Page 6 of Silver Edge
Me?I grabbed the gutter at the corner of the building to keep from tumbling into the street.
Drake lifted and lowered his hands in a mini shrug. “She was pretty, sure, but I didn’t disrespect you in any way.” He sighed. “I’m tired of your insecurities.”
“Insecurities? I am not insecure. I’m a beautiful, intelligent woman with a future. There are men lining up to date me.”
Drake pushed back his shoulders and stiffened. “Your threats are getting old.”
“Threats? I’m not threatening you. I’ve never held the fact that my father could shut down your little club with just a snap of my fingers over your head and leave you with nothing. Or that I’m the only thing stopping him.”
He shook his head. “You just did.”
So, the little tramp was holding his business over his head.A spark of interest returned. If only I could hold his hand the way normal people did, or cuddle, or spoon in the night. The only way I’d ever be able to kiss, or hug, or touch would be in a heavy fog of street-drug sedation. But I’d made a promise never to take that route again. My body could use the release of constant hormones. I traced the X on the back of my wrist, the tattoo to remind me of my promise to remain on the right path, to agree with the rules of Straight Edge.
No drugs.
No promiscuous sex.
No self-destructive behavior.
An easy task while living in the Straight Edge community,in Ton’s makeshift home for the crazies, but here I was on my own. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up in jail, institutionalized, or dead.
Chapter Three
Drip, drip, drip.
Sigh.
Drip, drip, drip.
The water trickled over the pipe, drowning my patience. I was thankful to have any shelter, even if it was in an upstairs back room of an abandoned warehouse, but if that pipe would stop dripping I’d be happier. The forever optimistic words of Ton rattled through my brain:be thankful for all the gifts and don’t concentrate on the letdowns of life. This warehouse was definitely a blessing over a shelter full of snoring, smelly, sickly people who wanted to talk about their troubles. I’d been lucky to find my quiet home the first night I arrived in Atlanta.
I threw the thin blanket off my body, shot up from my makeshift bed on the floor, and kicked my adversarial pipe. Then I stormed back to the other side of the abandoned warehouse storage room.
Silence.Ah, finally.
Thwank. Chalang, chalang. Beurp.
Drip, drip, drip.
I huffed. Huffed for the hours I had spent walking the pavement, looking for a job, only to find oneHelp Wantedsign. Huffed for the hours I laid awake listening to the dripping water. Huffed at the middle of the night temptation to score so I could sleep. Huffed at the hours I lived with my uncharged iPod—my Kevlar suit against noises. Most of all, it just felt good to huff.
I lifted the corner of the worn newspaper and peaked out through the murky glass. Years of pollution blocked my line of sight, so I lowered it again. A twinge in my lower back stole the air from my lungs. A Chihuahua had less aches after a dogfight. Sleeping on the hard wooden floor was better than when I’d spent my nights under that bridge, but apparently living in the psych ward had made me weak. I needed to toughen up if I was going to fight for the bartender gig at that club, Bands. Ton would never approve of an addict in a club, but alcohol was never my downfall, but I’d still abstain. No need to stand on the edge of a muddy, unstable cliff in a heavy rain.
The club was probably owned by some old fat man with a ZZ Top beard and comb-over, but it didn’t matter. I’d work for Donald Trump if it meant I could listen to music instead of snotty bitches. Hopefully the man needed reading glasses and my fake ID would pass with no issue. No one would hire a girl who wasn’t old enough to drink to serve alcohol at their club. Mental note, never buy an ID from a man named Snake on a bus from New York to Atlanta.
I twisted. Snaps and pops cracked along my spine. Muscles relaxed, freeing me to move, so I snagged my watch and glanced at the digital face. Nine fifteen. Forty-five minutes until Bands opened. A place with music and darkness and people with attitudes.
My utopia.
My pulse echoed three times faster than the dripping water. I crossed the cracked cement floor to my bag, retrieved my washcloth, and held it under the frigid, dripping water. Each drop pierced my skin with an icy chill.
I wiped the scratchy cloth over my face and arms before tugging my pants from my duffel and sliding them over my trembling legs.
Once I snagged that job, I’d upgrade. Hopefully the club owner didn’t mind a Goodwill fashionista for a bartender. After running a comb through my long, dark waves, I shoved everything into my duffel, except my dead iPod and charger, then hid my bag behind the old water heater in the corner.
I clutched the exposed pipe and shimmied to the bottom floor. More newspapers covered the windows on the front doors, so I peeled a corner back and peeked through the murky, taped-up glass. The world looked muted, less intense. If only reality were that euphoric.
It was time for me to snag that job. Not one Ton had found for me. Had he chosen that job because he knew I could never handle it? He knew of my issues with noise, smells, lights, and anything else that assaulted my senses or invaded my person. Waitressing seemed like a job for a master graduate of the real world rather than a high school dropout of life, but he wouldn’t have done anything to hurt me. Would he?
