What? I squint at him and the fucking paper. “What’s that?”
“That’s your eviction notice. I posted a copy on your door two weeks ago. You still owe me half of last month’s rent, and this month’s, too. Unless of course you have the money.”
I don’t. Of course I don’t. And I can’t remember a damn notice.
What the fuck.
“Can’t move out today,” I breathe, hissing when I sit up. “You have to give me more time.”
“I’m afraid your time is up, Mr. Tucker. I have a couple who are ready to move in and gave me a deposit.”
“Damn you.” My thoughts are scattered. I do my best to make sense of it. “This is illegal.”
“And what? You’ll take me to court? Think you’ll win this?” He straightens his shirt, squares his narrow shoulders. “Think I didn’t hear what your friend here said? You got a rap sheet.”
Fucking hell.
“If you don’t get out within the hour, so help me God,” he towers over me where I’m sitting on his floor trying hard not to puke from the pain, “I’ll call your employer and let them know you’ve living here illegally, without paying your rent. That tattoo parlor, isn’t it? Damage Control, downtown.”
Jesus Christ. “Don’t. Okay? Don’t.”
“You need to move out the—”
“I’ll leave. I’m leaving.” I brace my good arm on the coffee table and drag myself up. “Christ.”
My brain’s smothered in fog, but I know Zane and Rafe can’t find out about this. They can’t. A vague idea stirs at the back of my mind, saying it doesn’t matter anymore whether they know or not, but that’s bullshit. Has to be. I can’t take the risk.
Lost too much. Can’t afford this.
I’m supposed to pack, right? Only I can’t. My arm is hanging uselessly at my side, my shoulder on fire. Sweat trickles down my face, stinging my eyes.
Not like I own much. Some clothes. Some shoes. Never really settled down, never put photos or my drawings on the walls. Never really believed it.
And where would I go? Shane hates my guts right now. Manon, too. The guys think I’m a drug dealer in disguise.
A chuckle comes unbidden, dark and bitter, and I clutch at my arm as another wave of blinding pain hits.
Fuck.
I stumble into my bedroom, grab an extra sweater and a rolled-up quilt I have for winter. It’s in a bag, and I sling it over my good shoulder.
More sweat runs down my temples as I carry my things to the living room one-handed, letting my bad arm hang limp and vibrating with pain.
The crumpled up photo of my mom with her sister, myself and Shane is on the table. I reach for it, tuck it into my pocket.
Where I’m going, I won’t need more. Wish I’d kept my sleeping bag. Didn’t think I’d be returning to hell so soon.
My mom always said that’s where I belonged, where I’d end up. On the street. Guess she was right.
***
The day is gray and cold. Wind is whistling, slicing through my jacket. I wrap my scarf around my neck and weave on my feet, because, fuck, the pain. I was warned repeated shoulder dislocation would be a problem after the first time, and this is the third. It’s nothing life-threatening. But somehow it feels worse than the other times.
Somehow everything feels worse. Like having a home and losing it. Having a job, a family, and losing them. Having… God, almost having Manon and losing her, too. I guess I never realized that this was the one thing that would break me: finally getting what I wanted and watching it go up in smoke.
Dammit.
I always assumed I’d shack up with Shane if things went south. Not that I’d be going back where I started, and this time alone.