Driven, page 4
“I promise it’s not contagious,” Oliver couldn’t help but say. He heard the manager try to hide a chuckle with a cough. Gina’s body language screamed “not amused.” She counted out his change and dropped it on the counter, pushing it in his direction rather than handing it to him. Oliver rolled his eyes and shook his head, swept the cold change into his hand, and deposited it into his denim pocket before gathering up all his bags.
“Have a lovely day, hot stuff,” he told Gina with a wink and a little wave before hurrying out to the sounds of her whiny complaining to Mr. Wooly.
Chapter Seven
BY THE time he had gotten down two long blocks, the bags were all in danger of puking their guts out onto the unforgiving cream concrete slabs he walked on. Arms like lead and fingers throbbing, Oliver decided he needed to take a break if he expected to be able to get back to the twins’ house with their food intact and not as a tossed salad of unappetizing contents.
Feet dragging, he made his way to a bench and sank with a sigh onto its worn and splintered surface. Hunched over, he allowed the plastic handles to slide off his fingers. It was a jerky journey, like water tripping over rocks in a shallow babbling brook. As the sea of white puddled at his feet, he flexed his swollen red fingers, urging the circulation back into his precious digits.
He slung his arms over the back of the bench and, with eyes closed, tipped his head toward the sky. The warm rays toasted his skin and renewed his energy. With big gulps, Oliver sucked in the fresh air until he felt ready to move on after the short break. Before he could gather himself, a shadow fell over his face, cutting off the rejuvenating heat and causing a chill to run through his body. His eyes flashed open and dread filled his gut, rising swiftly, almost choking him.
“Hey, Princess, long time no see,” the towering being said, gravelly voice instilling fear. Even though the sun silhouetted the man’s features, leaving his face undistinguishable, Oliver knew without a shadow of a doubt whom the voice belonged to.
“Hey, Marcus,” he mumbled back, knowing staying silent wouldn’t make his unwanted company leave.
The man called Marcus kicked the crinkly bags at Oliver’s feet. “Looks like you’re doing well for yourself. That’s a whole lot of food for a skinny bitch like you. Got a new sugar daddy?”
Oliver hung his head, trying not to let the memories of not so distant indiscretions come flooding back. “Nah… nothing like that. Just running an errand for some folks in exchange for a hot meal. No biggie.”
Marcus tsked while bending over to rummage through the bags. The close proximity allowed Oliver an unfettered look at the intricate web of scars running across the large man’s dark bald head and down his face. Marcus might have been good-looking at some point but, after encounters with gangbangers and jealous spouses, his face was pocked and marred, so menacing that no sane person would think about crossing him. He was the kind of man that made women pull their kids to the other side of the street regardless of traffic. He made men careful to look at their feet and not make eye contact as they passed; twisting their bodies to make sure they wouldn’t accidentally brush up against him.
“Looks like it’s going to be a pretty epic meal,” Marcus finally said after straightening back to his full height.
Oliver shrugged. “I guess….”
“Shame you can’t eat like that on a regular basis, huh?”
Oliver gave a weak chuckle. “It would ruin my girlish figure.”
Marcus looked him up and down, lust flaring in his eyes. “I dunno, boy, you could stand to gain a little more junk in the trunk. Imagine the money you could make with that perfect ass. Just say the word and I could make that happen for ya.”
As he tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, Oliver’s brain reeled to think of a comeback that wouldn’t get him backhanded or dragged into an alley to be used and abused. Thankfully, he heard his name being called before he could come up with something appropriate. Swinging toward the sound, Oliver saw a familiar figure headed toward them. Relief was quick to wash over him.
“Ollie, good to see you.” The uniformed man clapped a strong hand on Oliver’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly.
“Hey,” Oliver replied, trying not to show the reprieve he felt at the new character’s arrival.
“Who’s your friend?” the officer asked, nodding his chin toward Marcus.
Oliver glanced between the two men, both tall and broad with battle scars, some of them from different sides of the same war. He wondered if they actually knew each other.
“Don’t know,” Oliver mumbled. “Just some guy asking for directions.” If the officer knew he was lying, he didn’t let it show, for which Oliver was grateful.
The other man looked up at Marcus, his face blank of emotion. “Is that so? Well, I’m sure I can assist you. Where are you looking to go?”
“Nowhere important, ya Oreo,” Marcus said with a sneer. Oliver cringed at the slur. The officer just raised an eyebrow, rather than rising to the bait.
“Suit yourself,” he said, “but I have need of Ollie here so if you wouldn’t mind moving along….” The look he gave Marcus left little room for argument. Marcus stood his ground for mere moments before he spat on the ground and stalked off in the opposite direction. The officer rounded the bags surrounding Oliver’s feet before taking a seat on the bench next to him.
When Oliver got in trouble a few years ago, Officer Richards was one of his arresting officers. He took it upon himself to keep an eye on Oliver both while he was incarcerated and after he got out. Richards wasn’t really a parole officer, he was more of a beat cop, but he had Oliver check in every week, therefore Oliver often referred to him as his PO.
Richards lifted his chin toward the gathering. “What’s all this?”
Oliver rolled his shoulders and tipped his head side to side, trying to release the tension that had built up from the previous encounter.
“Just running an errand for some old ladies,” he said.
“I see. That’s nice of you. I can put you down for some volunteer work if you’re interested.”
Oliver shrugged, not wanting to make more commitments. He wasn’t against helping others, but he had just signed on for two months’ worth of who knows what. He didn’t need any more dumped on his plate at the moment.
“And what’s with the welt on your head? Get into a brawl?”
Oliver’s hand reached up and grazed the lump on his forehead. He had honestly forgotten about it.
“I got hit by a door… accidentally. No big deal.”
Richards looked like he wanted to comment on it further, but a sudden burst of static that made Oliver jump had him changing his mind. The officer looked a bit sheepish before grabbing at the speaker clipped at his shoulder. Before he could push the button, there was more static and a disembodied voice.
“Richards, you by Fifth?”
Officer Richard’s face grew serious as he brought the speaker to his mouth to respond. “Not far. What’s up?”
“Possible robbery in progress at the convenience store. Sending units over to back you up.”
“On my way.” He stood, his shadow casting a similar shade over Oliver, but it didn’t feel cold and ominous like the one Marcus had projected earlier. “Duty calls. Don’t forget to call in on Friday. We’ll catch up.” Oliver nodded, swallowing hard as the man turned to leave.
“Hey, Richards,” he called. The older man looked over his shoulder at Oliver. “Be careful.”
Richards gave half a smile. “I always am,” he responded before jogging off toward Fifth Avenue.
Oliver was quick to gather the bags strewn at his feet. He needed to get up and out of there before Marcus came back, otherwise Richards’s next call might be for an assault and battery or a homicide. Oliver may not have had much to live for anymore, but he wasn’t ready to call it quits quite yet.
Chapter Eight
OLIVER ROUNDED the corner, cursing the old twins under his breath for needing so many damn groceries. They looked like frail birds; couldn’t they eat like them too? His arms felt leaden, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to hold a paintbrush again. Sweat ran down his brow, stinging his eyes. The house was in view, but it seemed to get farther away with every heavy step Oliver took. He contemplated putting half the bags down and making two trips. It was close enough that he could keep an eye on the waiting parcels while depositing the rest inside the yard. The idea seemed better and better as the moments ticked by and his fingers throbbed painfully.
As he bent down to deposit a handful of bags to their temporary resting place, he heard a loud clanging, followed by an equally loud curse. Swinging his head, he saw Simon standing by a beat-up, rusted old car—a Mustang?—nursing a finger in his mouth. Oliver was temporarily mesmerized by the sight, but when he saw the other boy look his way, he was quick to turn away and straighten up. Couldn’t have the neighbor see him being weak. He’d struggle to get the bags to the house if it was the last thing he did. He tried to hurry up the walk, but his fingers had gone numb, and the bags were starting to slip. Moments later the first bag took a not-so-graceful trip to the ground.
“Shit,” he muttered, hoping it wasn’t the one with the eggs inside. Bending at the waist he tried to retrieve it, but his fingers just didn’t want to work in the way they were supposed to.
“Need a hand?”
The voice was very close to his ear, and Oliver jumped, causing more bags to fly from his unstable grip. So intent on picking up the bag, Oliver had forgotten about the greasy neighbor.
“Goddammit!” he exclaimed, his heart beating like a scared rabbit. The resounding laughter behind him did nothing but boil his blood. He spun around, losing even more bags in the process, and glared at the object of his anger.
Oliver’s rage must have been written all over his face because Simon put his hands up in surrender, as he took a small step back.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Simon said, slowly dropping the hands. “Just looked as if you were struggling.”
“Like you care,” Oliver muttered before turning to look at the bags strewn across the sidewalk and on the edge of Simon’s lawn.
“I suppose I might feel just a tad bit guilty for clocking you in the head earlier,” Simon admitted, bending down to collect a couple of the bags.
“I bet,” Oliver said, rolling his eyes even though he knew Simon couldn’t see his actions.
The other boy stood tall, the majority of the shopping bags dangling from his hands. They rustled as Simon shrugged his broad shoulders. “Think what you want. I don’t feel bad for calling you out on what you are, but the door thing was an accident.”
Oliver didn’t react to Simon’s words. His gaze was fixed on the other boy’s hand. Simon’s head dropped, presumably to see what Oliver was staring at.
“You’re bleeding,” Oliver commented, a slight waver in his voice.
“So I am,” Simon responded. Thick red blood oozed out from under his fingernail, which looked to be hanging on by a thread.
Oliver felt himself sway slightly. No, no, no. He couldn’t faint. Not in front of this guy. Not in front of anyone. A distant thud reached his ears just before a strong, blood-free hand grabbed him.
“Are you okay? You’re whiter than a sheet of loose leaf.”
Oliver was surprised to find Simon’s face full of what seemed to be sincere concern. He wanted to tell the other boy to remove his hand, but Oliver wasn’t sure he’d stay upright without the tenacious grip to ground him.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Oliver finally managed to get out. Simon looked unconvinced, but removed his hand. His dark head ducked down as he picked up the bags he had dropped when he came to Oliver’s aid. Oliver watched the sun bounce off the tousled locks, feeling the residual heat from Simon’s hand diminish. He wasn’t sure why, but it left him feeling a little emptier inside. Another reminder of how alone he was.
With the bloody finger out of sight, Oliver’s head stopped swimming, and he was quick to grab the rest of the groceries. Empty hand outstretched, he motioned for Simon to hand over his stash of white plastic bags, but the neighbor shook those locks from side to side.
“I’ve got these. I’ll walk ’em up for you,” Simon said, stepping around Oliver to head for the twins’ home.
Oliver sped up to get in front of the other boy. “I can get them, really. No need to trouble yourself. Go… uh, wash that hand or something.” He stuck his empty hand out again, reaching for the bags Simon was holding.
Simon dodged Oliver’s hand, doing some kind of fancy footwork to evade him all together and continue on the path to their destination. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Oliver a genuine smile.
“You coming, or what?”
Oliver took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He didn’t get the guy’s 180 personality change, but the fact remained that Oliver needed to get to the house and deliver the groceries. Secretly, he was thankful for the respite his fingers got from Simon carrying half the load, but he sure as hell wouldn’t tell that to the grease monkey.
Oliver would like to say “Owe no one” was his motto, but between the little old ladies taking him in, Richards saving his ass from Marcus earlier, and having Simon help him with the bags, it really didn’t fit at the moment. It probably should have been “Take no prisoners” from the start, but his hidden gentle nature would never allow him to be out and out cruel, not even to those who truly deserved it. Often, it sucked being the “good guy,” but even with his prison background and the rough life after, his upbringing was too ingrained in him to be anything but intrinsically good. He could play at being otherwise, but only to an extent, and he suspected anyone with a keen enough eye could see right through the act.
He stopped a moment, wondering if Simon’s eyes were quite that keen. Perhaps that was the reason for the change in demeanor. Oliver would have to up his game. When he got sent away to prison, he promised himself he wouldn’t get too close to anyone ever again. Connections led to disconnects—painful, gut-wrenching, heartbreaking separations—and Oliver knew he couldn’t survive any more of those. The human heart could only take so much before it was broken for good, and his was already held together with sloppy stitches of gossamer strands. It was only a matter of time before the thread snapped and the pieces crumbled, but that couldn’t happen until Oliver had paid his dues in full, and he was working with below minimum wages. He should be upping the suffering instead of accepting the help.
Simon had stopped and was looking over his shoulder again at the motionless Oliver. There were questions in his eyes but still a smile on his face. With a dip of the chin, he beckoned Oliver to join him.
Take no prisoners, indeed.
Chapter Nine
HE BREEZED by Simon, not bothering to return the smile. Timing his steps, he was able to get in the gate and have it shut just as the neighbor approached hands full. Oliver thought he heard a curse slip through those lips. He was pretty sure they weren’t turned up in a smile anymore either. Good. That was the way it had to be. The way it would be better… for them all.
Clomping up the steps, Oliver put his free hand on the knob, ready to bust in and announce his arrival, but he stood frozen, internally waging war with himself. Was he the “bad” boy, serving to maintain distance between himself and those who were trying to help; or would he use the manners instilled in him by his father, the man he assumed was looking down and judging his every move? Raising his hand to knock, he felt a presence at his back; Simon had caught up. Oliver bit his lip and damned poor timing before rapping sharply on the wood door.
“Thanks for holding the gate,” Simon said, so close the words warmed the back of Oliver’s neck.
“You seemed so capable that I figured it wouldn’t be a problem for you to open it,” Oliver quipped, not bothering to turn around.
“That’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Simon said, bumping his shoulder into Oliver’s.
Oliver said nothing, his inner monolog chanting for one of the women to hurry it up and open the door. There was a rustling behind him and a warm arm snaked through the space left between his waist and elbow. Oliver stiffened, thinking Simon was going to wrap that arm around his stomach and give him a hug. The tension increased as he felt Simon’s body come into full contact with his back. What the hell was going on? It was a long-missed sensation, and Oliver’s body wanted to give in, to lean back into the impending embrace, regardless of the possible outcome. His brain knew better than to make a move. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to ask Simon just what the fuck he thought he was doing, when he noticed the neighbor’s hand on the knob, turning and pushing in to open the door for them.
Oliver deflated, mentally kicking himself for thinking the guy had anything other than pure intentions. This was the same guy who wanted to call the cops on him, Oliver reminded himself. Rather than make any verbal response to Simon’s action, Oliver simply stepped forward, causing the other boy’s arm to graze his hip as it slid back.
“You’re welcome,” Simon said, his voice oddly husky.
“Yeah, thanks,” Oliver relented, not daring to turn to face the other boy. He continued into the kitchen, not bothering to see if Simon was following. He found the twins sitting at a small bistro-style table, sipping tea and eating cookies.
“’Bout time,” Tude said when she looked up and spied Oliver and his bags. Her sister laid a hand on her arm.
“Don’t mind her, dear. She’s always waiting for her next meal. I joke with her that I never needed a dog with her around, begging to be fed,” Vera said to Oliver, a twinkle in her eye. Tude just glared at her sister.
