I stare after him as he turns away and leaves me hanging there, wondering what the hell he meant by that. What does he want from Easy? Or Eddie? Why is he here?

Why do I care?

CONFLICTION

Bronx

Her skin, so soft. Her smell, so good. And her concern, so confusing. Why does she care so much about if I start shit or not? Logic would say she’s doing it solely to protect her best interests, but my gut screams something else. She fucking likes me, I know it. I can feel it, and that excites me no end. Like it shouldn’t.

But damn. She’s fucking gorgeous.

I look to where she slipped inside through the side door, and pull in a deep breath before turning away and heading for the bonfire. The pressure in my chest is familiar. It’s the same damn buzz building that I get when I push myself those extra reps at the gym, the same pressure that wells up when I start a mismatched fight with a bigger opponent. It’s my drive to win, my motivation to better my odds kicking in. Only this time it’s over a girl. A God damn girl. The caveman in me wants to knock her over the head and drag her from under that skinhead asshole’s nose while I beat my chest like a fucking animal. But the lover in me wants to spend countless hours sweet-talking her and bringing her around softly.

I’ve got fuck all chance of pulling off either.

I snatch a drink from the steel drum and find a position near the flames on an upturned crate. A guy to my right watches me look around in vain to find something to crack the bottle on, and offers a bright green opener my way.

“You think they’d get twist-tops,” he muses.

I nod, chuckling. “Or in the least I’d carry somethin’ to open a fuckin’ beer with.” He gives me a wry grin and takes the opener from my hand. “Thanks.”

“No sweat.”

We each go back to our neutral state, staring into the flames as we sip on our brews. I straighten out my right leg, and pull the small bag from my jean pocket, palming it as I consider the need. I could throw this shit in the fire, walk away and remind myself I’m not that guy, that I don’t do hard drugs. But that feeling, that buzz, that freedom. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.

The guy beside me watches from the corner of his eye as he takes a scull of his beer. I nod at him, and figure I may as well make the most of it given I’ve paid for the shit. I can start afresh tomorrow, find a way to make myself a familiar face that doesn’t require constant dealing with Easy. I set my beer down between my feet, and carefully open the small bag, squeezing the opening so it balloons into an oval. Forming the shape on an ‘L’ with my left hand, I gently shake half of the contents onto the dip between my forefinger and thumb. Clasping the bag in my right hand, I block a nostril and inhale the dust off my flesh. It bites, and then numbs, taking hold with the skilled hands of a professional and easing my anxiety. I shake out the last of the gear and repeat the actions, all under the scrutiny of my neighbor.

“Got any more?” he asks as I inhale the last of the residue from my hand.

I shake my head. “Sorry, man.”

“Can I take the bag?” His eyes are fixed to the crumpled slip of plastic in my hand.

“Sure.” I hand it over and watch as he wets his fingertip, then proceeds to clean out whatever he can get off the inside of the bag, pressing it to his gums after each sweep.

My shoulders set watching the guy—this is what I could become if I’m not careful. I could be just like him a year from now for all I know. I’d probably feel more appalled by it if the high hadn’t set in from what I’ve just inhaled.

I pick up what’s left of my beer and down it in a single go before tossing the empty bottle into the flames. I’m still thinking about the guy beside me, about Ty and his addiction, and about the likelihood of me ending up the same when I stand and head back to the house. My thoughts are a million miles away, my false confidence assuring me I’d never end up addicted in that way, when I come close to bowling over somebody as I take the first step on to the back porch.

“Can I help you, son?” Startled from my thoughts, I pull up fast, dangerously close to crashing into, of all people, Eddie. His eyes narrow on me as we face off.

“Nah, I’m good.” I hold his gaze for a beat before continuing. “Thanks for the hospitality . . .” I play the part, pretending to have no idea who the asshole before me is.

He takes the bait. “Eddie.” His eyes remain narrowed, suspicion raging in the colored flecks. “You’ll have to forgive me, son, but as much as I appreciate your polite gesture, I don’t have the slightest fuckin’ clue who you are.”

“Just a man passin’ through.”

“Everybody’s got a name,” Eddie retorts.

I smile with my newfound chemical confidence. “Name’s Bronson.”

He looks me over slowly, seemingly satisfied that I’m telling the truth. “And how the ’ell did you find out about this little get-together?” Eddie jams his hands in his pockets.

“Word of mouth at the Lion.” My heart is dangerously close to beating itself right out of my fucking chest, but I steel my expression and concentrate on my words, trying not to show how shitfaced I am.

Seven tense seconds pass before Eddie reacts, breaking his confrontational stance to laugh and slap me on the arm. “Manners,” he muses, nodding his head toward the living room. “Some of these fuckers could learn from you.” He tosses an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “You like cars?”

I crack a tentative smile, and nod. “Sure.”

“’Course you do; every body likes cars. I’ve got a bit of a show and shine next month. You’ll be there, son.” Eddie jabs me in the chest to cement his point. He takes a moment to stare into my eyes. “Been looked after while you ’ere?”

I nod again, feeling like one of those novelty dashboard toys. “Yeah.”

“Need any more?”

“Nah, I think I’m good.” Besides, I don’t want to know what obligations come with a ‘favor’ like that.

I’m doomed to find out anyway. “’Ave one on me.” He grins a twisted promise as he reaches into the breast pocket of his polo shirt and pulls out a small bag of the good stuff.

I look between him and it, craving what’s inside that plastic, but wary of what I’m entering into by taking it from him. Again, he robs me of the privilege of deciding what to do when he pushes it into the pocket of my jeans, all the while holding my gaze with sharp eyes.

“Consider it a reward for ’aving such good manners.”

Manners. Sure didn’t have many with me.

HOME COMFORTS

Bronx

“How did it go last night?” King asks, pushing a drink along the bar towards me.

“Easier than I thought.” I take hold of the bourbon and turn on the stool, looking out over the common room. “Makes me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Feel like I missed somethin’.”

King takes a swig of his drink and stares off into space across the bar while he thinks something over. “You feel that this job’s too much, you better tell me now.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

I hesitate before answering, giving him all the confirmation he needs. “I have a habit of fuckin’ things up.”

“Ty didn’t seem to think so.”

“He’s too forgiving.” I turn slowly back to face the same way as King, fiddling with a loose corner of the label on my bottle. “I’m less lenient on my errors than he is.”

I catch King in my peripheral, watching me closely. “Look, Bronx. If you’d done anything that made me question your suitability for this, I would have heard about it by now, right?”