Only Trick

Truthfully, Nana wouldn’t blame me. If she knew she’d probably hire her own hit man to beat the shit out of him. Maybe she’d do it herself. It’s possible she has a black belt in some martial art that I don’t know about. Nana’s not privy to any of the four incidents between me and my father. I managed to avoid her after the first two until the evidence was gone from my face, and the third I blamed on falling down the stairs. I cringed after saying those words to her. It’s confusing; I was eighteen when he first hit me so none of it was ever “child abuse.” What was I supposed to do? Have my father arrested for assault because I have a knack for pushing his buttons?

“Does your Nana hate me?” Trick asks as we head to town for … everything.

“Hate you? Why would you ask that?” I glance over at him.

“For stealing you away.”

“I’m sure she’s going to miss me as I will her, but her dream has always been for me to live outside of the box, take chances, do something unexpected. Basically send my father to his early grave.”

Trick stiffens with my last words.

I clear my throat. “And speaking of sending him to an early grave. I have to know … I mean, I didn’t want to at first, but now I do. The gun, the violence, the security cameras you must have disabled … where did you learn all of that?”

“You really want to know?” He glances sideways with peaked brows.

“Yes, well no … I think I need to know. Don’t you?”

He shrugs.

“Were you a hit man?”

Trick laughs. “No.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No … well, I hope not.”

Yeah, that wasn’t a fair question.

“Have you ever shot someone?”

“Yes, but it was self-defense. I just kneecapped him.”

My eyes grow wide. “But were you trying to kill him?”

His head jerks back. “No. I was trying to kneecap him. If I would have been trying to kill him, he’d be dead.”

“So you’re a good shot?” I think I know this from the words that were shared the night I was assaulted outside Trick’s place, but I want to hear it from him.

“Yes.” He sighs like he’s not proud of it. “I joined a gang when I was twelve. The kids were older and taught me a lot. We’d target shoot under the train tracks and in old abandoned buildings. From the moment they put a gun in my hand I could hit any target. I don’t know … I’m gifted in the eye-hand coordination department or something. I think that’s why I can sketch with such accuracy.”

That’s a reality check. While I was in girl scouts learning to tie a fisherman’s knot, Trick was shooting guns with his gang members.

“And the fighting?”

“Survival. It wasn’t really instinctive at first. I got the crap beat out of me on numerous occasions until something inside of me snapped. Then it ended. Never again was I the kid on the bottom getting his face smashed into the ground.”

I did take a self-defense class my freshman year of college, but I was screwing the instructor so I’m not sure I learned much more than he likes it doggie-style every time.

Might keep that bit of information to myself.

“Why a gang? I get the desire to fit in. Lord knows I had it in spades, but weren’t you worried about getting into a situation that could land you in jail or worse?”

Trick pulls into a shopping area. “For me it was safer to belong to a gang than not. Jail wasn’t a concern. At the time it would have meant a bed and three warm meals a day. I’m not saying I never broke the law. Sometimes we stole things to survive, but I didn’t do anything that would have meant years in prison. The guy I kneecapped was trying to steal my parents’ stuff, which wasn’t much, and he had a gun too.” He shuts the car off and looks at me.

I pull my hair back into a ponytail. “I get it. My senior year of high school Tammy Sievers stole my purse from the locker room. I could never prove it, but the bitch did it so I keyed her car … both sides.”

The lip twitches as humor dances in his eyes. “You were a real badass.”

I grab my purse and open the door. “Damn right I was. Now come.”

*

We’ve landed ourselves in an art lover’s oasis. Trick lights up every time we pass an art gallery or a shop with local handcrafted goods. Job? What job? Chicago? Where’s that? This sleepy town nestled amongst desert, mountains, and ocean makes Chicago seem like a social migraine. I hear no sirens or honking horns and the people here move at a snail’s pace, because really … what’s the hurry?