He pulled Kisha onto his lap and he watched while the others took their turns, feeling satisfaction swell inside him as his sense of control was secured with each thrust of the plunger. They needed him. These were his people, his real family.
When Boxer had taken his fix and was leaning back against the wall, his head lolling lazily to the side, he lifted his brows, glancing at the girl in the corner. “What about her?”
The girl didn’t look up when she was mentioned. She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t made a peep since he’d gotten there. But her eyes were round as she clutched her knees, her fingernails digging into her elbows, and he knew her drugs had long since worn off. He wondered what she remembered, whether she even realized what they’d done—what she’d helped them do.
“I don’t know, Boxer, you tell me. You plannin’ to keep her?”
Boxer’s glazed eyes wandered to her. With some effort, he licked his fat lips. “She’s real pretty,” he said, his words becoming lazy. And then to her, “Come here, girl.”
She didn’t move, didn’t even blink.
He decided to help Boxer out, because that’s what leaders did. That’s what family did.
Still on his knees, he crawled toward the girl. Behind him, he heard Kisha giggle—a real giggle this time. He waited for the vacant eyes in front of him to register that he was there at all, and he reached out and lifted her chin, more roughly than the way he’d handled Kisha, forcing the girl to at least face him.
“Hey, Butterfly,” he whispered, hoping he sounded comforting, reassuring. He knew that wasn’t her name, but to be fair, he couldn’t remember what her real name was. “You in there? You still with us?” He squeezed her cheeks, just enough to get her attention when she refused to respond. “Colton, hand me that shit.” He held out his hand impatiently. He didn’t like to be the one to give it to her, but she needed it. Otherwise they’d have to get rid of her, and Boxer seemed to have taken a liking to her.
It wasn’t hard to find a vein in her arm; hers were still fat and unblemished.
It also didn’t take much of their stash to get her to return to them.
After a few minutes, she met his gaze, as if noticing his presence for the first time. He smiled at her, silently welcoming her back.
“Here, Boxer,” he said, shoving the girl toward him. “Take her. She’s yours. But you need to take good care of her. She’s your responsibility now.”
“Come here, Butterfly,” Boxer cooed as the girl staggered into his arms. She curled into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder as he petted her, the way he might pet a kitten. She never seemed to notice the blood that was still on her hands.
Colton was lying on the floor now, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, wearing that same grin he always wore. The younger boy’s enthusiasm was irritating at times, but there were worse things than enthusiasm, he thought, feeling the throb of his swollen cheek pulsing.
Besides, that’s what families did, they put up with one another’s quirks and faults.
“What about me? When do I get a girl?” Colton asked into the dim space of the apartment.
He didn’t answer Colton right away; instead he settled down beside Kisha, letting his hand move slowly up and down her arm as she finally found a peaceful kind of sleep. The kind that wasn’t riddled with nausea and night sweats.
After several quiet minutes he whispered softly, his voice spinning the same tale he’d told them a thousand times before, “Be patient, man. Big things are comin’ our way. When I’m famous—when we have more money than we know what to do with—you can have all the girls you want.”
CHAPTER 6
“VIOLET, WAKE UP. UNCLE STEPHEN’S HERE.” IT was her dad’s voice, finding her in the darkness of her room. Automatically, she reached for her cell phone, checking the time and realizing it wasn’t even midnight yet. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
Still groggy, she nodded and rose up on her elbow. “I’ll be right down,” she managed to croak.
She waited till her dad left the room before throwing back her covers and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. She pulled her hair into a ponytail, not bothering to check the mirror. There was no point.
In the kitchen, the lights seemed too bright and Violet could smell the fresh coffee brewing in the pot. But more than that she could taste the presence of her uncle—his own unique imprint—the dandelion taste that coated her tongue whenever he was around. All eyes shot her way when she staggered in and she glanced around at them—her mother, her father, and her uncle—while the repeating music-box loop played in her head.
“So?” Violet asked, pulling up a chair at the table and joining the rest of her family. “Did you find her?” She leaned across the table expectantly.
There are pauses people take when you know that what they’ll say isn’t what you want to hear. For Violet, this was one of those moments. She knew, even before her uncle opened his mouth, the news wasn’t good. His pause was exactly that long.
“I’m sorry, Vi.” He shook his head woefully, and Violet wondered if he’d had to practice that expression, that look of patient sympathy. If this was the same look he gave others when he had to deliver bad news. Even his voice sounded too smooth, too practiced.
Violet turned to her dad, and then back to her uncle. She hated the knot of confusion that coiled in her gut, warning her there was more to this visit than just that denial. It was too late to drop by if he didn’t know something.