and then you find a way to slowly drip out so no one notices. I need people like you in my organization. If you come work for me, I'll erase the debt."

"Maybe you didn't hear," I said in as carefree of a voice as I could muster, "but I was arrested for stealing out of a car. Doesn't sound smooth to me."

"A hiccup," Eric said. "Wrong place, wrong time, and not typically how you work. Don't worry. I don't count that against you. If you were working for me when that happened, I could have had those charges dropped. Who knows, I could still pull strings and get your sentence reduced."

If I worked for him, odds were I'd be dead before I hit twenty-one and then I'd be bringing danger into my home and harm to Lyra and Camila.

"While I appreciate the offer, I've decided to pursue other employment opportunities."

"It's either you or your dad who works for me, and we both know your dad will crash and burn again, leaving you, Lyra, and Camila to deal with the fallout of the explosion. I wish I could let this go, but I can't. If I allow your dad off the hook for his debt, I'll have people questioning if I've gone soft. Then they'll think they, too, can screw me over. I can't have that. Don't make me hurt my brother because you can't be a team player. I'm not sure I could forgive you for that."

The invisible walls of the box of my life closed in, making me feel like I could implode.

"Be smart," Eric coaxed. "Take the perks I'm offering before it's too late, because you have a ticking time bomb sitting on the couch. If you listen hard enough you can hear it counting down, and it's on you when it explodes."

Without any other commentary on my life, Eric went down the stairs and got into his brand new black Lexus. He left, and I was stuck. I hated my life. I really fucking did.