Chapter One
BASH
I,Sebastian Black, have a grand total of two things on my mind most of the time. Number one is mixed martial arts. It’s non-negotiably what I think of most, more than anything else in the world. Most people would probably assume my obsession with fighting stems from anger issues, but on the contrary, it’s something that calms me. Among the many other benefits of my favorite sport, knowing I can protect the people I care about in a confrontation makes meanythingbut angry.
The second thing that’s always on my mind is food. As someone who works out and trains frequently, I eat more than the average man. And I admit, eating high-quality foods and protein can get expensive, but it’s always been made possible by my massive bank account.
Correction, Bash. It used to be made possible.
I can’t deny my gratitude for all the perks being wealthy used to offer me in life. This doesn’t, however, change the matter of my stomach, which is tragically empty at the moment.
A feeling I’m experiencing more and more lately.
I watch my younger sister, Ingrid, sling her bag over her shoulder as I shuffle to the kitchen. “Are you off to work?” Iask and then wince. It’s a stupid question. Of course she’s off to work. She’s wearing her all-black waitress attire and her daily scowl.
Ingrid shoves a pen into her twisted-up red hair, leaning against the doorframe. “Unfortunately.” She opens the door, promptly stalking outside without a single word of farewell.
I’m used to this sort of behavior from my dear sister, but I walk her out, anyway. I shuffle outside behind her, the crisp autumn air biting cold against my exposed face and arms. Suppressing a shiver, I reach into my pocket for my lighter and regrettable pack of cigarettes. Ingrid turns on her heel when she hears the flame from my lighter spark, but I make no pause. “You should smile more, Innie.” I inhale a puff of my fiery crutch to keep warm. “You’d probably come home with better tips.” I know smoking like this is the worst possible habit for someone whose entire future depends on lung capacity and stamina, but I’m living off canned soup and desperation for now. My bar for pre-fight fuel these days is low.
And unfortunately, my current predicament has left me more on edge than when I was doing well with quitting.
In one swift movement, Ingrid captures the pack from my fingers, her eyes sharp as daggers as she glares at me. “And is it too much to ask for you to quit smoking? It’s expensive. Get a job.”
“Ingrid.” I take it back from her, prying it from her fingers, one at a time. A good-humored smirk graces my lips, knowing Ingrid is all bark and no bite. “I pawned my beloved Rolex, remember? My money bought this, not yours. Besides, this is my last pack, and I won’t buy another. I promise to keep my hands busy with distractions after this, as usual.” I tuck it back into the pocket of my green, flannel pajama bottoms for safekeeping. “Besides, I’m not nearly as hirable as you. Not unless you’vefound help-wanted listings in this little town asking for someone to throw a deadly punch.”
She practically bares her teeth. “Awfully convenient that there are no MMA gyms or local fight clubs around here. Especially since you’re the one who got us into this mess. Yet here I am, forced to work.”
“You can always go back to Mummy and Daddy if you have a problem with it. I didn’t ask you to stay with me, did I?”
“No. But here I am.”
I glance at the time on my phone. “AndI’mheaded to church in a few.”
“Your favorite place. Perfect. Go stuff your pockets.” Her hard exterior melts into amusement as she opens the car door. She tosses her bag in. I swear I hear a chuckle escape her lips.
Laugh all you want, Ingrid.With all the free food I’ve been bringing back, I know better than to let my personal opinions get in my way, no matter how challenging.
For someone who loves God but feels uncomfortable at church, I tend to avoid it as much as I do decaf coffee and serious relationships, so this has just been another hurdle to add to my ever-growing list. And as someone who’s never struggled to buy anything until now, it was too hard to admit my current circumstances to Harvest Valley Church—a place full of people who are surely as judgmental as they come.
Besides, the last thing I want to do is seem like a charity case to anyone, especially since this is my own doing, but there’s only so much hunger a person can take before desperation kicks in.
As pathetic as it is, neither my sister nor I have ever made a true meal in all our lives. After our parents cut us off two months ago, we’ve been living off canned food and cheap bread because Ingrid’s paycheck doesn’t cover enough for us to eat till we’re satisfied. The girl never smiles, so she rarely gets tipped. I’m pretty sure her resting face is a deep-set frown, despite heronly being nineteen. Still, I’m thankful it’s enough to cover the essentials—limited food, toiletries, and the hefty utility bills that have been arriving by mail, thanks to Mum and Dad. They’ve given up going paperless just to torture us.
I need to keep building muscle mass to stay in my weight division, and I’m used to eating much more in order to do so. But these past two months, my stomach has been pretty vocal that it’s not satisfied.
I inhale the scent of crisp Maine air as I touch Ingrid’s arm. She freezes, waiting but not turning to face me. I squint at the grassy hills towering over us through the brightness of the morning sun, trying to find a way to finally convince my sister to let me suffer alone. “You really can go back. I won’t be angry, you know.”
Ingrid is silent. When I’m being genuine with her like this, I know she can’t tease me for returning from church each week with pockets full of buffet food instead of just asking someone for help.
“Oh, stop.” Ingrid rolls her eyes. “And thank Logan for the both of us, will you?”
If it weren’t for Logan, we’d probably starve,I think, remembering my unease when our neighbor invited me to a men’s weekly breakfast at his church here in Meadow Hills. I chose to overlook the church part in favor of the breakfast and have yet to regret it. I always bring some back for Ingrid, and as a thanks, she keeps her antagonistic comments coming my way.
Ingrid avoids my gaze as she gets in her red convertible. Despite my guilt, I bite back a smile. Why our parents let us keep the cars, I have no idea. Maybe it was a slight moment of guilt for leaving us completely penniless, but I’m not going to complain.
I drag my socks on the cobblestone drive as I go back inside, take a hot shower before I dress, and get in my own beautiful, black and white ’73 Camaro. When I’m driving it, I can almostpretend I’m not poor for the moment. Just for a bit, I’m back in Woollahra, the suburb of Sydney where the air smells like eucalyptus and generational wealth, and no one’s ever had to pawn their Rolex. Though I wouldn’t go back even if I could, this beauty is a bright spot in my otherwise dismal situation.
A light flashes on the dashboard as the car roars to life.
