He nodded and jerked his chin at my food. “You done?”
“Almost.”
I took my time finishing my pizza, my stomach feeling stretched from food and sloshy with soda. When I was done, Ronan threw our empty plates in the trash and gestured to my bag. “Get your stuff. Let’s go.”
“Where to next?” I asked, shuffling after him. “There’s a Ben & Jerry’s up the road if you’re springing for dessert before my beat down.”
“You’re not getting a beat down, Dowd,” he intoned.
“Then what the fuck do you want with me?”
He stopped at the curb where a black pick-up truck with the same Wentz & Morales logo was parked. The flatbed was filled with buckets of paint, stacks of wood, and a bunch of tools.
“You going to put me to work?” I snorted. “Make me dig my own grave?”
Ronan opened the passenger side door. “We’ll see.”
I had nothing better to do than see where the hell this was all going, so I climbed in.
“Goodbye, cruel world,” I snickered, waving at the streets I called home.
Ronan drove us to an apartment complex. The sign in front of the newly paved parking lot read Cliffside. My stomach clenched. The complex had had a makeover since I’d seen it last—it looked new and pretty decent, but I recognized the place where Dad had driven Grimaldi and me to wail on Wentz for spray-painting Mikey’s car.
“Look, man, I told you,” I said. “I confessed. I apologized to Shiloh. I did my time…”
“Relax,” Ronan said, putting the truck in park. “I want to show you something.”
I must be crazy, I thought as I grabbed my bag of shit and followed Ronan to the complex. We took a set of stairs up to the second floor. The building had new cement, fresh paint on the doors. The corner unit was marked OFFICE.
Ronan unlocked the door from a set of keys and went inside. I followed more slowly. The place was small but clean, and the sink and appliances and shit looked new. The furniture too. Simple but nice.
Ronan jerked his chin past the living area that had a TV and everything. “Bedroom and bathroom down there.”
I frowned and checked it out. The bedroom was furnished, and the bathroom had shampoo and soap and all that. Not like anyone lived here but all new.
A strange feeling tightened my chest, making my eyes water. My heart started to pound. I came back out. Ronan was leaning against the small counter, arms crossed, his face blank.
“What is all this?” I demanded, hearing the whine in my voice—the tone that pissed my dad off so many times. “First food and then…this place. What are you playing at, Wentz?”
“I need a manager,” he said. “It’s an easy job. Mostly collecting rent. Fielding any requests for repairs and passing them to me. Keeping the laundry room maintained. Helping me handle tenants moving in or out, that kind of thing.”
My throat had gone dry and the pizza and soda threatened to come back up. “You can do all that yourself.”
“I can,” he said. “But it’s better to have someone on site to stay on top of things. The pay isn’t much but rent and utilities are included.”
I stared. “Don’t fuck with me, Wentz,” I said, my voice trembling. “What are you saying? Are you…giving me a job?”
“And a place to live.” He leveled a finger at me. “But I have to protect these people, Dowd. I swear to fucking God, if you put them in jeopardy for any reason… One whiff of trouble, and you’re out.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said quickly, my pulse crashing in my chest. “I never would. But, Ronan… Why?”
His flat gray eyes lost their hard glint. “Because I know what it’s like to have a dad who takes a sledgehammer to your entire life, smashing it to fucking pieces until there’s nothing left.” His gaze hardened again. “This is it, Frankie. This is your one shot, take it or leave it.”
I looked around the a
partment. Four walls and a ceiling. All mine, with no raging monster on the couch you had to sneak around, careful not to breathe too loud so he wouldn’t get pissed and take a swing…
I blinked and swallowed hard. “I’ll take it.”