Chapter 2

I breathed in deeply,needing the fresh air while I walked down the sidewalk. The streets were still busy despite the late hour, but I was used to that. This city never seemed to sleep. I stepped over the legs of a homeless man clutching his empty bottle of booze. He mumbled some obscenity at me I ignored.

I’d lived here most of my life. We moved for a small amount of time when I was younger, but we’d returned many years ago. Mom never said why since, from what I could understand, she hated this city. I didn’t press it with her because it seemed like a sore subject. We had no family outside of each other, which was just as well. Mom never talked about growing up. I knew my grandmother had been a single parent and hadn’t been the best. My mom made it work, though, and we never spoke of my grandmother, who passed away when my mom was seventeen.

Past that, it was all I knew about my family. My father had been out of the picture since I was barely old enough to walk. She didn’t speak about him either, but when I was younger, I’d catch her crying alone in her bedroom. When I asked, she’d tell me she missed him, and it would make me cry with her because I missed him too. At least, what I could remember of him. All I knew was that the relationship didn’t work out, and she’d moved on and taken us kids with her. We never knew his name. It was a secret she kept, but I remembered the tattoo on his wrist. It was burned into my mind because I’d trace it when I’d sit on his lap, and he’d laugh and rub my head.

A cross.

Simple.

Black.

It was all I could recall about the man who created me. That and his deep laugh. I’d always wondered why he never came for us. From my memories, he’d been kind and had loved us.

I didn’t like to dwell on it because I’d always ended up asking too many questions that I knew I’d never get the answers to, so I focused on working and helping to support my family while writing my music.

My mom was proud of my music. They called me a prodigy. Singing, dancing, instruments. I seemed to be able to do it all. It was my calling, and the second vow I’d ever made was that someday I’d make it in music and really take care of my family so they never had to struggle again.

For now, though, I worked at Twisty Cone and did what I could.

When I reached the corner of our street, I took a right and went down the old, familiar, cracked sidewalk, the sound of a car alarm going off in the distance. It was an old apartment building, and we had just two bedrooms. I shared mine with Trent, while Mom shared hers with Tiana. Or Tia. When we were kids, Trent couldn’t say his twin’s name, so he’d call her Tia. It just sort of stuck over the years.

“Hey, kid. You got any change?” An old beggar by the name of Donald shook his cup at me.

I paused and pulled the change out of my pocket, then dropped it into his cup, giving him a wave as he blessed me with a good night. A lot of folks didn’t like to give the beggars money because they were concerned they’d spend it on booze. I honestly didn’t give a shit. It was their life, and that twenty bucks they collected wasn’t going to get them a place to live, so they may as well have that bottle of booze and make the best of it down in the Underground around the burning barrels.

I entered our apartment and walked up the old stairs, taking them two at a time. The building didn’t have an elevator, which wasn’t a surprise. It was probably built around the turn of the century.

It smelled like mildew and cat piss in the hall, but that wasn’t surprising either. There were stray cats that sometimes got in and pissed all over the old worn green carpets in the hall. The place was an absolute shit hole, but it was home.

I inserted my key into the door and unlocked it before stepping inside. I could already smell my mom’s cooking, and my stomach gave a loud grumble.

“You’re home!” Tia rushed at me and threw her arms around me in a tight hug.

“Hey, weirdo,” I greeted her with a soft laugh. She and I spent a lot of time together making music. She had a hell of a set of pipes on her for only being twelve. I prayed that someday she used that talent to change the world.

I ruffled her black hair, the same color as mine, and grinned down at her as she pulled away.

“Did you bring any ice cream?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“No. Raincheck?”

She jutted her bottom lip out at me and rolled her eyes. “Fine. But can it be strawberry?”

“Sure thing.”

She whooped, went back to the ratty old couch we had, and sank onto it before slipping her headphones back over her ears and tapping her foot to whatever music she was listening to, her notebook on her lap and pen in her hand.

I smiled while she scribbled words onto the sheet. Tonight, I’d look over whatever music she was writing, and maybe we’d sing it together.

“Hey,” Trent greeted me, a brownie in his hand.

“You just couldn’t wait, could you?”

He grinned, brownie in his teeth. “Nope.”

I sighed and went to pass by him but snatched the brownie he was proudly showing off out of his hand and stuffed it into my mouth before he could get it back from me.

“Mom!” he shouted.

“What?” Mom pulled the meatloaf out of the oven. The delicious scent permeated the air, and my guts rumbled again.

“Anson stole my brownie!”

“It’s still warm,” I said around a mouthful of the gooey chocolate goodness.

Mom smiled and shook her head at me. “How was work, Angel?”

“It was good. Met a girl,” I said, grabbing dishes out of the cupboard.

“You did?” Mom smiled at me, watching while I set the table.

“Does she know you steal other people’s food?” Trent demanded, making to scoop another brownie out of the pan.

“Trenton, I told you that you need to wait until they cool,” Mom said, suppressing her smile but not moving to stop him.

He blinked at her. “Anson got one.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Fine. A small piece. We’re going to eat here in a few minutes.”

Trent didn’t argue. He grabbed his brownie and darted back to the living room to flop onto the couch next to Tia and tickle her feet that she had propped up on the back of the couch.

“Stop it,” she muttered.

“Make me.”

“Mom!” Tia yelled. “Trent keeps tickling my feet!”

Mom shook her head and reprimanded Trent before turning her attention back to me.

“Tell me about this girl.”

I placed the last fork down, moved to the counter, and leaned against it, watching as she pulled a freshly baked loaf of bread out of the oven.

My mom was seriously the best cook in the world. She always said she wanted her own restaurant. I hoped someday I could give it to her.

“There’s not a lot to tell. Her name is Rachel. I gave her my number. She’s nineteen.”

Mom chuckled. “Bit old for you, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “Nah.”

She turned to me and smiled, her blue eyes bright. “Oh, Angel, my sweet heartbreaker. What will we do with you?”

“Feed me?” I asked hopefully.

She laughed and nodded to the meatloaf on the counter.

“Put it on the table, and we will make it so.”

She didn’t need to tell me twice.