Bad Habit (Bad Love 1)

Inhaling deeply through my nose, I pace the living room.

“I don’t need forgiveness. I just needed you to know.”

“I gotta get out of here,” I say, already walking toward the door. My dad gives a resigned sigh, and I pause, one hand on the door, looking back at him.

“I, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I thought about going back to Dash and Briar’s, but I needed to clear my head. Instead, I found myself at a local hole-in-the wall bar. I had exactly three shots of cheap whiskey before a woman approached me. She was pretty, in that white trash, damaged sort of way. You could say she was the female version of me. And from the way her tongue flicked over her straw, I knew I could’ve had her in the bathroom. In my car. Right there on the bar, if I really wanted it. I looked her up and down, debating, but Briar’s face was all I could see, and we made a deal, after all. I couldn’t fucking pull the trigger, even if I wanted to. Even without the deal. Which, in turn, pissed me off even more. I slapped a twenty onto the counter and walked out without a word.

I’ve been driving around for the past two hours now, as “The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot” by Brand New blares from my speakers. I light up a cigarette, relishing in the comfort and the slight buzz as the nicotine is absorbed in my bloodstream. I quit smoking in River’s Edge—except for the occasional cigarette if I’m having a few beers—but I’ve been craving them more since I’ve been back.

I’m heading toward The Tracks, but at the last second, I cut across four lanes of traffic to take a different exit. The one that leads back to my old house. Something doesn’t feel right. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t eaten, and the whiskey is hitting me harder than usual, so I decide not to make the drive out there tonight.

When I pull up to the driveway, I know something is off immediately. There’s a car that I don’t recognize, and once I’m out of my truck, I hear yelling from inside the house. I run toward the sound to find the front door cracked open. Walking as quietly as I can, I nudge it open and step inside.

Whatever I thought I’d be walking into, this wasn’t it. David, my uncle, has John against the wall with his hand around his throat.

“Not so tough now, are ya?” David spits. “Tell me where the boy is, for the last time.”

“I told you,” John wheezes, trying to loosen the hold on his neck. “He doesn’t want nothin’ to do with me. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“That’s bullshit, and we both know it. Tell. Me.”

“Fuck you,” my dad says before spitting at him.

Before I can get to them, David’s face contorts with rage, and his elbow cocks back before nailing John square in the face. He hits him one, two, three more times as I charge in their direction, both oblivious to my presence.

Coming up behind David, I sucker punch him to the side of the head, and he goes down like a ton of fucking bricks. I jump on him, raining blow after blow to his face, head, stomach, anywhere I can.

Three years and fifty pounds later, I can finally hold my own against him. I’m not the malnourished kid I once was.

“I gotta say, I didn’t see this coming,” David says. “It’s touching, really.” He laughs, and I hit him again, but he doesn’t seem fazed. A sound from my left distracts me, and I look over to see my dad struggling to get to his feet. David jumps on the opportunity, striking my jaw with his fist. Flipping me onto my back and straddling me, he gets the upper hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see John pull himself up, using the arm of the recliner as leverage. I take another hit to the eye, then the mouth, before I hear the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking.

David freezes with his fist mid-air, and I give him a deranged smile through bloodstained teeth. I shove him backward with both of my palms, and then I stand above him.

“How does it feel?” I ask, my voice calm and steady. “How does it feel to be on the receiving end?” I give a swift kick to his ribs, and he clutches his side, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh.

“I want my money,” he wheezes.

I laugh, shaking my head. “How about a bullet instead?”

“Just give me the fucking money, and I’ll leave,” David says, not making any attempt to get up.

“If I wasn’t sick, I’d beat you to a bloody pulp for touching my kid,” John says, his gun still trained on David.

It’s David’s turn to chuckle. “That’s fucking rich coming from you.”

“How about this?” I interrupt before David gets himself shot. By the look in my dad’s eyes, I know it’s not out of the question. “You get the fuck out. Forget the money, and I’ll forget the fact that I know all about your extracurricular activities.” His mouth drops open in shock. “Yeah, you didn’t think this through, did you?” I squat, not-too-gently stubbing two fingers against his forehead. “How many warrants do you have out for your arrest, anyway? You thought just because I didn’t speak that I wasn’t listening? I know details, David. Names. Locations. And if you come back here again, I’ll sing like a goddamn canary.”

My dad looks between us, thoroughly confused, but he doesn’t let his guard down. He jerks the gun in the direction of the door, and David scrambles to his feet.

“This isn’t over,” he warns, and then he’s gone.

“I guess there’s a lot you haven’t told me,” my dad says, tiredly collapsing back into his recliner, like it’s just another Tuesday night.

“Your brother likes to steal cars and sell them for parts. Among other things.”

I even did it with him for a while. I was pissed off at the world, and the money was too tempting to pass up. Except I never saw a fucking dime. He kept me indebted to him by buying me nice cars, phones, shoes, whatever. It was nice not to have to worry about where my next meal came from for once, but I wanted my cut, and I told him that. He made excuses at first. It was always something. But still, I did his bidding. I was the youngest and the fastest. He could tell I was pulling away, and he started to lose it.