Loose Cannon Read online

  The following week, around the time when Church was starting to think that maybe Vasily would never get his fill of this, Vasily brought a young woman in with him. She had bad teeth and messed-up skin, and it wouldn’t have been more obvious that she was a meth user if there’d been a neon sign flashing the word tweaker over her head.

  Vasily waited until the bakery was empty. Then he hit her.

  Once, twice, three times, knocking her off her feet. Church was too shocked to move at first. He’d been so careful to remain indifferent in Vasily’s presence that it took him a few seconds to get back into gear. When he could think again, he darted over the counter and jumped in front of her, shoving Vasily back with both arms, putting all his strength into it. Vasily slipped and landed on his ass, and Church almost kicked him while he was down. Almost. Vasily would be even more unbearable after the humiliation of getting knocked down in front of one of his junkies, and while Church wasn’t scared of Vasily, not physically anyway, he’d admit, in the privacy of his own head at least, that Mama gave him a cold chill.

  He didn’t know what she’d do if Church kicked the shit out of her son.

  So he watched Vasily get back to his feet and wondered what the hell he was gonna do when the bastard swung at him.

  Those few seconds bailed him out. Matvey walked in, back only minutes after leaving, grumbling about forgetting something he needed to make the deposit at the bank, and after a second’s glance at the bleeding girl on the ground, he grabbed a left-behind cup from a nearby booth and threw it at Vasily’s head. He missed, sending soda and ice everywhere, and shouted at his brother to get out.

  “I know what you did,” Matvey yelled. “If you come back here again, I’ll tell!”

  After a poisonous look at Church and hissing vicious curses under his breath, Vasily left and Church started wiping up the mess. The girl cleaned up in the bathroom before taking off, a little worse for wear, probably planning to smoke half the baggie of sticky brownish powder that Vasily had pressed into her palm before leaving. Payment for being a punching bag, maybe.

  “That wasn’t the first time he came in here, was it?” Matvey asked.

  “No,” Church admitted.

  “You should’ve told me.”

  Church wasn’t sure that was true. Vasily had been careful to only show up while Matvey was gone, so he clearly didn’t want his younger brother knowing. Church hadn’t been sure what Vasily would do if Church ratted him out, and since the whole point of this exercise was for Vasily to feel powerful in Church’s presence again, running to Matvey to get Mama involved would only make it all worse.

  Plus, on a more schoolyard level, Church thought he should either handle this himself or shut up about it. He wasn’t a whiner.

  “I didn’t want to put you in a bad position,” he told Matvey.

  “I’m the boss, it’s my job.” Matvey scrubbed at the counter like the finish had insulted him somehow. “He’ll leave you alone now. I have something on him. Mama doesn’t put up with men hurting women; he’d get in trouble if I went to her.”

  Three cheers for feminism, Church supposed, although he didn’t think for a second that Matvey was right. Vasily might not come at him through the bakery anymore, but this wasn’t going to cool things off at all. Church wished Vasily had picked anything else besides hitting a woman. After years of seeing it happen to his mother, Church was hardwired to punch any bastard who tried that in front of him.

  The thing was, he understood the motivation driving Vasily. If he was in the middle of building up a drug business, like Mama had suggested, then yeah, he couldn’t afford to look weak. Not if he wanted the other dealers to keep their distance instead of taking him out.

  But even though Church knew about his product and Vasily’s embarrassing mommy issues, Church hadn’t told anyone about either so far, so he should’ve been a nonissue for Vasily by now.

  If he’d been smart, Vasily would’ve threatened to withdraw his family’s protection if Church told anyone what he’d seen, broken one or two of Church’s bones to put Church in his place and show that Vasily wasn’t fucking around, and walked out with a swagger. The message would’ve been clear. He didn’t have to fear Church, because he controlled Church.

  Obviously Vasily wasn’t that smart. He didn’t see the way the continued harassment made him look insecure and desperate and overly emotional. And Church knew firsthand how well it went for everyone involved when a jerk with a temper did something stupid. He spent the rest of his shift considering his options, but hours later, he had to admit he was pretty screwed. He couldn’t run and he couldn’t fight back, and he didn’t know how to do anything else.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the first of December, Church shrugged into his coat and headed outside in the early morning to defrost the truck. His breath hung in the air and his cheeks were stropped by the wind, but that wasn’t what had him stopping short on the porch, mouth dropping open.

  The truck was right where Church had left it in the driveway, but it wasn’t how he left it.

  Fucker, someone had scrawled across the hood in black and blue spray paint. Asshole and loser and bitch had been sprayed onto the doors and windshield. Both headlights were smashed. Dozens of silver lines highlighted where someone had keyed the paint down to the primer. All four tires were flat. The stench of rot wafted from the torn-open bags of trash that’d been dumped into the bed. Some kind of disgusting liquid dripped from a wheel well where the vandal hadn’t gotten the bag up over the edge before the mess started to spill.

  The keys went clink in his hand. That was how he realized his hands were trembling.

  “Damn it,” Church muttered. And again, louder, “Goddamn it!”

  He circled the truck a couple of times, temper racing zero to sixty as he noted the damage, and he kicked the bumper once, twice, three times, shouting at the sky, probably waking up neighbors. Finally, he interlaced his fingers across the top of his head like a runner trying to catch his breath, and willed himself to calm down and stop kicking things.

  Who fucking said he wasn’t fucking growing as a fucking person?

  “What?” Miller came out onto the porch at a near run. “Why are you yell—What the hell?”

  A spasm of razor-tipped, steroid-laden guilt rocked Church. He wanted to hit and tear and throw. He wanted to run. He wanted to apologize to Miller over and over, as if the words could make up for the crap that Church couldn’t seem to help dumping in his lap. Shit, anything would be better than standing here, burning silently.

  “Who would do this?” Miller sounded bewildered, and Church pictured Vasily’s smug face and imagined explaining to Miller how much trouble Church was in yet again, imagined the fear and worry on Miller’s face as he heard about the ranch house on the outskirts of town, and the Krayevs, and the fact that all of Church’s bullshit was once again coloring Miller’s life because Church was a fuckup, and he—and Church lied.

  “I don’t know,” he managed. “I, um, I don’t—”

  “It’s okay,” Miller said, and that would’ve been reassuring except that he sounded so tired. “I’ll call the cops.”

  While Miller went back inside, mumbling about renting a car and whether insurance would cover the cost, Church closed his eyes. He felt disgusted with himself.

  For Vasily to pull something like this when Matvey had something on him meant either Vasily didn’t care about Mama’s fury, which seemed unlikely, or that Vasily had done it because Mama told him to.

  Eventually he pulled out his phone—the one Miller was paying for, his brain reminded him, just to rub it in a little more how much of a burden Church was—and took a picture of the truck, attaching it to a text.

  She sent Vasily to my place Ghost watch your back.

  * * *

  It was a lucky thing that Vasily didn’t come
into Moe’s that day.

  Church had been furious since he’d been forced to leave Miller behind to deal with the reeking, filthy truck to go to work. If Vasily had come in, sneering and self-satisfied, Church would’ve drawn blood and put off worrying about the consequences until he was back in an orange fucking jumpsuit.

  Stupid, maybe, but if the bastard’s goal had been to get under Church’s skin, it’d worked. The idea of Miller cleaning up bags of rotting garbage because of Church’s screwups made him want to hit something.

  Over the course of the day, though, as he cooled off, a dark, secret part of his mind whispered to him that he was blaming the wrong guy. Vasily was a gutter snake, yeah, but it wasn’t his job to protect Miller. Church should be doing that. Church was the one dragging Miller down. Church was the one repaying kindness after kindness with hardship.

  And lies.

  It wasn’t that he’d never lied to Miller before. He’d done his fair share of lying as a teenager, mostly about his parents or where he was living when he wasn’t at Miller’s, but this was different.

  He told himself that this was the right thing to do. It kept Miller out of it, and it meant that Miller could deny knowing anything if Vasily confronted him. Miller was safer not knowing what the hell was going on. There was no reason for Vasily to come after him that way.

  Never mind that dark part of his brain that hissed, You’re lying so Miller won’t know you’re the same fuckup you’ve always been. If Church happened to benefit from the lie as much as Miller did, that was the lone bright spot in the whole situation.

  Vasily was Church’s mess. Church would clean it up alone.

  * * *

  The pale shape of Kellen materialized in her office doorway just as Lena said into her phone, “It wasn’t on my orders. I’ll look into it, and if it came from someone in my camp, it will be dealt with, I promise you that.”

  She waited for a response, but received only silence.

  “It would be stupid of me to beckon with one hand only to slap you back with the other,” she pointed out.

  More silence.

  “I won’t ask now. You’ve little reason to trust, I know, but I’d appreciate it if you’d remain accessible at this number. In case I find a way to tempt you.”

  Yet another hesitation. Then, “If you wish. But there’s nothing you could offer that would—”

  “Don’t say that,” she replied, keeping her tone easy although her fingers tightened on the casing of the phone. “Don’t say anything that’ll make it harder for you to change your mind later.”

  She got a contemplative humming sound in response before Ghost murmured, “Until the next volley, then,” and hung up. Lena breathed deeply, letting some of her tension fade. The boy was more work than any teenage whore should’ve been, but if he hadn’t been so capable, he’d have been useless to her. Still, it chafed the ego some—it was like playing chess with a rock only to find oneself losing. Hardly a compliment.

  She set the phone on the desk. “Has Vasya been stirring up trouble? Vandalizing trucks?”

  “He’s made many stops at Matvey’s store,” Kellen said, voice gravelly as it emerged from that scarred throat, “but I’ve seen nothing about a truck.”

  “And the drugs? Has he been obedient there at least?”

  “No. If I hadn’t known you’d told him to stop, I wouldn’t be able to tell from the way he’s conducting business.”

  “Indeed.” Lena’s hands needed to be washed. It was hard to keep the basement clean, and dust accumulated quickly. The air grew thin at times, too, and she could feel the weight of every beam and rock above the ceiling over her head. She found herself asking, “Do you...do you think he’s perhaps taking his time—”

  “No. He means to ignore you.”

  Lena pressed her lips together, embarrassed that she’d asked. Granted, Kellen wouldn’t hold it against her—in the whole world, it was Kellen alone who wouldn’t—but it was a mistake all the same. Yes. Yes, Lena had known better. “If you think of a way to derail where this is going, share, won’t you?”

  Kellen’s chin jogged up once in a nod.

  “I’ll remind Vasya at dinner to stop dealing and to leave the loudmouth alone. Continue to keep an eye on him, though.” Lena’s chair protested when she leaned back, kicking her booted feet onto the desk. “I’d like to avoid this coming down to a choice between Ghost’s friend and my son.”

  * * *

  On Saturday, Miller woke up hard.

  That wasn’t new, but there was waking up with morning wood, and there was waking up with a load-bearing steel beam in his shorts. This was definitely the latter.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d been dreaming about. Not specifically, anyway. He had only a hazy memory of fingers and lips and a slow-building need. He was still half-asleep and stupid with it, and his body was heavy and liquid as honey, and it seemed like too much work to shove his hand into his boxer-briefs and let off some of the pressure, but even without touching himself it felt good.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might’ve been Church in his dream.

  Church touching him, Church making him want something he had no business wanting, Church burning him up.

  “It’s tragic, but they’ll burn.”

  The golden, thick pleasure froze.

  His father had said that to him once. Miller remembered it with near-painful clarity: the wobbly little wrought-iron table on the café’s outside patio, the July sun baking the humidity into his skin, the melting vanilla ice cream in his cone, his father across from him in a paint-stained T-shirt with his strawberry sundae. He’d been nine or maybe ten. Shelby wasn’t with them, and he had a vague idea that she and their father had been at each other’s throats again the night before. This hadn’t been long before Shelby got pregnant that first time, before his father tried to make her marry the guy, a guy who’d told all his friends that he’d nailed fifteen-year-old Shelby before dumping her, not that she would admit that to their father. She would die first. That’d been when Shelby left for good, shoving out the back door to live with their mother’s great-aunt, her duffel bag over one shoulder and a hand pressed tight to her still-flat belly, abortion already scheduled, tears in her eyes as she said, “Sorry, Mill, but I gotta go. There’s no air in this fucking house with him, I can’t breathe. You’ll be okay without me, you’re perfect, he loves you.”

  That day at the café, there’d been two men across the street, wandering through the shelves that the kitschy discount bookstore had put out to take advantage of summer foot traffic. One of the men had said something both sarcastic and flirty—Miller had caught the tone if not the words—and the other man had thrown his head back and laughed. Miller remembered the two men kissing a moment later, mouths lingering, and the tiny thrum of oh that’d gone through him at the sight. It hadn’t been want or interest, not that way, but there’d been a sense of familiarity. A realization that he’d known something existed well before he’d seen it out in the world.

  “It looks nice, doesn’t it?” his father had said, jerking his chin at the men.

  “Yeah,” Miller replied. The men had been happy, the day bright and cheerful. The kiss was both world-changing and inconsequential at the same time and it didn’t seem out of place at all.

  “But it’s a sin,” his father said.

  Miller watched the men walk down the street away from them. He didn’t look at his father. “Maybe it isn’t, though.”

  “It violates scripture. Remember?”

  “Leviticus.”

  “That’s right.”

  There were lots of things in Leviticus that didn’t make sense to Miller. The thing about people with skin infections being smeared with bird’s blood by priests had definitely stuck with him, if only because of sheer weirdness, and he wondered why his father never
cared when people broke those rules. It wasn’t only Leviticus, either. Exodus said that people who worked on Sundays were supposed to be stoned to death, and his dad never confronted anyone about that. Heck, they worked in the store on Sundays all the time when it wasn’t football season.

  It just didn’t make sense, and a part of Miller became very tight and cramped and aching at the inconsistency.

  “Sins have to be punished,” his father continued.

  Miller wasn’t going to say anything else, he didn’t mean to, but the words spilled out anyway. “Aren’t we supposed to love the sinner?”

  His father hadn’t been angry. He’d nodded approvingly at Miller. “Yes, we are. And that’s why we’re not going to fall into the trap of hatred. But that doesn’t mean what they’re doing is okay. We don’t have to understand God’s will, son. We simply have to follow it. The punishment is clear, and we have a deeper responsibility toward helping them avoid that punishment. On the surface, we may seem unkind, but the truth is, if we don’t encourage them to act otherwise, it’ll be worse for them. Their happiness now will cost them paradise, Miller. It’s tragic, but they’ll burn.”

  Though he never considered why, that was the moment when Miller abandoned the Catholic Church. Not in any formal sense—he’d gotten confirmed, attended Mass and youth group, gone to confession. But he’d known then that he could never tell his father about his realization, his certainty that no loving God would slap his children’s hands for taking an offered happiness. He’d known then that his father, whose determination to end the bond between those men was based entirely in concern for their souls, would not understand that to Miller it seemed as right as loving his family, as taking care of someone in need, as breathing.

  Had Miller said those things, his father’s patient, sad expression would’ve turned instantly to that same red-flushed agony that Miller saw directed at his sister every day. And Shelby, who often skipped church but still wore the little gold cross around her neck, would look at him with that same scorn she aimed at their father. He needed Shelby. For too long, she’d been the only one who listened.