Want You Page 6

  “Isn’t he a banker?” I ask, pointing my own Glock to the row of suits hanging to my left. The closet we are in is bigger than my entire apartment, but I’m the one with the gun, and the owner of all those clothes is on his knees getting a beat down from two thugs without a high school diploma between them.

  “You got a point there, kid.” He pauses to swipe an arm across his face, the blood spatter messing with his vision. “Still, the hours are good. Nine to five. After-dinner drinks at a swank bar. Enough money to order up your favorite snatch.” He taps the client’s forehead. “You like your job?”

  The client throws a panicked look in my direction.

  I lean back against the marble countertop that covers a big island full of drawers. None of the places Mike listed looked like this. I didn’t even know kitchen counters went in closets. “You should answer him. Beefer’s pissed that he had to get out of bed for this.”

  He bitched for twenty blocks about how Mary’s wet pussy was going to be dry as a bone and did I know how much effort she required these days? Too much, he grunted. Too damn much. She’s not my fucking wife, he’d ranted. Side pieces are supposed to have open legs and closed mouths. If I wanted to jack off, I would’ve done it at home with the old lady.

  So…he’s in a bad mood.

  “I-I-I like my job,” he gasps.

  I sympathize. It’s got to be hard to talk with Beefer choking you with your own tie.

  “See, he likes his job.” Beefer jerks on the tie. The client wriggles, but we secured his hands behind his back, so he looks like a fish flopping on the beach. “And I like mine, just not after about ten. I wanted to fuck tonight, but I had to leave my warm bed to come here to teach you some manners. The next time you get a hankering to choke the shit out of a girl, you do it with someone you pick up at the bar. Not a girl from our stable or you’re going to get more than a pistol-whipping. You hear.”

  That last bit doesn’t require a response, but the client nods anyway.

  “Good. Glad we had this talk.” The enforcer yanks the john to his feet and then thrusts him toward the bedroom. I get busy cleaning up, bundling up the two black trash bags we laid down to catch most of the blood splatter. Then we haul our butts back to Marjory's, burn the plastic, and wash up. By the time I get home, it’s around four in the morning.

  Bit’s sleeping like an angel, so I fall onto my own mattress and am dead the minute my head hits the pillow.

  When I wake up, she’s still sleeping. I check the clock. It’s nearly noon. Even on the weekends, she’s up with the sun. She likes to watch the birds in the morning, she told me.

  I debate going back to sleep or getting something to eat. My stomach grumbles, making the decision for me. I take a detour to piss and shower. When I get out, the peanut is still sleeping. I decide to make us sandwiches. No point in getting her up only to have her sit around until I can throw some grub together.

  In the kitchen, I make plenty of noise, though, tossing plates onto the island. Slamming the fridge door shut. With the sandwiches made and the milk poured, I go over to roust her.

  “It’s lunchtime, Bitsy.”

  She doesn’t stir.

  I raise my voice. “Come and eat a sandwich. It’s your favorite. Ham and cheese.”

  She still is motionless.

  I walk over and bend down next to her mattress. I give her shoulder a little shake. “Bitsy, it’s—” I break off. Her head lolls to the side. Her face is all flushed.

  I press a hand against her cheek. She’s flaming hot.

  I shake her again, a little harder this time. “Bitsy, Bitsy,” I say loudly. Maybe I’m shouting. I’m definitely feeling panic. I jump to my feet and run to the kitchen to pour a glass of cold water.

  I hurry back, lift her head up and tip the glass against her lips, which I notice for the first time are dried and cracking in the corners. Her lips part, but the water dribbles out of the glass, down the sides of her cheeks. I call her name again and again, but she doesn’t respond. I dump the entire contents over her face.

  This time her eyelids flutter. I lift her off the now soaked mattress and shift her over to mine.

  “Bitsy, you okay?”

  She blinks listlessly at me. Fuck me, of course she’s not okay.

  I rub a shaky hand across my forehead. What the hell do I do? I’ve never been sick in my life. And I’ve never taken care of a sick person.

  I grab my phone. I could call Beefer. He’s got kids. I can’t really take this girl to the hospital, can I? Any scratches or cuts I’ve ever had were taken care of by a doc Beefer called. We’re supposed to stay away from hospitals. They report things.

  My heart thuds violently. If I call Beefer, though, and reveal her to him, I’m placing Bitsy in danger. She’s only seven, maybe six. As a girl, she’s real vulnerable. The whole reason we beat up the banker wasn’t because he’d killed the call girl, but because he’d done it and refused to pay for it. I haven’t seen a girl in this organization do anything but wait on the men, either serving them food or their bodies. That includes Mary, who pretends like she runs Marjory’s.

  I don’t want that life for Bitsy, but what are my choices?

  I can’t do nothing. I press a hand against her cheek. It’s still too fucking hot, and despite the water I threw on her face, she’s still barely conscious.

  I take a breath and call Beefer.

  He answers on the third ring. His voice is rough and gravelly, as if he just woke up, too.

  “My…sister’s sick.”

  There’s a beat of silence and then, “You got a sister?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit, kid, since when?”

  Since, fuck, how long has it been? I look down at Bit’s still frame. The time before she came into my life was dull and lonely. Now, it’s filled with white tennis shoes, pink ribbons, Powerpuff Girls and Hispanic girl explorers. “Forever,” I tell him, and it’s the truth. My life started when I met Bitsy.

  11

  Leka

  “What’s her temp?” Beefer asks.

  I press my hand to her forehead again. She moans. “She’s hot. Real hot.”

  “What’s the thermometer say?”

  Thermometer? “Fuck, I don’t have one of those.”

  There’s a rustling sound. Beefer must be climbing out of bed. “How long have you been on your own?”

  “A long time. What should I do?” I grow impatient.

  “Get a thermometer. Try to get some fluids down her. I’ll send Mary over. Where’re you living?”

  Reluctantly, I give him the address.

  “Way over there? You should move closer to Marjory's.”

  “It’s only one metro stop away.” I tuck the phone against my shoulder and walk to the sink to get more water. I grab a can of soup and grab the wicked knife Beefer gave me a while back. I stab it down into the lid in two spots and then pour the liquid into a bowl.

  “Wish you told me you had a kid sister before.”

  “Why?” I pop the soup into the microwave.

  “Because.”

  Because it’d be leverage. That’s why.

  “She’s seven, Beefer. She’s just a little girl.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. I’m sending Mary over. She’ll take care of the girl for you.”

  The microwave dings, but I make no move to take the soup. I need for Beefer to assure me that he’s not going to use Bitsy in any way.

  “Whatever you need from me, I’m up for it.”

  “Just leave your sister out of it,” Beefer finishes for me.

  “Yeah,” I manage to push out past the fear clogging my throat.

  “We’re not monsters. The girls in the business are there because they need the money. No one’s pushing them on the street.”

  “Right. Well, Bit’s not gonna need anything.” I’ll provide for her. No matter how many heads I have to bash in, it’ll be worth it. I grab the soup bowl.

  “I hear ya. It’s why I get out of bed every day
, too.” I nearly drop the bowl in surprise. Beefer chuckles. “I mean, sure, I don’t mind beating the shit out of someone, but like I told you before, the only way you survive our kind of work is to make sure you got something to anchor you. I’m glad to hear you got family. I feel like I can trust you more.”

  The bowl tips again. I decide I better hang up before I end up with no soup. “I gotta run, Beefer.”

  “All right, kid. Mary’ll be over soon.”

  I hang up and sit down by Bit. “Got some soup for you.”

  She tries to roll her head to the side, but it takes too much effort for her. A whimper escapes her lips. The sound tears at my insides. I grab a sweatshirt off the floor and roll it up. Tucking it behind her back, I prop her upright, but she falls over, too weak to sit on her own.

  Frustrated, I pull her into my lap and cradle her head against my chest. I try tipping the bowl against her lips, but, like the water, it just dribbles down the side. I set the bowl down and dart to the kitchen for a spoon. Then I hustle back. The spoon works better. I’m able to get her to swallow some soup by sticking the spoon into her mouth and then tipping her backward. The process is messy as hell and we’re both covered with the sticky liquid by the bottom of the bowl.

  “You’re scaring the hell out of me,” I tell her.

  The last time I felt this helpless was when I woke up to find a dead woman in the living room of the foster home I’d been living in. The woman who’d been cashing the state check and using it on meth had OD’d. I thought the police might blame it on me, so I took off. I ended up living on the street, sleeping in the metro like one of the rat kids, and stealing food and money where I could.

  Kinda like Bitsy, I guess.

  I lift her up and carry her to the bathroom. She moans when I lay her on the floor.

  “I’m just cleaning you up,” I tell her. I don’t have washcloths, so I use the end of a towel to wipe over her face and throat. She seems to enjoy that. I decide to soak the entire towel and lay it on her. But it’s not too long before she starts shivering. Whether it’s because she’s too cold or too wet, I have no clue. I whip off the towel and her jammies and carry her frail body back to my bed. I fit one of my T-shirts over her head.

  “You’re going to be okay, Bitsy. You’re going to be okay.” I keep repeating myself. If I say the words enough, they’ll come true.

  12

  Leka

  Mary shows up with a grocery bag full of drugs, crackers, and, thank fuck, a thermometer.

  “How come you never told us you had a sister?” she exclaims as she bustles in.

  I lock the door behind her. “Didn’t think it was necessary.”

  I take the bag from her and dump the contents on the counter. “What do we give her first?”

  “Oooh, she feels hot,” the waitress says.

  No shit. I look up from the contents to see her sitting beside the mattress with her hand on Bit’s forehead. The urge to go over and yank Mary away fills my gut. It doesn’t seem right, anyone else touching my girl.

  “You got something over here that’s going to make her better?” I wave my hand to the mess of stuff Mary brought over.

  The woman looks over at me and then back at Bitsy. “Let’s take her temperature first.”

  I rifle through the shit until I come up with the right package. I throw it to Mary.

  “I can’t believe you don’t have a thermometer.” She rips open the package, shakes her wrist and then shoves the glass into Bitsy’s mouth. She glances down at her watch and then around the room. Her eyes grow judgmental as she takes in the small space. Even with Bitsy in my life, we don’t have much. There are some clothes, a couple pairs of tennis shoes, the two air mattresses and Bit’s tablet. Before, I didn’t feel like we needed anything more, but seeing our place through Mary’s eyes makes me stiffen defensively.

  “You don’t even have a bed. This girl is going to need her own room. You two can’t share.” Mary shakes her head. “What are you doing with all the money that you’re making?”

  None of your business. Stiffly, I explain, “Saving it.”

  “You men can be so tight with your money. Getting Beefer to part with even one dime of his is more difficult than serving tables during the dinner rush. And it’s frustrating. Because I know you guys are pulling in some real good coin. Why you can’t spend even a little of it to make the women in your life comfortable, I will never know. I mean, I do so much for Beefer. So much,” she emphasizes with raised eyebrows. “You know?”

  I give her a short nod hoping that will cut her off. I don’t need a play-by-play. “The thermometer thing done yet?”

  Mary gives a little yelp of surprise as if she totally forgot why she was here. She pulls the thermometer out and looks at it, reading something in the markings. “Looks like she’s a little around 103.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Mary shakes her wrist. “No, it’s not real good. Let’s get some Tylenol in her and see if that brings down the temperature. If it gets any higher, though, we might have to take her in.”

  “In where? Can Doc Read see her?” I dig through the pile again and find a bottle of thick pink liquid. Read is the man who stitched up my wounds before.

  Mary flicks her hand down in disgust. “No. We are not taking this little girl to that quack. She needs to go to a pediatrician. That’s a children’s doctor,” she says, her nose sticking a little in the air.

  She thinks I’m a dense motherfucker. Maybe I am, but even I know what the hell a kid’s doctor is called. I squeeze the bottle tight so I don’t strangle her. “How much of this?”

  “It should say on the bottle.”

  The bottle instructions say a “tsp and a half” for kids six and under. I don’t know exactly how old Bitsy is. She said she was five when I found her, but I know that was a guess. I could be overdosing her. Fuck. I go for the higher dosage. Despite not knowing what the hell a tsp is, I use the little plastic lines to measure out the appropriate dose.

  Mary props Bitsy up and holds her hand out for the medicine. “How long have you and your sister been alone?”

  “A while?” A little of the pink fluid dribbles out of the corner of Bit’s mouth. Mary ignores it and tries to pour the rest of the medicine down, but Bit’s not swallowing.

  Her sick eyes blink suspiciously at Mary.

  “Ugh,” Mary grimaces. “Can you get me a towel.”

  I kneel down next to the bed and softly shove Mary out of the way. “Let me.” I lift Bit’s head up and wipe the sticky medicine off her cheek with the bottom of my T-shirt. Her neck feels limp as a noodle. Panic beats inside my chest like a herd of bat wings.

  She moans. “Leka?”

  “I’m here. I’ve got something that you need to swallow. Can you do that for me?”

  Her little head bobs once. Something in my chest squeezes tight. This time it’s me holding out my hand to Mary for the medicine. When she hands me the plastic cup, I double-check the dosage line.

  “I filled it right,” Mary says irritably.

  I don’t say a word, but this isn’t her girl. Bit’s mine, and I’m going to be damned careful with her. I tuck her against my chest and hold the plastic cup to her mouth. “Small sip,” I say.

  Bit’s mouth opens to do as I ask. I watch as she takes a difficult swallow, her throat working overtime.

  “Again,” I say, and this time I force myself to be stern. “All of it.”

  Her eyes flick open, and when her lips part, I dump the rest of the meds in her mouth. I rock her back and then sit her upright, and somehow, she gulps it down, coughing a bit. I grab the glass of water near the mattress and hold that to her lips. She’s able to keep a little fluid down, too.

  “Was that necessary?” Mary gripes behind me.

  “It worked,” I say.

  “She’s a homely thing, isn’t she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your sister. I mean, it’s too bad God gave you all the looks. Girls need
them more.”

  Bit’s homely? What does that even mean? Bit’s the prettiest thing God ever made in this stupid world. Since I don’t care about Mary’s opinion, I don’t answer. I lay Bitsy back on the bed and check the time. “How long should I wait?”

  “A few hours.” She leans against the counter.

  I notice for the first time her shoes are off and the dress she’s wearing is sliding off her shoulder. I shake my head. I guess I gotta give her some credit. She never stops working.

  “Thanks for coming, Mary. What do I owe you for the meds and shit?”

  Her face, the one I once thought was nice, takes on a sly expression. “Let’s have some fun. You and me. Beefer doesn’t have to know. I’m not asking for money. Just a good time. You are clearly packing some power down in your shorts” She pushes her arms together and the sleeve falls farther down her arm, the fabric around her tits barely hanging on.

  I reach into my front pocket and grab my stash. Peeling off a few bills, I leave Bitsy to walk over to Mary. Careful not to stand too close, I extend my hand. “Thanks for coming over and bringing all the stuff. This should cover it and your cab back.”

  She runs her tongue along her teeth, but not in any sexy way. No, it’s more thoughtful and calculating. “You’re missing out,” she tells me.

  “I suppose I am,” I concede. Arguing with her isn’t going to get her out of my place any sooner.

  She sighs and grabs the money. “At least you’re not cheap like Beefer.”

  I bite my tongue and walk over to the door. She toes on her shoes and rearranges her dress. As she walks out, I give her a low warning. “You should be careful who you run down Beefer to. Not everyone’s going to keep their mouth shut.”

  I close the door on her surprised face.

  Mary’s smart. She’s lasted longer than any of Beefer’s other steady side pieces. I try to think back to Beefer’s last chick, but I can’t remember her. She didn’t last long. Before Mary, none of them did. I don’t know why, though. Maybe it was loose lips. Maybe he got tired of them. Or maybe they got tired of him. Mary’s different, though, and I can’t puzzle out the why.