TWENTY
How sweet the sound…
JHAY
Iwoke up with a brain-pounding headache in an unfamiliar place. A crap ton of noise rained in through the windows of a sparse but fairly decent apartment.
I twisted, realizing I was supine on a daybed beneath a crescent of bay windows.
Wherever this place was, I knew it wasn’t San Francisco. The feel was different. The wind was different. The sun wasn’t hot enough.
My eyes scanned the room. Open-plan. Living room, dining room and kitchen in one. Coldly furnished with common furniture, nothing creative or interesting. A three-piece floral print sofa set, with a cherrywood coffee table, a plasma TV in an entertainment center, a four-seater dining table, bare walls, and completely impersonal. It felt like a self-catering guest house.
In a rush, the memories of all that had happened returned with a brain-freezing bang. And I remembered coming to from my unconsciousness, only to discover I was 35,000 feet up high with Sambo. He’d offered me something to drink and I’d accepted because I was hella arid. Then that was it. The fucker had drugged me and sent me back to a world of oblivion.
Now here I was, in a strange place, by myself. Fully clothed, in my boots and all.
What else is new?
Sitting up in the daybed, I turned to face the windows and folded my arms on the sill, propping my chin on the back of my hands.
A courtyard about ten stories below, and far outside the gates was like a fanfare. An intriguing vibrancy and sprightliness from the people milling along the narrow streets. The glare and position of the sun told me it was around noon, yet people were gallivanting about like it was midnight in Vegas.
Carriages rolled by with tourists, a group of men in black and white suspender get-ups gaily blaring trumpets and saxophones, people dancing, money exchanging, cameras snapping, colorful buildings, blinking neon signs…
I smiled wide.
Beyond those gates was life. Forgetting for a minute the maelstrom that was my life, I breathed in the life outside those gates. Envious of every soul alive who could be this carefree, letting go, stress-free, not constantly shooting glances over their shoulders or scanning rooftops for hints of a rifle aiming to blow their heads off.
I wanted to be like that. Like one of those trumpet blowers. I wanted to get on that street. I wanted to be carefree.
For about an hour, I sat there and watched the activities beyond the court gates, dreaming of a life different from the shitty one I was cursed with.
I heard the apartment door open. But I didn’t look around. Not yet ready to climb back into the stinking, dark asshole that was my home.
Heavy footfalls echoed across the wooden floors. Movements at the dining table. Rustling of plastic bags. Footfalls moving in my direction. Then the daybed concaved from the person’s lead weight.
The sickening scent of tobacco wafted on the air as he said, “I brought you Chinese.”
Tugging my weary gaze away from the vibrant life beyond the gates, I turned it on the person beside me. Sambo.
He was watching me with a cautious squint, either afraid of me, or wanting to apologize for his actions but knowing that would be a pussy move.
I blamed him for nothing, though. People played dirty sometimes, depending on how badly they needed the prize. He fought, I respected that.
Chad, he gave me up.
If there was anyone who deserved my aversion, it was Chad. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the betrayer who’d locked me in a sleeper hold to stop Sambo’s death. I wouldn’t even bother seeking confirmation on it.
We could have fought together and taken Rafail down. I knew Chad. And I knew if he wanted to, things would have gone differently and we would have come out on the other side smelling like lilies. But that wasn’t what he wanted.
Iwasn’t what he wanted.
I hate you, Jhay.
Well, fuck him.
“Is it laced like the drink you gave me on the plane?”
