Loose Cannon Read online

  The relaxation lasted until Ghost got dressed. He put on a pair of jeans so tight they might as well have been made of latex, and a too-small T-shirt with a strategic tear in the neckline that revealed the curve of a collarbone. His eyes were lined with thick black kohl, his golden hair loose and wavy over his shoulders. Church watched as Ghost tucked half a dozen condoms and a handful of lube packets into his beat-up Docs while Tobias stared at the carpet like it might be about to give out the winning lottery numbers.

  Ghost was so capable that Church sometimes forgot he was all of nineteen. But in these clothes he seemed suddenly vulnerable, even if Church knew it was a lie: there was a blade or two on Ghost somewhere for certain, though Church would be damned if he could tell where he was stashing them.

  Ghost caught him staring and winked. “You got change for the bus?”

  “I’ve got Miller’s truck.” Church waited while Tobias pulled his books and papers together before he followed the others outside.

  “This is where I get off,” Tobias said. He stopped Church on the stoop, pulling him in for another hug. Ghost would’ve elbowed either of them in the gut for trying to hug him, but Tobias would stand here forever if Church needed it. They made a pretty balanced unit for the most part, but Church wondered if this was the beginning of the end of the three of them.

  The thing was, Ghost and Church were different in a lot of ways, but in one they were very similar—they were both going nowhere. They were shabby through and through, and they’d be that way until they died. Upward mobility wasn’t an option past a certain point if you came from shit, and while Church was determined to find that ceiling, he was realistic about his chances of breaking through. Ghost never bothered to try.

  Tobias wasn’t like them. He came from a good family. He was loved. His adoptive parents were Haitian-American immigrants who’d put themselves through medical school and did charity work on the weekends and had a zillion kids that they’d taken in from war zones and shit. Tobias had gotten himself back on track post-Woodbury, and soon he was gonna follow in his parents’ footsteps by becoming a doctor, and he’d fall in love with someone decent who would love him back and... Well, Tobias mattered.

  As much as Church would miss him, it was only a matter of time before Tobias dumped Church and Ghost for good. If he didn’t think it would hurt Tobias beyond fixing, Church would kick the guy loose himself to get Tobias free of their dead weight.

  After Tobias drove off in his mom’s Audi, Church and Ghost got into Miller’s truck.

  “Highway, Jeeves,” Ghost intoned, pulling out a pack of smokes.

  “You can’t smoke in here, dude.”

  “Highway, dirtbag.” But he tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

  * * *

  They pulled up as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. They were in an older part of Denver, not far from Auraria Campus, just west of Federal Boulevard in a run-down area full of ethnic restaurants, discount stores and faded strip malls.

  The place was called Moe’s Bakery. As they went inside, Ghost explained that there wasn’t a Moe and it was barely a bakery, but the air was thick with the smell of coffee and bread anyway. Bagels and preassembled sandwiches dominated the glass cases. There were bags of chips on a rack and jars of thick pickles and slaw in a refrigerated cabinet. A can sat on the counter stuffed full of Slim Jims. A soda fountain growled menacingly from one corner, and the linoleum floor was clean but worn, peeling up in the corners.

  Matvey Krayev was helping a grizzled guy in overalls buy an early dinner. He was cheerful as he rung up the sale, and looked to be in his late twenties. He was dark-eyed and handsome in a sweet sort of way, and wore a clean white apron tied around his waist.

  He jerked his chin in greeting, although he seemed confused by their presence.

  Ghost gave an almost inaudible sigh and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Remember? Then he pointed at Church over and over until Matvey’s brow cleared. Ghost muttered, “Hallelujah,” and abandoned Church to go smoke outside.

  Once the customer had gone, Matvey beckoned Church over. “Hey, hi. Church, right? That’s not your first name, is it?” Despite his name, he didn’t have an accent.

  “Last.” He grimaced, but since Matvey would find out sooner or later anyway, it was best to get it over with. “Edgar-Allen Church.”

  Church had always hated his name. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he got a stupid joke about writing poetry, and that was reason enough to loathe it even before he found out he’d been named after his paternal grandfather, a man who’d somehow managed to be more of a dick than Church’s father.

  But all Matvey said was “Cool. Well, you want to work here? It’s the counter during the mornings and afternoons, some weekends. About thirty hours a week. Pay’s shit.”

  “Beggars and choosers,” Church said, hearing Ghost’s earlier comment all over again.

  “You’re on the straight and narrow these days, yeah?” Matvey looked him up and down critically. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about my family, but that’s not the kind of place I run. This is a good business.”

  “That’s what I’m looking for,” Church said. “I’ve had all the trouble I can stand.”

  Matvey studied him suspiciously for another minute before relaxing. “Okay. Let’s do some paperwork.”

  Church’s new boss drew big Xs through several portions of the application—the parts asking for previous education, job history and references. There wasn’t a lot left by the time Matvey was done. He asked for two forms of ID, but Church only had his license. Matvey frowned. “No one ever checks, but if you find your birth certificate, bring it in anyway, okay?”

  Matvey showed him around, and they talked about the schedule a little. Church’s wardrobe was approved, and then Matvey sniffed him, making Church jerk back.

  “What the hell?”

  “You’re good,” Matvey said. “Got to check. Nothing scares people out of an eatery like body odor or greasy hair, man. I like that soap though. Woodsy.”

  It took about twenty minutes altogether. As Church was leaving, Matvey swatted him on the arm, friendly-like.

  “Now Ghost owes me one, eh?” As soon as the words were out, he stiffened. “Don’t tell him I said that, okay?”

  Church agreed not to—nice to know his new boss wasn’t an idiot—and walked outside. There was no sign of Ghost at first, but a minute later, he ambled out from around the corner, back where Church guessed the Dumpsters were. A second later, the customer who’d been in the bakery scurried out after him, eyes averted, his dinner still in its plastic bag. He got into his car and drove away.

  Ghost stopped at Church’s side and gave him a blindingly insincere smile.

  “Are you seriously tricking behind a bakery?” Church asked.

  “My office is being renovated,” Ghost told him, earnest as a Boy Scout. “I was all for the minimalist look, but Sandy said the extra two weeks’ wait for the gold lamé was reasonable.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Church said, beyond exasperated and tempted to laugh anyway. This fucking kid. He shook his head. “Get in the truck, asshole.”

  He followed Ghost’s directions to a moderately busy, poorly lit street near an overpass where a dingy bar squatted on the corner—one of those places that hadn’t been fashionable since the seventies. He parked, and this time when Ghost got out to smoke, Church joined him. About a block away, there was a twink in a pink wig doing a slinky cha-cha on the corner. A homeless guy was hassling him.

  “This is your turf, huh?” Church eyed the bar’s flickering neon martini sign.

  “Only on slow nights. I find most of my clients online these days. I get more takers here, though. Easier to pick a guy up when they can see my face as well as my ass. There aren’t any other bars for a mile, so the cops don’t come by too often. And look, Ma, I
got my own overpass to conceal my ill-doings if the bathroom’s full or the guy won’t chip in for a motel room.” Ghost pointed, but Church gave him a dirty look, and he shrugged, dropping the act. “Anything better street-wise comes with strings, and free-and-clear’s got a lot going for it.”

  Ghost’s stance on pimps was well documented. It could best be summed up as: he would open a vein first. “The only person who’ll be exploiting this body is me,” he’d said more than once.

  A busted-up tan Oldsmobile approached, slowed, turned the corner and disappeared.

  “You’re careful, right?” Church asked.

  Ghost’s eyes were almost colorless in the thick-growing night. Hard to read. “Always.”

  Church wondered if he was lying.

  “Give me the rundown.” Ghost blew a smoke ring in his face, and Church chuckled. Just like old times, Ghost quizzing him on what he needed to do for the next week to be successful, to work the program and get his life back, talking him through whatever shit was mucking up his head.

  “I’m gonna keep my cool in my parole meetings. Deep breaths before I walk in.”

  “Mmm,” Ghost murmured. “Next.”

  “I’m going to remember that I don’t need Miller to save me.” Church forced himself to keep his voice light. “I’m going to keep my hands to myself this time.”

  “Good one. Anything else?”

  Church tore the filter from his cigarette and pocketed it, stepping on the cherry to put it out. He added the old faithful, the one he ended with every single time they’d done this. “I’m not going to punch anyone.”

  “Excellent.”

  The tan Oldsmobile appeared again, inching into the nearest parking lot to idle. Church guessed Ghost hadn’t been joking about that whole seeing-his-face thing. Didn’t even have to go inside to find johns.

  “You should go.” Ghost walked away without another word, pausing to bend over and talk to the driver before pulling the passenger door open and climbing in.

  Church watched the Oldsmobile disappear into the dark tunnel beneath the overpass, the taillights winking once.

  * * *

  After he dropped Ghost off, Church drove around for a while. He was only putting off the inevitable, but he had enough bullshit brewing in his head that he needed the time. Figuring out how to say things had never been his strong suit, but he had to find a way. Things were going to be different this time. He was going to be different.

  Eight months ago, the last time Ghost had left Woodbury, Church had promised himself that he was going to milk the system of every last bit of knowledge and therapy it possessed, because he wasn’t going back.

  And not going back meant using the tools he’d been given. He had to talk about things before he got mad, take a break to calm down if he started getting heated, and be willing to compromise so nobody walked away pissed off. It wasn’t cool or fancy, but if it kept him from being the guy he’d been before, the asshole on the road to becoming his father, he could live with it. Church could live with almost anything but that.

  He stopped and filled the tank with Miller’s gas money before heading back. It was a little after ten when he opened the door to see Miller putting sheets on the couch.

  “Oh, hi.” Miller forced a fake smile before going back to making up Church’s bed.

  “Hey.” He could do this, Church told himself. All he had to do was say I’m sorry I climbed in bed with you back then. I promise I won’t do it again. You don’t have to be scared of me. “Um, can we ta—”

  “Sheets are done.” Miller fiddled with the fabric, his hands fluttering like birds, never landing, never still. “There you go.”

  “Miller.”

  “We’re good, Church.” Miller sounded tired and sort of rough. “Really. We don’t... Let’s not, okay? I misunderstood earlier, and it’s been cleared up, and we’re good.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, listen, I gotta get some sleep, okay? Good night.”

  Church watched him walk down the hall and sighed. The day felt like it weighed a million pounds.

  As he stripped down to his boxers, he knew he’d messed up. He should’ve pushed. Miller would never be the first one to instigate a tough conversation, because he had this weird idea that dudes weren’t supposed to talk about shit. He’d always been like that, and it’d always been a battle to get him to say anything real. From things Miller had said, Church suspected it was leftover stupidity from his father, something along the lines of “Real men don’t talk about things.” Sort of the same way Church had picked up his own father’s bull, only instead of going the bottle-it-up route, Church’s dad hit.

  Church guessed there was no such thing as growing up without having some of your parents’ crap cling to you.

  But the point was that Miller shouldn’t have to be this worried, and Church was going to be a walking land mine if he didn’t get some of this pressure out.

  He just needed to tell Miller that he wasn’t going to put the moves on him, so they could be past this. Church had only done it that first time because he’d been a deluded moron teenager who’d actually thought he had a chance in hell with the guy of his dreams.

  He knew better now.

  Chapter Six

  On Monday, Church went to his first parole meeting, where he sat down with Chelsey Hamilton, a skinny black woman with an enormous Afro and clever eyes.

  Church had met her for the first time not long after he went into Roseburg, when she visited him one day out of the blue. She’d dropped by every few months, talked about his progress and given him comics when he was doing good, lectures when he wasn’t.

  Church could never make up his mind about whether he liked her. She was straight with him, which he appreciated, but since she was usually telling him things he didn’t want to hear, the appreciation only lasted so long. Plus, she was an epic do-gooder, constantly talking about how he should think of the consequences of his behavior, so half the time he walked out of meetings with her feeling like he wanted to misbehave just to piss her off.

  He wasn’t sure of her job title, either. He knew she wasn’t his caseworker, because that’d been a different lady and he hadn’t seen that chick since he’d turned eighteen anyway. Not that it mattered. Chelsey would tell him what was going to happen next, and she’d gotten him this far, so he rarely argued.

  He usually lost anyway. She had a tendency to use logic against him.

  “Do you need an appointment with a therapist?” she said as he sat down.

  “Hi, Chelsey,” he said. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “To talk about family issues or anything? Transition can be really hard.” As she went on about all the things that could break his emotions, he glanced around at her desk and walls. She had photographs everywhere of her with a big black man who must’ve been her husband. In most of them, he was looking at her like he’d fight an army for her.

  He wondered what that was like.

  When she ran out of steam, he said, “I’m good. No more therapy.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Smart-ass. Are you on any?”

  “No.”

  “There’s going to be a test, so don’t bother lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “No history of substance abuse, right?”

  “No.” His father was an alcoholic, and Church’s one attempt at getting drunk had led to the worst night of his life, so there was zero temptation. While he didn’t mind the occasional joint, it wasn’t worth screwing up his parole.

  “All right. Now. The job situation.” She opened the folder in front of her and handed him a form. “When you find work, here’s—”

  “I already did,” he said, and had the pleasure of surprising her for once. He wrote down the name, address, phone number a
nd tax ID number that Matvey had given him.

  After a few minutes of clacking on her keyboard, she made a satisfied humming sound. “Not even a health-code violation,” she reported, and nodded once. “All right, Church, good work.”

  She had her pleasant, I’m-a-helpful-civil-servant face on, which he liked a lot more than her I’m-gonna-throw-the-book-at-you-if-you-mess-up face.

  “A job’ll make it easier to start paying your supervision fees,” she said.

  “My what?”

  “Monthly fees to offset the cost of having me work with you. They’re due at each meeting.”

  “I have to pay you to be on parole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh. Is it, um, a lot? Because I don’t think I’m gonna be paid much.”

  “It’s mandatory,” she said, cutting through the bullshit as she so often did. “Figure out a legal way to get it, Church. Don’t deal or steal.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She handed him a piece of paper. “That’s the fee sheet. Look it over, let me know if you have questions and bring a money order to our next meeting. Next—you’re back living with Miller Quinn?”

  “I was never really living with him,” Church explained. “I just crashed there sometimes.”

  “On his couch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now?”

  “Still the couch,” he said. “He offered to get me a bed. I said no.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love lumpy cushions. Is this part really your business?” He tried to say it respectfully, but there were some phrases that couldn’t be said any other way but rudely.

  “You have no idea what my job is, do you?” She leaned forward, interlacing her fingers on the desk in front of her. “I am a correctional treatment specialist. My sole responsibility is to make sure you never reoffend. It’s why I was trailing you through Roseburg and Woodbury to make sure you developed life skills, and it’s why I’m going to be all over your ‘business’ while you’re on parole. Within those narrow confines, my power is absolute. I’m judge, jury and executioner.”