Slow Twitch - Реинхардт Лиз (читать книги онлайн без сокращений TXT) 📗

I was pointed in the direction of a fairly beat-up black Jetta. A tall girl with reddish hair and eyes like Cadence’s was leaned against the driver’s door, talking on a cell phone. There was a boy, maybe fifteen, playing with the dials on the stereo, which was pulsing with some kind of rap. He had Tony’s coloring and looked about as tall as his dad, but a good two hundred pounds lighter, and Tony was no fat ass. And there was Cadence herself, counting a thick stack of what looked like twenties. Holy motherload.

I walked up to the car. Cadence looked at me, her eyes narrowed, and she turned to Pamela.

“Crack head’s here!” she called. Pamela slid her phone into her pocket and climbed in the driver’s seat.

“Get in!” Pamela leaned out the driver’s window and waved for me to get in.

I slid in the back seat, next to Cadence. She didn’t even look over at me.

“I thought you lived a few blocks away.” My voice sounded overloud in the ridiculously small car.

Pamela looked at me in the rearview mirror and smiled. It might have been the first real smile I’d seen all day, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make my heart jump a little. This job was turning me into a fucking pussy.

“We do. Live close. But it’s late, and I don’t get to drive much, so Dad humors me. How was your day?”

I was a little shocked by her friendliness. Cadence rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “Don’t engage the druggie,” she said to her sister. “He’s a lowlife.”

Pamela smiled at Cadence indulgently. “She’s mean, right? So, how was your day?”

“Okay,” I lied. “Dishwashing sucks.”

“Seriously.” The boy laughed and a full mouth of metal glinted. “I’m Jimmy.”

“Hey, man,” I said, and we shook hands. “Nice to meet you. You dishwash, too?”

He laughed like a donkey braying. “I’m a slave. I do whatever my mom tells me to.”

“Your mom?” Obviously there was a mom. I just hadn’t met her yet.

The car got quiet. Pamela looked at me. “Our dad, it seems like he runs the show. But our mother is the real muscle. Don’t mess with her. Do what she says. Always. I’m not kidding. And don’t ever backtalk her. Ever.” The car stayed ominously quiet.

“Um, okay.” Weird! “So she’s really scarier than your dad?” I asked.

“My dad is Mr. Fucking Rogers next to her,” Cadence quipped. “She had a day off today, so she’ll be in tomorrow. And she’ll be ready to meet you.”

That made every one of them laugh like a bunch of lunatic hyenas. I felt a little chill on the back of my neck. Good God, what the hell was I in for? Suddenly the car lurched to a stop in front of a narrow, dingy row-house type building, depressing and dilapidated.

“This is your place, Saxon.” Pamela tossed me another sugar-sweet smile, and, I’ll admit, I melted. “Do you need a ride in tomorrow?”

“Do you mind?”

“No problem. Be ready by four thirty. I’ll swing by.” One more time, that awesome smile. “Have a good night.”

I paused and smiled back at her. “Thanks, Pamela. You guys, too. Good night.” My manners may have been a little rusty, but I had them.

I took a long look at the house, and it was faintly familiar. My mom and Jake’s used to drag our asses here when we were just kids and they liked to party too long and hard for any normal babysitter’s hours. Aunt Helene was sweet and old and always had lots of cookies. Like a grandmother type, but a hell of a lot better. Well, a hell of a lot better if the only grandma-type you had to compare her to was Mama D. The place was definitely pretty run down since the last time I saw it, and that was saying something, since it was always a shithole.

I hadn’t seen Aunt Helene in years, and I wondered why she was putting me up. Money, probably. Everything in my family went back to money. I would bet she was getting some kind of addition to her stipend. Plus my ass was responsible to drive her around, so there was that. Well, maybe she still made fucking cookies. I wasn’t a total asshole. Even I liked cookies.

I walked up to the door quietly and let myself in. It wasn’t locked or anything. The kitchen was dirty yellow. The light fixture flickered and there was a note on the old avocado-colored fridge in chicken scratch.

Dear Saxon,

There is a plate for you in the stove.

Love, Aunt Helene

I felt a weird twinge when I read that note. I opened the stove, which was on warm, and saw a plate with meatloaf, carrots, and mashed potatoes. Jackpot.

It occurred to me then that I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, though I’d been at a restaurant. I figured I was probably entitled to things like meals and breaks, but that was all something I could figure out another day. I took the plate to a small table covered in a dingy plastic tablecloth that looked like it was for Christmas or something. I opened the fridge and found a twelve pack of Dr. Pepper, unopened. I wondered if Aunt Helene had picked it up because I was coming. It was a weird thought, and one I didn’t dwell on for too long. I grabbed a soda and sat down in the flickering light to eat. When I was done, I put the plate in the sink, but that felt kind of dick, so I washed it and my fork and left them on the counter. Aunt Helene had been cool enough to leave me dinner; I wasn’t going to make her clean up after me.

I walked down the hall and saw Aunt Helene’s room. She was snuggled in her bed like a wrinkly little doll. There was a tiny bathroom next to her room, where I noticed she had put my toothbrush out, and then what I guessed was my room. It was dark and small, but the old twin bed was made with scratchy cotton/poly sheets in boy blue. It’s not like I had tohave silk sheets or anything. It’s just that I’d always hadsilk sheets. And they were damn comfortable.

I sat on the creaky little bed, then looked around the room. Weird. There was a tall dresser. When I opened the drawers, I saw that all of my clothes had been put away. There really wasn’t much besides the bed and the dresser, one little window with aluminum blinds over it, and a mirror on the tiny closet door. A shithole, but a clean, neat shithole. It could be a lot worse.

I should have been dead on my feet, but for some reason, I felt buzzed. I wanted to talk to someone, but it was almost two in the morning. Like it made a fucking difference. If it had been six at night I still would have had no one to talk to.

Then, suddenly, I remembered Brenna Blixen. Lovely, smart Blix across the Atlantic and a good five hours ahead of me. That put her right around seven in the morning, and I knew she would be up. I punched in her number. She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?” I could hear her breathing hard.

“Run, Forrest, run.”

“Saxon!”

I felt a good, calm glow at her excitement. In a world of haters, here was one person who loved me, even if she knew what a rotten apple I was.

“How’s Ireland? Let me guess. Green and wet?”

She laughed, a happy sound that made me smile. She had a great laugh. “You got it. And I’ll tell you what. I know why Ireland doesn’t have any kick ass runners. Who could run on slimy, mossy cobblestone? I almost busted my ass three times.”

“Don’t do that.” I lay back on my bed and let the image of her lovely backside take away some of the day’s pain. “That ass is too fine to get busted. How’s your nerd class going?”

“Lots of Joyce,” she griped. “But I’m writing my bildungsroman.”

“Really?” I drawled, grinning. “You’re not even seventeen. Don’t you think you have a few more formative years ahead of you?”

She laughed again. “Seriously. But that’s the assignment, so I have to give it a try,” she said. “So how’s work? God, that’s a question I never imagined I’d be asking you.”

Now I laughed. “Well, it’s shitty. The people all know my drug-dealing past, so I’m referred to as ‘Crackhead,’ officially. My bosses are Scary and Crazy Bitch Scarier, apparently, and their daughter is hot, but probably wants to stick a kitchen knife through my heart.”