Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

RUST

My dad chose my name. "I called you Rust because that's what you did to me and your mom's sex life," he'd say as a hairy hand came down past my six-year-old head to grab another beer from the six-pack. "Truer words were never spoken." Crack , the can opening, the memory seared into my mind. "Ha, that's it. Rust . Fits you like a fucking glove."

That's probably why I've never been what people call "happy." I've never really understood it. People might say my childhood broke something in me and, with the proper counseling and blah blah blah, it'll fix me right up, but that doesn't make any sense. People have shitty childhoods and still go on to live normal lives and be regular people. I hate that self-indulgent crap, forgiving every bad thing because some bad things happened.

I learned early on I didn't smile as easily as other kids. I didn't need to. I was bigger and meaner and, soon, when I learned how to fight, tougher. I only needed one friend—Brad. It's not like I even feel happy around him. It's not that simple. It's more like content and at peace.

The first time we met, I was at the lake at night, just staring at the stars and wondering if anybody else felt as cold and dead as me. He came walking onto the dock, this dorky kid with a big mop of black hair. I vaguely recognized his hair and his gait from school. Since I'd started boxing training, I learned to pay attention to things like that. He didn't say anything, just sat down, then tossed a stone into the water.

I don't know why. I didn't care , but I was curious, I guess. "What's up?"

He flinched and turned to me quickly. "People say you don't talk."

"Not if I don't need to," I told him.

He nodded and looked at the lake for a while. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen, you?"

"Almost thirteen." There was something lost in his eyes as he stared at the water.

"Why are you pouting?"

I wasn't trying to be cruel. It's just how I learned to speak from Dad. That's what he'd say to Mom after one of his rages.

"I'm not ," he snapped.

"Something's wrong?"

"You don't care. Nobody cares."

"You're right. I don't care, but maybe I can help."

He looked closely at me then, as people sometimes did, like I was a specimen, a freak. It's because I just sat in the back of the class, stayed silent, did my work, and then went to training, nothing else. The gym, home, school, repeat. I didn't want or need friends. It's not like I'd be able to invite them over.

"People usually pretend to care."

"It doesn't matter what people usually do. Why are you pouting, kid?"

"I'm not a kid." He sat up straighter.

"You're acting like one."

"It's my mom." He threw another stone. "She won't stop praying. My baby sister won't stop crying. Mom thinks it's because, a couple of weeks ago, some idiots broke in and stole this stupid golden Cross."

I nodded, saying nothing, and then he went on. That made me peaceful around him immediately, though I wouldn't have acknowledged it then. He would talk without me needing to prompt him or say anything in reply.

"Can't your dad stop her praying?"

"Stop her?" he asked.

"I don't know. Yell at her or something."

"Dad doesn't yell at Mom," he said like I was crazy even thinking that.

More silence. We stared at the moon and the stars. Everybody from our small midwestern town came to the lake to try to sort out their minds and the pain in their souls. I was just here because I didn't want to listen to Mom and Dad.

"The thing is," he said, "I know where it is. The Cross. Mikey from school… Do you know Mikey?"

"I don't know anybody's name."

"Well, I'm Brad."

"I'm—"

"Rust. Everybody knows."

I shrugged. "Where's the Cross, Brad?"

"Mikey told me his older brother had heard about the burglary from one of his friends. So I found the friend by watching the brother on my bike. I saw two guys who looked pretty shifty, you know? They all walked into town together and hopped on a bus to Lonham. So I got on the same bus and followed them to their apartment. Look."

He reached into his pocket and took out a Polaroid. "You photographed them?" I say. "That takes balls, kid."

"I'm not a kid ."

I took the photo. Then, for the first time in my life, I smiled. It felt so strange. In the photo, there was a rundown apartment with dirty frontage showing in the sunlight. There was a bright, gleaming point proudly displayed in the window— the Cross.

"Why didn't you take it back?" I asked.

He looked at me weirdly. "What? They were home. No way."

"Then your mom would stop fussing. Maybe your sister would relax if your mom settled down."

"I was going to take it to the cops tomorrow. I'm just worried because Dad said they're all working overtime to find that missing girl. The whole county is."

"You need to take some action," I told him. "You did good tracking it down, but you should've taken it." I stood up and checked my watch. It was nine p.m. "The last bus is at ten. Lonham, right?"

"Yeah."

"I sometimes go to the kickboxing gym down there. Come on."

"What… now? " He sprung to his feet, shaking his head. "We can't do that."

"Do you want your sister to stop crying or not?"

"It looks like they're having a party," Brad whispered as we stood on the other side of the street, looking at the rundown apartment. This was a bad part of town. It's not rough by city standards, but there are quite a few addicts and petty criminals. Music boomed from the small apartment complex.

I stood tall to my full five-foot-nine height. I was long and wide for my age. My body was strong from two years of training, and I was calm. I didn't care. I think it was then I realized something. I could use my coldness to help people. Even if it didn't matter to me , I could still do something.

When I walked across the street, Brad trailed behind, muttering about how we shouldn't be there and should turn back, but I wasn't hearing him. I slammed my fist against the door.

"What the… man?"

The door sprung open. The man was maybe six feet and covered in tattoos. There was an arrogant sneer on his lips right away, a cigarette in his hand. He was used to intimidating people. I'd met people like him in the gym. "Can I help you, kids?" He took a drag of his cigarette. "Or should you maybe fuck off and sell your cookies somewhere else?"

"Is this your apartment?" I asked.

"Pfft. Get a load of this. Maybe it's your whore mother's apartment, eh? What about that?"

Brad later told me he was shaking in terror by this point, and I couldn't say I blame him. He was just a kid with mostly regular parents who always loved and supported him. He didn't fight grown men twice a week during sparring sessions. He'd never seen his dad bounce his mom's head off the kitchen tiles.

"You've got a Cross ornament in your window."

A shit-eating grin smeared across his lips. He leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "Ah, I see. Yeah. It's a family heirloom."

"Give it back," I said.

He laughed and threw his head back, making a show of laughing too much. I wondered if he was nervous because I was giving him no reaction. "Yeah, good one."

I spoke to Brad without taking my eyes off the man. "Brad, are you sure it's the same Cross?"

"Uh, yeah, and he's the one I s-saw with Sebastian?—"

"Don't start throwing names around, kid!" the man yelled, stepping forward. It had the intended effect on Brad. He whimpered and flinched away.

I glided into the man's path. "Go get that Cross."

"Kid, I'm only going to tell you once. Get your ass gone. You don't want none of this."

That night changed a lot for me. Even during the argument, I remember thinking how untidy the snake tattoo twisting up his arm was. Sometimes, after training, I'd draw pictures when my body was sore. I only did it because it emptied my mind when I was too achy from fighting. It was more like meditation, but that work was shoddy .

"You've told me, and I'm not gone," I said. "Now what?"

He wasn't aware of this, but my feet were already in a fighting stance. He was standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, like a squat, which is terrible for striking. Suddenly—but I saw it coming—he sprung at me. I slipped on the outside and torqued my entire body into a lead-left hook. I felt his jaw crunch against my two big knuckles. He stumbled, slammed his head against the doorframe, and slid to the floor. I was relieved when I heard him whining and groaning. I wouldn't be able to train if I ended up in jail.

Leaving him there, I ducked into the apartment. People were sprawled all over the couches, smoking cigarettes and weed. There were pipes and white smears all over the glass coffee table. Somebody said something, but I just grabbed the Cross and ran for the door.

I kicked the man twice in the gut when he tried to get up, then knelt down and growled in his ear. "This is the end of it. If you try to get me back, I'm calling my uncle. You ever heard of Paulie Marino? The fucking mob, you dumbass? Have you? "

He wasn't so tough anymore and covered his bloody face with his hands. The lie worked. They never tried to get payback on me.

I found Brad across the street, his twelve-year-old eyes wide as I handed him the Cross.

"We need to get out of here," he said like he was lost in a dream.

I shrugged. "No more buses. Going to have to walk."

" Walk? "

Behind us, people started yelling. I was smiling again. I'm not sure what that says about me, that I could do all that violence and then smile. "More like run, " I said. I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him away.

We sprinted down the street and then ended up walking home together. From that night on, we were best friends. Brad understood I'd never be like other people. He never tried to press me. I ate at his house for Thanksgiving, not because I needed the familial warmth, but because I'd be well-fed with plenty of chicken and protein. I was going to become a pro fighter. I needed it.

I helped Brad whenever he needed it. He was—is—the only friend I needed then and now. Nobody can take that first night away from us.

As we grew up together, we stayed close—as close as I'm capable of, anyway. I started boxing, then fighting in mixed martial arts. Brad got some land and tended to it before deciding he didn't want to be a farmer and opened a hardware store. I was there when his mom died, waiting for him outside the hospital, then awkwardly joining them as they sat in the waiting room. Mary was nine years old and devastated, clutching onto Christopher and screaming into his chest. She was usually a bright, happy girl, but she was wrecked, her pale brown hair looking worn from where she'd been tugging it.

Soon after that, I moved away and began my career. I'd return often to visit Brad. My coach says being out there helps me get ready for a fight. "Gives you a couple of smiles. With you, that goes a long way."

Earlier this year, I visited, and Mary was… different. I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a usual black coffee, and she rushed in, her brown hair straightened and pinned back stylishly. She was wearing a denim skirt, chunky boots, and a strappy top.

Suddenly, everything changed. Everything I'd ever known in all my life spun over, fell apart, obliterated. Mary made me feel. Run hot. My heart started beating hard as she looked across at Brad, standing at the sink.

"Is this okay for a poetry reading?"

She was wearing tights, clutching closely to her thick legs. I stared down at my black coffee for the rest of the conversation, knowing it was wrong, knowing I couldn't let myself go there. That was this year . I was—I am—thirty-two. She's eighteen.

"It's great. You look nice."

"Thanks. See you later. Bye, Rust."

"Bye," I said, not looking at her, knowing I'd never be able to look at her in the same way again.

"You good?" Brad asked me once she was gone.

Grinding my teeth, staring at my coffee like it was the lake water all those years ago, I told him, "Yeah, fine." But I was far from fine.