Crow’s Row

  “It’s not mine, it’s my sister’s. She made it—all by herself,” he huffed at the couple.

  Maria didn’t catch him … not that day.

  When Bill died, my whole life fell apart in a flash. It was like my crutches had suddenly been ripped from me and I had to run a marathon, without first having even learned how to walk on my own. Thanks to my big brother, who I loved more than anyone, I had no idea how to do anything for myself. Nothing could fill the overwhelming space that my overbearing brother had left in my life, and just the thought of letting anyone else do anything for me was, to me, an out-and-out betrayal to Bill.

  My crutch-less legs eventually grew muscle mass, and I figured out how to take care of myself. But I never did figure out how to build my own sand castle.

  While my feet dangled in the crystal water of the pool, I wondered, as I often did, what my life would have been like if Bill hadn’t died. Would I have left my parents, their money, their big plans, and moved to Callister?

  Would I have found myself in this armed-guard mansion that was owned by a tattooed, bullet-holed, twenty-something boy who made me feel … different?

  Only over Bill’s dead body could this have happened. Of this, I was positive.

  I did eventually get up and walk back into the house. Cameron had long since disappeared around the corner.

  In the kitchen, Rocco was making himself some lunch: baloney and a puddle of mustard slapped between two pieces of white bread, ten times over, stacked on a plate. He was bantering with a guy who was sitting at the table.

  I kept my head down and pulled a can of pop out of one of the fridges. The carbon bubbles exploding in my throat made my eyes water. When I looked up, I saw bright blue eyes—and a shot of carrot orange hair spiked into a short cropped Mohawk—eagerly waiting for me. He was built like a linebacker and had a sleeve of tattoos and a metal rod pierced through his lower lip.

  He slid out the solid wood chair that was next to him. “Why don’t you come sit by me for a bit so that I can take a better look at you?” He was English; the thick accent gave him away. I glanced at Rocco, but he was too preoccupied with choking down bear-sized bites to be of any assistance.

  I held my pop can in both hands, sat down, and leaned my elbows on the table. The guy’s tree-trunk arm was around my shoulder as soon as my bum hit the seat—I only flinched a little bit. For the most part, it was, oddly … nice—he was extremely warm, and I was always cold.

  What I was uncomfortable with, however, was his eyeing me inches away from my face. Nobody should ever be scrutinized from such close proximity.

  “Well!” he finally boomed with satisfaction, “You are a real ginger! Just like me.” He tapped his speared red hair and turned to Rocco. “This was meant to be. Letting this one in was the best mistake you ever made, Kid.”

  Rocco had amazingly already hit the bottom of his sandwich stack.

  “I didn’t make any mistakes,” he countered with a mouthful. “Emily’s just really sneaky.”

  I was thinking of interjecting Rocco’s subjective account, but was beaten to the punch by my human blanket.

  “Aye,” he agreed with Rocco and winked at me. “You definitely have to watch us gingers. We’ll get you every time.”

  Rocco grumbled and strolled back to the kitchen.

  “Emily,” the human blanket rolled off his tongue. “That’s your name?”

  I smiled dimly.

  He extended his free hand across and shook mine. “I’m Griff.”

  After a good squeeze, he took his hand back and glimpsed at his watch. “Geez! I gotta get back to work.”

  He pushed away from the table; everything on the main floor shook with him. He walked around me, placed his large hand on the back of my chair, and extended the other to me. “Come keep me company?”

  Rocco had brought back a new loaf of bread, a butter knife, and an unopened jar of peanut butter … dessert. I took Griff’s hand while he pulled my chair out. He was beaming.

  When we got to the front door, Griff shouldered the shotgun that was leaned against the wall waiting for him.

  “Is it loaded?” I croaked.

  He raised one eyebrow. “What do you think?”

  We crossed the lawn and reached the tree line—Griff swaggering as we neared the armed guard who was standing next to a tree. I recognized this guard; he had been sitting, and then leaving en masse, with the rest of the cool crowd that morning. By the look of disdain on his face, he recognized me too.

  Griff switched spots with the bothered guard and dragged a tree stump out of the woods for me to sit on. The other guard glanced at Griff and looked like he was about to say something; deciding against it, he shook his head and walked away.

  Griff lit a cigarette and huffed a few puffs, still beaming. We were a foot inside the tree line, half-hidden by dense green stuff. Deeper in, the forest was quiet, dark, and I couldn’t see more than a few feet in before the brush blocked any further view. There were other guards lined in the trees; I saw heads popping through the brush every once in a while.

  “Is this what you do all day? Stand here?” I asked swatting mosquitoes away and rubbing my arms. It was getting a bit chilly and buggy in the shade. I looked at the warm, bug-free house with longing.

  “Oh, no!” he exclaimed and pointed at a head that popped out about thirty feet away. “Sometimes I get to stand over there too.”

  In my head, I was trying to do long division: the approximate size of the property divided by the thirty feet that separated each guard would equal the number of big men with guns that I had to worry about—and then I remembered that my math skills were fictional. “How many of you are there?”

  “There’s just one of me, love,” he told me, wiggling his eyebrows. “But if you mean other guards, I don’t know. It varies from day to day, from week to week. Since this morning, probably thirty or forty, maybe more. This is the most that I’ve seen here so far.”

  “Wouldn’t it be … better to stand in the sun?” I suggested, casually, after another chill or bug tickled the hair on the back of my neck.

  He shrugged. “Sure it would, but we’re not supposed to.” He pointed at the sky. “Too many guys, too many guns, attracts too much attention if someone were to fly above us. You never know who might be watching. These blokes are real paranoid about stuff like that.”

  “What exactly are the guns for?”

  “Keep people out, keep things in. Not really sure. I just know to point and shoot when I’m ordered to.” Griff took another puff of his cigarette.

  “You don’t know what you’re guarding?”

  He glanced down the line of trees. “Nope. And I don’t want to know.”

  I had a hard time believing this.

  “Aren’t you curious to know why you have to stand here all day with a very big gun over your shoulder?” I asked him.

  Griff was starting to look uneasy.

  “Love,” he said as he bent closer to me, “don’t ask any questions about what goes on around here. I’ve gotten some pretty nasty stares for doing just that. Whatever these guys are up to, it isn’t kosher, and they don’t react well when people meddle in their business.”

  He leaned further in, his chilling voice becoming barely audible. “Listen, from what the kid told me, you’re very lucky to still be alive. They could’ve just finished you off when they realized what you saw. Count your blessings and do what you need to do to stay alive—play the game, keep quiet, and pretend you don’t see anything.”

  I gulped.

  He took a second and finally forced his lips into a smile. “Just stick by me, and you’ll be all right.”

  “Thanks,” I replied in a whisper. In a small way, I was relieved—because of Griff, but more so because, at last, I had the reaction that a normal person should have had: fear.

  I was taking prolonged breaths to calm the drumming pulsation in my veins. Griff finished his cigarette with an eventually relaxed smile.

  “H
ow did you come to be here?” I asked carefully, keeping my voice low.

  “I knew a guy, who knew a guy,” he replied, winking at me.

  “And now you work for Cameron,” I mused.

  A puzzled look came over him. “Cameron? Who’s Cameron?”

  “Uhh … sorry … I thought I heard someone mention that name. I must have been wrong.” I really hated lying to Griff, but disappointing Cameron seemed like an even worse alternative.

  Griff shrugged and didn’t seem to notice my blunder. “Nah, I work for Tiny.”

  “Do you actually get paid for standing around all day?” I joked, trying to keep away from topics I couldn’t talk about and that I didn’t want hear about.

  He chuckled. “I wouldn’t do this unless I got paid. I’ve never been without booze or women for this long. Hanging with these idiots all day only makes this job worse, and I thought I was going to go crazy until I saw your face this morning.” He smiled warmly.

  “Have you been doing this … job for very long?” I asked him.

  “Couple months.”

  “What were you doing before this?”

  He grinned from ear to ear. “I was … I am … a mixed martial arts fighter.”

  Griff and I spent the rest of the afternoon shooting the breeze, staying away from the taboo topics. I found out that he grew up in London, fought his way into professional cage fighting. He made money by getting locked in a cage and pulverizing the guy they put in front of him until one of them—usually the other guy from what he told me—called uncle or passed out or worse.

  The best thing about Griff was that he talked enough for both of us. It was great to listen to him and block all the other stuff out. I didn’t notice how cold and hungry I was until the sun lowered and we were approached by another guard who had come to switch spots with Griff and ignore me.

  “Wow!” Griff bellowed as we walked back to the house, “That was the fastest shift I’ve put in yet. You should keep me company more often.” I hadn’t done much else but sit there while he talked.

  We kicked off our shoes at the door.

  “Supper?” I offered, signaling my head toward the kitchen. But Griff hesitated.

  “Nah … I’m going to hang with the boys downstairs. They’ll get jealous if I don’t spend time with them.”

  He stood by the basement staircase, his eyes hopeful. “See you tomorrow?”

  I gave him a devious smile. “Maybe.”

  More guards started filtering in through the front door, shoes quickly piling up on the tiled floor and guns amassing against the wall. The incoming guards wouldn’t allow more than a furtive glimpse in my general direction. Griff had already disappeared downstairs.

  I went to the living area. No one was there. Cameron wasn’t there.

  I explored the kitchen. What I found were cupboards stacked with easy fixes: canned goods, frozen dinners, fluorescent orange pasta—it was like being back in student housing. I took out a can of peas and a can of whole tomatoes. I discovered a fully stocked spice rack hidden behind a George Foreman Grill in the bottom cupboard and placed it on the counter. Though the fridges were mostly filled with juice and pop, I was able to find some onions and green and red peppers. I also found a package of frozen chicken thighs, only slightly freezer-burnt.

  Within minutes, I had a pot of rice boiling and quick chicken paella steaming in a pan.

  Carly appeared, quietly, like a pixie, around the corner. While I stirred, she opened and closed the cupboards doors, rummaged in the fridges, coming up empty-handed. Keeping my eyes on the hot stove, I sensed her stop and look over my shoulder.

  “It smells great, Emily,” she said in an almost whisper.

  I looked up and smiled—a peace flag. She smiled back, raising her own white flag. She was really pretty when she wasn’t yelling or glaring at me.

  “My mom used to make paella all the time,” she told me.

  “My mom doesn’t know where the kitchen is.”

  She smiled again, and I was relieved.

  Carly then started pulling miscellaneous spices out of the spice rack.

  “May I?” she asked. I gladly stepped aside. When she was done, the paella was extra spicy and tasted absolutely amazing.

  With a little reluctance, Carly turned on her heels and started going back toward the way she had come in.

  “Um … there’s more than I can eat … do you want to share?” I offered.

  A large smile crossed her face and she quickly grabbed two plates.

  Before we had even set our filled plates on the table, Rocco came sniffing in.

  “Hey, what’s that?” he asked as he followed his nose into the kitchen. Not waiting for a response, he had helped himself to the rest of the paella and came to the table with a salad-sized bowlful.

  Carly threw him a nasty glare.

  “You guys weren’t planning on eating all of that were you?” he asked as he stuffed a huge mouthful and sat down.

  “We’re not used to eating real food around here,” Carly said to me.

  Eventually, the rest of the crew I had briefly encountered that morning made their way in, with the exception of Spider. Cameron didn’t come back either. I noticed Carly nod at Tiny when he had caught me sitting there and had momentarily halted the incoming guards at the kitchen threshold.

  Satisfied with Carly’s signal, Tiny trudged to the table, and the rest of the guards followed him in. No one left because of me, and there were no nasty glares thrown my way. I was comfortable with the being ignored part.

  After their self-prepared suppers, the men dissipated outside or downstairs. Carly and I helped Rocco clean up the mess. And then, with a hushed goodnight, Carly left as quietly as she had arrived, and Rocco commenced his endless demonstration of channel surfing.

  I looked at the clock every two minutes. I twisted a strand of hair around my finger until it turned blue. I fidgeted in my seat and jumped every time the front door opened, only to disappointingly hear one of the troops come in or out.

  “Cameron’s not going to be back till late,” Rocco groaned, never taking his finger off the remote trigger. “So stop moving around, it’s annoying.”

  He had caught me off guard.

  “I wasn’t …” I started to object, but the quick look that he shot me told me that he wouldn’t buy any excuse that I came up with anyway.

  I scampered upstairs before he could observe anything else.

  Cameron had a long, hip-level dresser in his room. It was against the wall near the doorway. Only two of the drawers had clothes in them. The first drawer contained his socks and underwear—boxer briefs, I mentally noted, simultaneously blushing. The second was filled with T-shirts and jeans. Then, rolled in between the two folded stacks was an extra-small, pink T-shirt, too small, too pink to be Cameron’s.

  One by one, I dragged my bins over, neatly placing clothes in the drawers that were empty. Then I made one trip to the bathroom and put away the rest of my toiletries. I put my tattered Rumble Fish copy back under my pillow and left my tacky ballerina lamp lying on its side on top of the emptied bins.

  I later picked a video from Cameron’s selection—The Godfather seemed fitting somehow. I tucked myself under the fleece blanket that had been thrown over the couch and settled in.

  By the time Vito Corleone saw the Statue of Liberty for the first time, I was asleep.

  When I awoke in the morning, I was in Cameron’s bed, with Meatball snoring at my feet. My ballerina lamp was on the table next to me—it looked even tackier in Cameron’s room. I opened the drawers to pick my clothes for the day; Cameron’s clothes were gone.

  It was barely seven o’clock, and I was bursting with energy. I got dressed, grabbed my portable player and crept out of my cell. Meatball went back to sleep, I went to the basement.

  The house echoed the heavy breathing and snoring of all the boys who filled the rooms. I tiptoed down the basement hallway to the gym.

  And there was Cameron, lifting dumbbell
s—my heart fluttered and hopped. He smiled, but looked tired.

  “You’re up early,” he said.

  “I could say the same for you,” I replied as I nervously walked in.

  “I don’t sleep much,” he admitted. His eyes glanced over my face. “Did you sleep well?”

  I shrugged. “I slept for almost ten hours straight.” I amended, “I don’t sleep much either.”

  The treadmill was now all in one piece and faced the windows toward the pool. Cameron and I opened all the windows, and a warm wind filled the room. Then we each went into our separate corners.

  Outside, the sun was shining. I ran and watched as the night guards stood or marched about the tree line at the back of the property. I could feel Cameron spying my running reflection through the mirror. But I kept my eyes forward; the last thing I needed was to trip and go flying into the wall behind me.

  In many ways, running on a treadmill was a lot easier than the streets of Callister—I didn’t have to worry about catching my feet on the cracked sidewalk, or diverting garbage, or keeping an eye on the weirdo in the trench coat who liked to linger in the bushes. In other ways, running on a treadmill was a lot harder—I had no cracks, garbage, or weirdoes to distract me from myself.

  Eventually we were done our workouts and sweaty. He walked to me as I was stretching.

  “Swim?” he suggested.

  “Sure,” I enthusiastically concurred … before I had fully considered what I had just agreed to. It wasn’t until I got to my room and opened the drawer that horror set in: swimming meant bathing suit. The thought of being seen by him, by anyone, half-clad petrified me—because the skin under my clothes was just as freckled and ghostly as my face, because bones tended to protrude around my clavicle and my shoulder blades, because I had barely graduated from a trainer bra.

  Solution: the oversized T-shirt that I threw over my bathing suit.

  I met him in the pool, quickly jumping in. Meatball had followed me and was lying at the side.

  Cameron was bare-chested. He was skinnier than I’d imagined, than I thought he might be, and he had a farmer’s tan—his tan-lines ended where his T-shirt would begin. I avoided glancing in his direction as much as possible while we swam around.