26
Kane
Paddy’s Truck Stop
Istep out of my truck a little after midnight on Saturday morning and watch my six. The cold air nips at my fingers and nose. It’s notthatcold out, but the reason for being here – the fact I left Jess a few hours ago and the knowledge that I haven’t heard from Jay in almost a full week – has adrenaline slamming through my body, leaving me a littletwitchy.
I spent this week in the arms of a woman I never could have expected to meet. I never planned ahead for this. I never imagined I’d meet someone that had the power to set my world on fire.
But I did. And I don’t think she realizes she has that power. She has no clue of what I feel inside, no clue of her importance in my world.
And I refuse to tell her, because it would do more harm than good.
I started my day like I started every day this week; her silky legs wrapped around mine, her lips on mine, her hair in my face. It’s exactly the way I hope to start tomorrow, but when you grow up the way I did, when you work in the field I do, you learn to read the signs. You learn to listen to your gut.
And mine says I won’t be going back to my bed tonight.
Or ever.
I worked at the club all week when Abel called me in, and I ran errands when he didn’t. I moved guns between warehouses, and when they were stacked, I counted them three times each.
I inventoried girls and ignored their tears – at least I didn’t see Nora once – and I supervised others as they counted cash and cut the already cut coke into resale portions.
And as each day passed, I wondered about Jay. My best friend. My brother in arms. I searched for him when I could. I asked around the club as quietly as I could manage. I even asked each of the whores, since he was so partial to them. But once five in the afternoon hit, it was time for Jess.
I shouldn’t choose her over him.
But I do.
Since the first time I saw her, I’ve been choosing her, and there’s nothing in the world that’ll change that now.
It’s too late for me.
But that doesn’t erase the worry in my heart at Jay’s continued absence.
During the days while I’m busy preparing for the end of the world, and Jess is in her office actively working on a case against me and my boss, we text. She sends me pictures she really shouldn’t. She tells fart jokes. And on her lunch break, we talk. I call her at one on the dot, because by that point in the day, I’ve been without her for five whole hours and my addiction begins crying for a hit.
It makes me giddy that she answers, even while in her office.
But when I say ‘Hey, Blondie,’ and she replies with ‘Hey, Al,’ that wipes away my giddiness.
I should be pleased she’s protecting herself; hell, I trulyam. Her safety is my only concern. But she’s not in danger from her boss, and saying my name won’t put her in physical danger. Just in danger of a lecture.
She can’t explain me.
She can’t defend me.
She can only hide me.
I wish she knew the old me. I wish we could have met at a different time. A time with less danger, less worry, less rush.
But wishes, for guys like me, are nothing but wasted breath.
So instead, I play along and pretend my name is Al. Neither of us dares put into writing the things we speak about in private – the drugs, the guns, Abel. I tell her everything she needs to know while it’s just us. I help her build her case, because her wellbeing is the only thing that I worry about. But during the day, when we type, when anyone could cross our paths, we talk about everyday stuff and pretend nothing unusual is happening.
She tells me of the salad she ate for lunch.
I promise to buy her a burger for dinner.