Losing Streak (The Lane) (5 page)

Chapter Five

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

I glanced over my shoulder and felt a grin tug at my lips. Brandon’s hair was a mess at the best of times, always too long to be considered stylish, too short to be intentional. After sex, it was nothing short of a disaster. And I liked it. I liked seeing those dark locks chaotic, knowing I was the one who caused it. That this was something I could screw up and that would be okay.

“The usual.”

“So, everything then?”

“Basically.”

He never pushed for more. Not like some would have. Sometimes that bothered me. Sometimes I wanted someone to acknowledge it all. I wanted someone to take my hand and tell me they saw the worlds I was juggling. I didn’t even want to hear that I was handling it all okay. That it was admirable and I was strong. That my patchwork scars didn’t take away from my pretty face. I just wanted someone to
see
all of it and if Brandon did, he never said so out loud.

“What about you?”

He wrapped one of my curls around his finger, watching closely as he pulled it free and the strand sprang back into place.

“There’s a game tomorrow night. Probably going to Sharkie’s to catch it.”

I rolled back onto my stomach and stretched, careful to not do so too hard lest I pulled his ill-fitting fitted sheet free, exposing the bare mattress underneath it.

“Got a lot on it?”

“Enough.”

And I never pushed him for more. Never asked why he chose to make his money by betting on ball games and the odd fight instead of something more “respectful.” Never rode him for not having a plan that involved a retirement package. I never acknowledged his knack for picking the winning side. It was all just another reason to keep quiet about him to Mama, though.

Speaking of Mama.

“I can’t stay tonight.”

“Oh?”

I shivered as he brushed my hair away from the back of my neck and pressed a kiss there.

“No. I have shit to do in the morning. Closer to my place than here.”

“Okay.” His fingers trailed down my back, leaving a line of heat in their wake. Another shiver ran through me and I felt my nipples harden, pressing almost painfully against the mattress beneath me.

“Brandon.”

“Hmm?”

His lips found the space behind my ear that never failed to make me hiss in pleasure, and one hand kneaded my ass cheek with slow, almost lazy movements. I struggled to remember what I’d been going to say.

“Brandon,” I repeated, a little breathlessly. He nudged my legs apart further as he dragged his mouth across the side of my neck, stubble scraping against skin.

“Yeah, babe?”

And then one thick finger was inside me, expertly hooking to hit that spot so many others seemed to forget existed. My lower half arched up, closer to the source of my pleasure, and his responding chuckle vibrated against the shell of my ear.

“What were you going to say?” He stroked against that spot slowly, dragging his finger across it in a maddeningly gentle motion.

“Harder!” I gasped, pushing back against his hand.

“No.” He dragged the word out as he started to pull his finger free and I made a sound of protest. He didn’t reply to it as he moved behind me, hands latching on to my hips and lifting them, bringing me up onto my hands and knees.

I threw my head back and, seeing the invitation, he reached forward over me to wrap the locks around his fist. I hummed in approval.

“What were you going to say, Rosie?” He positioned himself at my entrance, pushing in only enough for me to feel his presence but not enough to satisfy the empty feeling I suddenly ached around.

“Fuck.”

He slipped in a little farther, but only just.

“That wasn’t it.”

“Well, that’s what I’m saying now.” I tried to force myself onto him but he used the hand gripping my hip to still me.

“Come on, babe. Think. You’d been about to say something. What was it?”

“If you don’t start moving, I will hurt you,” I snarled, only for it to turn into a shriek of pleasure when he slammed into me unexpectedly.

“That’s my sadist girl.”

And then he was off, pounding into me hard enough that my arms shook under the strain of holding myself up, the sounds of flesh striking flesh and his grunts the only noises we were capable of. Then he angled his hips just right, in that one certain way he seemed to know on instinct, and hit that spot again and I was soaring.

The noises that fell from my lips were a mixture of cries and moans and pleads and prayers, and through the haze that clouded my head as he refused to let me come down, I could just make out the sound of his.

When we collapsed into a sweaty heap sometime later, I’d completely forgot what I’d intended to say before. I forgot there had been a conversation to interrupt at all.

* * *

“What do you mean it was lost?”

The lady sitting across the desk from me—Annemarie, her nameplate said—didn’t so much as blink at my tone, leading me to believe I wasn’t the first person to screech between those fuzzy gray cubicle walls. Instead, she offered me a tight-lipped, fuchsia-stained smile. I wanted to tell her how bad the color looked on her. Cakey too. As if she had applied it with a frosting knife.

“I realize what an inconvenience this is—” she started before I cut her off.

“No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t undermine it with a word like
inconvenience.
” I took a ragged breath in an attempt to quiet the blood pounding in my ears, and shoved the hair away from my face roughly. I hadn’t done anything to tame it, hadn’t had the time. For all my good intentions of going back home, I’d ended up staying at Brandon’s, oversleeping and almost missing this appointment altogether. I’d only just made it in time, fat load of good that it did me.

Annemarie was watching me closely, a pathetic version of sympathy plastered on her face. I wondered if they’d taught her that in Caseworker School. Hopefully, if they had, they’d also told her it wouldn’t actually fool anyone. Only piss them off.

Finally feeling calm enough to speak again without the risk of breathing fire, I asked, “What exactly was lost?”

The uncomfortable shift she made in her seat was too genuine to have been taught. Instantly, I was on guard, my skin prickling with it.

“Ah, yes. Well, unfortunately—”

“Stop right there.” I held up my hand and narrowed my eyes. “This is the part where you’re going to really piss me off, isn’t it?”

“It’s a big county.” As if that was enough. As if what she was going to say next was suddenly okay because the county I had the misfortune of living in was big. “We have very large caseloads and sometimes—well, that is to say, things get shuffled and items get misplaced. It doesn’t happen often, fortunately, but it does occur. And this time an entire file went missing.”

My hand was still up in a stop gesture and I raised my other to join it. They were shaking. It wasn’t subtle. I knew she could see it.

“An entire file,” I repeated blandly.

“Yes.” She didn’t even have the decency to fake a remorseful expression. I was just supposed to understand.

I tipped my head back to stare at the tiled drop-ceiling, counting to ten under my breath slowly. When the rage increased rather than abated, I kept going. I’d reached fifty when I realized no amount of counting was going to work.

“How in the fuck do you lose an entire file?” I glared at her. “How is that even possible? That is so fucking impossible it’s like you had to make an effort to do it. You had to work to be that damned incompetent!”

She winced, a flash of almost human emotion before it was wiped away and replaced again by the smooth-faced robot.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Ms. Young.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t appreciate this.” I swept an arm out indicating nothing in particular and everything in general. “I did everything you said to do. I jumped through fucking hoops. I even moved my brother and I out into a shitty-ass apartment, took ownership of my mama’s car, everything to make her eligible! And it still wasn’t enough. So I paid the money for her health records, got notes from her doctor and the treatment centers and brought in my fucking lease agreement today, only for you to tell me her file is lost? Ask me if I give a shit whether or not you appreciate my tone. Please.”

Annemarie winced again, this time a look of sympathy that was almost real twisted her features, and I could feel a hot lump of emotion wedge itself into my throat. I didn’t want her sympathy, real or fake. I wanted her to do her job.

“Listen, Ms. Young, I understand.” She shook her head quickly when I opened my mouth to protest. “You have a lot on your plate obviously and I feel for that. I do. And what’s happened feels like a major setback. But it’s not the end of the world.”

“Oh, yeah?” It was hard to squeeze out around that lump but I forced it and packed just enough heat behind it to keep it from sounding shaky. “Because from where I’m sitting it sure as hell looks like a lot more than just a simple setback.”

“Of course it does. Because you’re sitting in it. But honestly, it’s an easy fix. Fill out the forms again. Bring in copies of your evidence. Tell them at the front I said to hand it all personally to me when you do. Then I’ll set up the soonest available appointment so we can get everything in the system and your mother approved. We might even be able to cut some corners and get her on both emergency food stamps and Medicaid.”

I stared blankly at her.

“Soonest available appointment.”

“Yep!” She smiled brightly, utterly convinced that she’d offered me a real, satisfactory solution, that dangling emergency relief in front of me would be enough to keep me from completely losing it in the middle of her office.

I stood up, shoving the scream building up in me down as far as I could. I couldn’t fuck this up any further, and Lord knew I’d already come close. Mama needed this. She desperately needed this help. I needed this to help her.

“You made that promise to me before, you know.”

Annemarie looked confused. Of course she did. She’d said herself that her caseload was big. What was one hopeless, desperate face in a sea of hundreds of them?

“Almost four months ago, in fact. This has been the soonest I could get back in. She’ll be dead in another four months at this rate. But thanks. Like you said, it’s just a setback. Not the end of the world.” I shook my head and turned to go. “Except, yeah, actually. It is.”

I left before I gave in to the urge to start throwing things.

I was in a foul mood by the time I made it back to the apartment. Bri and Jackson were already gone, to work most likely, which was just as well. I wasn’t in the mood to be any semblance of social. I wasn’t in the mood to look at Jackson and worry if he was getting enough to eat or feel that conflicting whisper of resentment that his biggest stress in life was how to get an underage Bri drunk their next night out. I hated when those thoughts made themselves known. I hated knowing I was capable of being that person.

I hated the reminder that I was.

Chapter Six

“Ms. Young, we need to talk.”

The silver-haired doctor approached me with a determined, grim air and I felt my hand tighten on the foam cup I was holding. I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to insist there was no way we could possibly speak because Mama was waiting for me in the examination room. Waiting for me and this water, and I couldn’t possibly stop to chat.

We need to talk.
Did anything good ever, ever come from those words?

Dr. Shallaby was a nice enough man and a competent doctor. I normally had only good things to say about him. He’d taken Mama on with no insurance, only my word that we would pay the bills that racked up. Now, however, I found myself mentally ticking off every fault I could find in him. His hands looked dry. His eyes were too close together and his nose was kinda hooked at the end. He sweat a lot and always smelled faintly of chemicals. Like a walking hospital.

I shook my head and forced a tight-lipped smile on my face. My hands were trembling. I think he saw it. I couldn’t answer him, could not force anything past the egg that was lodged in my throat. Something on my face must have expressed my consent, however, because he continued.

“Your mother has lost another six pounds since her last appointment with me.”

Voice still lost, I nodded. I knew that. Well, not the exact number, but I knew she’d lost more weight.

A nurse came bustling down the hall, and Dr. Shallaby moved us closer to the wall, out of her way, with a dry hand on my elbow. I cringed away from him before I could stop myself. If he noticed, he pretended not to. Instead he watched the nurse until she rounded a corner and disappeared from view. My hands shook harder, threatening to dump the water onto the floor. He wasn’t leering. He was stalling. Stalling because whatever was gonna come out of his mouth next would suck.

After a minute, he sighed and looked back at me.

“I’m going to have to recommend that she be admitted. We need to get some weight on her. At the very least, we have to ensure she doesn’t lose any more. Otherwise she will not be okay for her next round.”

I blinked once at his words, failing to comprehend. I knew what they meant individually, recognized each one, but put together like that didn’t make any sense. He sighed again, deeper this time, and ran a hand through his thinning hair before giving me a look of pity. “It’s not the end, Ms. Young. Not nearly. We have her admitted. A day, maybe two. Three at the most. We get some fluids in her. Some antinausea meds to help keep it all down. She’s on the brink of dehydration and that’s dangerous enough for a healthy person. For your mother? It could be fatal. Hospital stays aren’t uncommon for cancer patients, and I’d feel a lot better signing off on her next go at chemo knowing she has a few days’ worth of fluids in her.”

“I can’t afford that.” It came out small, weak. I sounded ashamed and I hated that. Mama had always, always said there was no shame in being poor, only in behaving poorly, and here I was saying it like it was the most awful thing in the world. Because it was. It was the worst.

Mama also used to say money couldn’t buy happiness. Maybe she was right. But it could buy health, damn it, and that was enough for me.

I felt, rather than saw, that look of pity intensify. The cup in my hand had become too interesting to look away from.

“I know it will be hard—”

My head snapped up to glare at him. More faux understanding and put-on compassion. People were full of it.

“Impossible,” I corrected sharply. “It will be impossible.”

“It feels that way right now, I know.”

Now my hands were shaking for a different reason. Everyone acted like they knew, everyone pretended that they understood. No one did. How easy to have sympathy when you were the one delegating the solutions and not the one working on them.

“You don’t. You don’t know even a portion. And I wish everyone would stop saying they did.”

“Believe it or not, Ms. Young, you are not the first to come into my office with financial difficulties. That, much like the hospital visits, is common.” He let out a breath that sounded a little ragged and brought the thick file in his hand up to his chest as if it were a shield.

My eyes were immediately drawn to it. It was Mama’s and it was impossibly thick.

“Do you know why I got into this?”

Money
, I wanted to say, but didn’t.
The cancer business is good.

I shrugged instead.

“My father died from it before I was old enough to shave. He’d been a lawyer, a successful one. My sister and I hadn’t wanted for anything. When he died, we were all but homeless. Cancer, he’d said near the end, is the great equalizer. It doesn’t care who you are or what kind of salary you make. It doesn’t give one damn if you are a good person or a bad one. It’s the ultimate villain because it’s not capable of mercy. It only knows how to destroy and that’s exactly what it does. Destroys everything.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a hard-on for it.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Rather than look irritated, however, Dr. Shallaby chuckled.

“Not even a little. I hate it. I despise it. And I’ve made it my life’s mission to fight it. But to do that I need my patients, and their families, to fight too. I really do understand. I know exactly where you’re at. But we have to fight. And this is our only option at this point. Your mother needs to be admitted.”

“There’re always other options.”

“Pardon?”

I cleared my throat and met his eye. “There is always another option. Always. I want to know it before I bet on the one you’re proposing. You said you understand, gave me your
Chicken Soup for the Soul
story to back it up. If you truly understand then you know that I need to know every option available.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I don’t like most things.”

He looked up, as if asking the saints or maybe the ceiling for patience to deal with difficult daughters.

“You sign a waiver refusing further treatment and we let nature take its course.”

“Why on earth would I do that? That’s not an option at all! That’s condemning my mama to a death sentence.”

“Exactly.” He gave me a hard look. “Or I could take the decision out of your hands.” He suddenly plucked the cup of water out of my had, pulling it away when I tried to snatch it back. “I could sign a paper stating I refuse to treat her.” He held the cup up to emphasize the point. “Now you don’t have to make a choice between debt and your mother’s life. I’ve made it for you.”

“Don’t put it like that,” I bit out, reaching for the cup again. He let me take it. “Don’t make it sound like money is more important than her. That’s not it at all.”

“No?” He put his arms behind his back and stared evenly. “I told you there were no other options. You insisted there were. These are it.”

I stared at him for a minute, looking but not seeing, mentally adding up how many more hours I’d have to work, how many drinks I’d have serve, what was left to sell. This new expense would crush me. There were no two ways about it. I wouldn’t shatter. I’d explode. Violently.

“Make the call,” I finally said. “Get her a bed. I’ll have her there in the morning.”

* * *

Brandon called and left me a voice mail while I was at work, voice vibrating with excitement. I only just worked out the words
secret fight
and something about winning big. It was a possibility I hadn’t quite considered but after the news over the past few days, I started putting some serious thought into it. Brandon often said he didn’t believe in luck. He believed in winning so that was what he did.

What if I had him place a bet for me? A sure one. One I had no choice but to win. I’d never considered doing anything overtly illegal before, simply because I couldn’t risk the consequences, but times were desperate. Desperate enough that it was time to walk in some gray areas at the least, and pitch-black at the most. Nothing else was working, after all.

By the time my shift was over and the staff was going through cleanup, I’d made up my mind. I was going to have him put in a bet for me and I’d give him the money and tell him to double it. It wasn’t like he would tell me no, that gambling was morally wrong or that I was better than that. Not when that was how he made every dime of his money.

I was sitting in my car in front of Mama’s building a few hours later, dreading going in, dreading that breath between not being sure and being sure of her, when my phone finally rang. I’d barely gotten out a “Hello?” before Brandon was all but shouting in my ear, making me wince.

“Babe. Babe. You are not going to believe this shit. Fucking A. You seriously will not believe the amount of cash I have in my hand right now.” Even with his voice raised, I could only just make out what he was saying over the noise in the background. It sounded as if he was in the midst of a riot, though he sounded far too upbeat for that to be the case.

“Yeah?” I asked, flipping down my visor to look in the cracked mirror. The circles under my eyes were even darker somehow, well past the point of makeup being able to camouflage them. I wrinkled my nose and poked at one.

“Fuck, yeah. A thousand dollars. One motherfucking grand. And mine was a low payout. God, babe. This might just be the best thing to happen. A thousand bucks and I got a personal fucking invite to the fight next week. You know what that means?”

“You’ll go back?” I guessed.

“Hell yeah, I will. And our problems are over. I’ll make enough to squash them in one night.”

“Your problems, you mean.”

“What was that? Jesus, it’s fucking loud in here. Hey, you hungry? Want to meet at Gabe’s? I can afford to take you somewhere nicer but I don’t know. I’m kinda fond of that shithole. Had dinner with this hot blonde there once. You’d like her. She’s a stone-cold fox.”

I rolled my eyes but laughed. “I don’t know. She sounds like a bitch. But yeah. I’ll be there.” A pause. “Hey, uh, next fight. Could you maybe put down money for me? Or bring me so I can put some down on my own?”

It was still loud on his end but I could hear the frown in his voice when he answered.

“Why would I do that?”

My stomach dropped an inch, and a quick blistering spike of anger settled into that space. “Because some shit happened today and that would help a whole fucking lot.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said this solved our problems. As in, I was including yours in there too.”

“You don’t need to take care of my problems.”

“I know that.”

“So just take me next time. Then I can take care of them myself.”

“Nah. The crowd was nuts. You’re a tough girl, but you don’t need to deal with that shit.”

“Well, I want to. You don’t need to take care of me. That’s not what this is supposed to be about.”

“It’s not. And I want to. Just like I want you to meet me at Gabe’s.”

“Brandon—” I started, before he cut me off.

“Don’t start with some bullshit pride thing, okay? You’ve seen what I’ve got. I don’t need all of this. Wouldn’t even know what to do with it, really. So I’m gonna help. And let’s face it, it’s for selfish reasons anyway. The less time you spend worrying about shit you need to pay, the more time you have free to spend with me. So, get your hot ass up to Gabe’s because we’ve got some shit to celebrate with greasy-ass burgers and undercooked fries.”

I made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Fine, then. What’s the catch?”

“Sex. I want to have sex after. Maybe even on this pile of cash. Of course, we’ll have to ignore the fact that it’s probably been in some sweaty stripper’s ass at some point, but whatever. Then I want you to tell me what happened so I can finally help you solve it.” I could tell he was grinning again. “Damn that felt good to say. You hear that, babe? Your boy is gonna help you solve some shit.”

Something inside my chest warmed through at his words. Because even if there really was ulterior motive behind it, it was more, so much more, than anyone had ever done.

I
love you.

It was there on the tip of my tongue, sitting heavy on the self-inflicted scars that lined it. I wanted to say it, almost had said it, but I bit it back at the last possible second. Because love was dangerous. Love was a commitment and obligations and responsibilities. It wasn’t just a word, it was a promise. An open-ended one. I had two too many of those already.

So I settled for the next best thing. I gave him the words I longed to hear myself.

“I appreciate you.”

They’d sounded better in my head.

Brandon hesitated, as if he sensed what I hadn’t said below that and was weighing it out in his head. The dull roar of the probably-not riot filled his silence until finally, he laughed, low and full.

“You know, I think that’s what I like best about you.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re always my sadist girl. See you soon.”

I wondered if he could feel my smile like I could feel his.