x
The house Nick lived in from the day of his birth to the age of seven was big. It's pale grey walls were supported with high and smooth ceilings and bottomed out by polished wood floors. It was two stories and had a wide basement that smelled like expensive cabernet and held the lingering air of his mother's perfume, so strong that it had probably soaked into the wood.
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On the first floor there was a library, just down the hall from the kitchen.
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Out of all the quiet and lonely rooms, the library was Nick's favorite. The walls were lined with books and filled bookshelves stretched across the expanse of the room, taunting him with their silently spoken words. Encyclopedias and classic literature; history and fiction; Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare. They all lived here, within binded pages, and Nick sought to join them. He often had forgetful moments where he would leave books stacked in his wake; beside chairs and on tables, scattered over the sill of the big bay window.
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Soon, with little effort on his part, it was hard to not see traces of him everywhere in the library. A blanket draped over the cushions of a couch, dog-eared pages in various books, his blood stains hidden beneath the maroon satin tablecloths.
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He couldn't help himself half of the time. Odd little Nicholas Warren, always so enraptured by a pretty cover. Always getting lost in the spaces between the lettering of pages, nowhere else to go.
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Nick remembered being seven, curled up in the furthest corner of the library, an open book lay across his lap and even as he read he listened intently for the sound of the heavy oak doors of the library to swing open. He couldn't lose himself this time: not when he was shivering so much that he could barely finish a sentence, not when every time he touched a page a smear of blood was left behind on a stark white backdrop, not when every little shift of his body made him groan low in pain.
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He did not remember the book he was reading or what it was about, he just remembered desperately gripping the edges of it with a white knuckled grip and staring blankly at the words. Listening.
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Father loved slamming those doors when he was angry. They did not slam, nor did they open for a long time and when they did, it was not his father who came for him.
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At the age of fourteen, the house I ended in was small. One floor, no basement, no library. Nick was glad.
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He had a bedroom that could fit a twin sized bed tucked snuggly in the corner, a scratched up dresser, and a few other odds and ends that Nick had picked up over the years -- most of which was stacked in his closet. Not a book one.
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Sweetport, Oregon -- like most things in Nick's current life -- was small. A healthy and ever dwindling population of two thousand: either too young to leave or too stubborn and poor to pack up and go. He'd moved here three years ago and loved it to death, even with all of its short-comings. He'd laid down roots, however brittle; etched his initials into the metal of a playground swing set, made friends who he -- at first -- did not want to let out of his sight for the fear of them forgetting his name.
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He had a family too. Miranda and Kevin Donovan -- he hadn't taken their last name when he was officially adopted, he'd been given a choice and he'd said no. No questions were asked and he was glad of that. At fourteen he'd been incredibly difficult and even now, at the ripe age of eighteen and a half, he still held onto that fire stubbornly.
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Miranda was a woman who was short in stature but did not let that dampen the determined gleam she always had about her, grey eyes like thundering storm clouds against fair skin. Kevin, on the other hand, was a tall man with a round belly, fiery red hair, and a loud laugh. All soft edges compared to the harsh and tired yet vaguely pretty features of Miranda.
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Compared to Nick's own permanently sun-kissed skin and deep brown eyes, he couldn't look more out of place. The Donovan's didn't seem to notice though -- every family photo on display in their home was proof of that.
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"Yo, Sweeper, I think I lost you back at Lazy Days." Nick startled and looked to his left, tense shoulders relaxing when he was met with the honey-colored eyes of none other than Marco Cabeza. He grinned, wide and dimpled -- his greatest weapon he said once -- and clapped Nick on the shoulder. "I'm hurt. You haven't heard a word I've said since we left the parlor."
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Ah, right. The two of them had just left -- or recently left, considering Nick had been lost in thought -- the ice cream shop down at the corner of Garner and Hanover. It was entirely too cold, being mid-February, for ice cream but that didn't stop either of them. Every Thursday without fail, no matter what. It was the oath between the two of them and neither intended to break it.
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Marco had been Nick's best friend since he first moved to Oregon. Given the fact that Nick had all but fought everyone off tooth and nail during his first few months was a great testimony to Marco's stubbornness. Eventually, after Nick had grown tired of throwing pencils at him whenever he ventured too close, he let Marco get close. It began with Marco giving Nick candies whenever they met -- butterscotch: Marco still does not know that he hates those damn things. They stick to the roof of his mouth and make his tongue feel grimy. It ended with Marco drooping off of him like he was now, arm slung over Nick's shoulder as support.
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The first time Marco did that, Nick punched him. Hard. The second time, Nick shrugged him off. The third, Nick let him. Now they were practically two peas in a pod. Nick had other friends but none as close to him as Marco.
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"I was listening," Nick said. "I just thought you were being annoying so I didn't respond." He had been listening: Marco had been talking about the latest issue of InStyle his sister had bought and proceeded to hurl at him this morning before school.
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"You are the biggest asshole I know."
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"Maybe they'll set up a tourist attraction around me. World's biggest asshole. People will come from all over the world."
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Marco cackled, feet scuffing against the sidewalk as they meandered along. Nick's stomach was cold with cherry ice cream but his head was warm and fuzzy with contentedness, a happy veil between him and the frigid cold. There was a certain comfort in the simple buildings that lined the street: they weren't yet out of the center of town so instead of apartments and housing, there were shops and restaurants, all beckoning and taunting with the warmth of indoor heating.
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Marco shivered next to him, cheek pressed against Nick's shoulder. "Sweeper, come home with me. Mom's making meatloaf for the first time and I don't think you want to miss it."
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"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Nick said, leaning into his friend. "Will Peevee there?"
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"She'd kill you if she knew you called her that," Marco laughed, smile nearly splitting his tawny face in two. His sister, Penelope, was a force not to be reckoned with unless you wanted to be nailed in the head with the nearest throwable object.
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Nick shook his head, "She won't care."
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"Bet on it?"
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"Tomorrow's juice at lunch?" Nick held out a hand.
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Marco whined but wrapped warm fingers around Nick's. "Dealzy, even if I'm hurt that you would take the one good thing from Friday lunches away from me."
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"I'll give you my fries."
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"Double deal."
•••
Marco's house was a godsend. It was warm and smelled of flour and spices and as soon as they barged through the doors, slumped over one another and shivering, Ms.Cabeza -- or Liliana, Lily, as she insisted Nick call her -- was pulling them into the kitchen. She slipped mugs of hot chocolate into their hands as they discarded their jackets onto the backs of the kitchen chairs.
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"Idiots," she said, her spanish accent adding the same lilt to her words that Marco had. "It's too cold to be out there. You're both idiots."
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Idiots, she said, though her tone was not unkind and her eyes glittered with affection. She reached out and mussed the thick mass of black hair on Marco's head, tutting.
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"Meatloaf?" Nick questioned, wrapping a hand around the handle of the mug he'd been given and sipping. The drink was sweet and Nick hummed, delighted, into the milk and powder mixture.
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Liliana grinned at him from over her shoulder as she popped open the oven, peering in briefly before shutting it once more.
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"Meatloaf -- your mother's recipe."
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"Mom," Marco grumbled, eyes flashing from Nick's face to Liliana's with an uncharacteristic frown.
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She waved him off. "My apologies, I get ahead of myself. I borrowed the recipe from Miranda." She turned to Nick who was lowering himself into one of the brightly colored yellow dining chairs. "You really should call her mother."
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"Mom," Marco snapped. Nick heaved a heavy breath through his nose.
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"Ms-," he cut off at her glare and corrected himself. "Lily, I love Miranda but she isn't my mother. I had a mother and I can't just replace her."
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"Well-" she waved a wooden spoon in the air before looking down into a metal pot she had simmering on the stove- "I guess I get that. I just personally see her as your mother."
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"That's fine," Nick murmured, watching amusedly as Marco lowered himself down into the chair next to his. He was in the middle of giving Nick an exasperated eye-roll when the kitchen door -- the one that led into the driveway -- was flung open and in came Penelope.
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"Sup Peevee," Nick greeted with a half wave, ignoring the smug smile on Marco's face as he mouthed the word "Juice".
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She gave him a lazy salute, eyes on her phone. "Sup." Marco's grin fell into an open mouthed stare, eyes wide in disbelief.
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"You don't let me call you that!"
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She looked up at him with a sneer. "Because I don't like you."
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"Oh my god, do you have a crush on Sweeper?"
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It was Nick's turn to sneer at him. "Idiot."
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"You sound like my mother," Marco teased.
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Liliana didn't look up, just simply huffed and said: "I'm right here you know." They all laughed, even Penelope had a smile on her face as she scrolled through what was probably a blog on the ins and outs of backstitching. "Alright familia, la cena está servida!"
•••
The walk home was cold and lonely but he was full and had been sent away with a little container of meatloaf for Miranda and Kevin. It had been delicious though he had not expected any less. Liliana was a great cook and the many nights he ate dinner with the Cabeza's while his foster parents worked late shifts was proof of that. Miranda was a nurse and spent so much time at the hospital that she always distinctly smelled like antiseptic, something Nick had hated so much when he first came to Sweetport that he refused to come near her unless it was necessary. He'd grown used to it, just like he'd grown used to the oil stains on Kevin's old shirts.
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He thought, briefly, about the quick conversation that had happened over dinner. Liliana, bless her overbearing nature, had looked up at Nick who was none the more aware of her scrutinizing gaze and sat her fork down, leaning intently toward him. He had felt like he was about to get into trouble for something but that had not been the case and Marco seemed to pick up in that fairly quickly.
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"Don't." It was a simple word that his mother ignored.
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"Nicholas, do you remember your parents?"
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He had nearly choked on his dinner at that and Marco had to help him get it down by smacking him on the back. After a moment all three of them -- he, Marco, and Peevee -- were staring at Liliana. Nick with thinly veiled discomfort, Marco with a thin lipped glare, and Peevee with wide eyes filled with disbelief and a little anticipation.
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"I do." It was all Nick said before he continued eating. Liliana waited a moment longer for him to elaborate and when he didn't, she too continued to eat.
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Nick ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the nip of cold air that darkened the tips of his ears and paled his lips ever so slightly. He was itching to light a cigarette and let the acrid smoke burn his throat but settled on scavenging for a mint from the bottom of his bag to hold on his tongue instead -- he was nearly out and wanted to save them for the weekend. He certainly did not feel like buying more. Maybe he could convince Kevin to fork over one, even if Miranda would kill them both if she found out.
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He was so engrossed in his search for relief that he nearly tumbled over the dark clad figure that emerged from one of the footpaths that led in between houses.
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Nick cursed, fingers curling around the strap of his bag, as he swerved around the stranger.
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"Jeez dude, watch out next time. You're gonna hurt somebody like tha-" His words almost immediately died in his mouth when the stranger turned a chilly glare on him.
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Apart from being dressed in all black -- a get up that would arouse suspicion in any observational person -- the man gave off an air of mystery and, undeniably, danger. A danger that made Nick tense his leg muscles and debate sprinting the last little ways to his house. The stranger watched him silently: short, dark hair fell over the pale skin of his forehead and eyes framed with equally dark lashes evaluated him severely.
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"Who are you?" His voice was startlingly youthful, not at all the deep baritone that Nick had subconsciously paired with him in the short amount of time they'd known each other.
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"Nick." The words came out thick like molasses and Nick coughed awkwardly, wondering if he should look away from the stranger or keep staring. He chose the second option.
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"Nick." The stranger tested the name then shook his head. "I don't know any Nick's. Are you with the Vixens?"
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Nick's stomach hollowed and he once again considered running, more seriously this time.
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The Vixens, despite the cops many assurances that they were not, were a dangerous bunch. Nick knew as much as the next guy about them. A group with supposed ties to the mafia -- probably how they paid off the police assuming the officers weren't completely negligent -- and a knack for trouble.
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There had been one kid a few years back year, Wesley Elledge -- a junior, who had gotten involved with them. Something about owed money after a loan. He stopped coming to school that year and no one's heard from him since.
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That story alone made Nick's hands cold with sweat. He was standing alone with a, he guessed, member of the Vixens. With a container of meatloaf in his hand. He wanted to laugh but he also wanted to cry a little.
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"No," he choked out after a second, "No, I'm not."
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"The Crest then," the stranger hissed, taking a threatening step forward. Nick scrambled back in alarm, his free hand up in surrender as he babbled.
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"No, no, no. Not the Crest, I don't even know who that is. I'm just a guy."
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The stranger stared, their chest heaving. His hand moved and Nick couldn't help but let his eyes glide down the gang members lithe body, eyes settling in the darkening stain that colored the tips of the Vixen's fingers ruby red when he pressed them to his side. It was a ghastly color against such pale skin.
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"You're bleeding," Nick said a little breathlessly.
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"I was stabbed."
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Nick balked. Stabbed. That meant the stab-er was probably still around and looking to finish the job. He cast a quick and assessing gaze at his surroundings. There weren't any signs of knife wielding maniacs looking to commit homicide at a glance but that did not make Nick's frantically beating heart slow. Shuttered houses and vinyl siding painted in various colors surrounded him but no murderers.
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The stranger, who had been mostly quiet while Nick panicked, swayed and Nick instinctively reached out a steadying hand only to snap it back when he was growled at.
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"Okay," Nick murmured mostly to himself, "What're we going to do about this?" He turned his attention to the stranger. "Think you can walk?"
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The stranger, as it turns out, could walk but not for long because he passed out in his neighbors yard without so much as a word.
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Nick really hoped Mrs.Candy had decided to go on to that family reunion she had been talking about lately or else he'd have some explaining to do. He didn't know how to explain away a bleeding, half-corpse. Marco would be able to, with those fucking dimples.
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Eventually, after he managed to haul the guy into his house, Nick took a breath.
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He was... crazy. No sane person would bring a gang member into their house even if they were bleeding out. He had a gang member laying in his bed. Maybe he would have laughed if there wasn't blood seeping through his sheets.
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Despite having a foster mother that worked at a hospital, Nick's medicinal skills were a bit rusty due to his inexperience in treating knife wounds. There were gauze and adhesive bandages stuffed in the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink and, after peeling back the strangers shirt and eyeing the nasty knife wound, Nick decided to grab the surgical thread that Miranda used to use for practice on bananas and whatever poor fruit got roped into her practices.
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It took him the better part of a half hour to get the Vixen patched up. Nick had, no doubt, forced himself through the process of stitching a guy up and he couldn't help but feel sorry for him because when he woke up he was going to be in a lot of pain.
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Nick sat on the floor, back pressed against his bedroom door and after a while of waiting for the guy to wake, ended up nodding off to his own dream land. It wasn't until he heard the slamming of the front door did he jerk up from his sleep, wincing against the harsh light of the light above. His bones were stiff and his ass was numb as he got to his feet, grumbling.
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"Nick? You home?" Nick could hear the clank of keys hitting the kitchen table as Kevin entered the house, finally home from work. Nick pulled his door open.
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"Yeah, I'm home."
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Kevin's head peaked out from the kitchen as he looked down the hall at Nick. "Have you ate? I can make something."
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"Yeah, I ate with Marco. She, uh, made meatloaf. I brought some home if you're hungry -- it's in the-" Nick was going to say the food was in the microwave but from the corner of his eye he noticed movement and immediately his throat closed up. He'd forgotten he had a stab victim and a gang member in his room.
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"That fucking hurts," the guy grumbled, looking down at the white bandage Nick had slapped on him.
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"Nick?" Kevin said, eyebrows raised. "You okay?"
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"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said, forcing himself to look away from the Vixen. "I'm, um, I'm going to go to bed."
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"Oka-ay, well, sleep well." Nick hummed in compliance and shut the door with a little more force than was necessary. He stared at the stranger and the stranger stared back, arms crossed over his bare chest. Despite the awkwardness of it, Nick had had to take the strangers shirt off and now he couldn't help but be embarrassed.
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"So," Nick said after a moment.
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"So?"
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"How's your... stab wound?'
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While the stranger may have been shirtless and wounded, he didn't seem to care. He seemed, more or less, relaxed. He watched Nick silently, the corner of his lips quirked up in a barely noticeable smile and his back was pressed against the wall at the head of the bed, pillow propped up behind him.
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"My stab wound is a stab wound. Painful and probably going to get on my nerves."
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"You don't sound too worried about the fact that someone is very much trying to kill you."
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The stranger shifted. "Nick, as you've probably figured out, I'm a Vixen. I would be worried if someone wasn't trying to kill me. It means that they're planning something."
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Nick nodded, a little out of it. "Naturally."
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"Besides-" the stranger swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood despite Nick's word of protest- "I don't think a little stab wound is going to stop me. I've got a lot of things I need to get done."
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"Jesus christ," Nick muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't even know your name and I'm already tired of you."
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A sharp laugh came from the stranger making Nick jump a little. When he looked up the Vixen was grinning at him from the window, his legs dangling through it. "I like you, Nick. You're weird." And with that, he was gone, having slipped through the window like he was an enigmatic character of a Bond movie.
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"Okay," Nick said to himself, "Yeah, that's fine. Just go through the window shirtless. Not like we have a door or anything. Oh and that stab wound? Eh, it's fine. Nothing odd about bleeding out." He dropped down onto his bed and sighed, legs hanging off the side while the top of his head pressed against the wall. He rubbed a hand over his face and ground his palms into his eyes, hoping to god this was all just some odd fever dream.
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I'm never helping stabbed strays ever again.
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