Shadows You Left Page 8

  “Seriously, though, it’s good?”

  River shrugged. “It’s intense. It’s new and not a big deal. Casual.”

  It’s too big, it’s just right, it feels anything but easy.

  Steve started to speak again when River’s phone rang.

  “Shit, it’s my Mom. I’ve been avoiding her for over a week now.” He swallowed, fighting the sudden twist of anxiety that made his breath short and tight.

  Steve stood and grabbed River’s empty bottle. “Whatever it is, it won’t get any better if you keep putting it off.”

  He swiped to answer. “Hey, Mom.”

  “River.” His mother had a way of sighing his name, a particular softness to the syllables, which was her clearest tell.

  “Yes?” River drew it out like she had his name. Pinpricks of pain bloomed in his palm, and he unclenched his fist.

  “You haven’t called me,” she said. “I’ve been calling for days.”

  And you’re drunk. “I’ve been busy.”

  “That’s what you always say, River.” Her voice made his skin crawl. “Did you at least listen to my messages?”

  “Yeah, sure.” River knew to code his responses. He didn’t particularly want Steve to know she was coming to him for money yet again.

  River loved his mother. He did. But a lifetime of proximity had taught him many things; he could spot a drinking mindset from a mile off. One drink and her personality flipped, her voice changed. She swore up and down that she was sober, but she’d spent his childhood swearing the same, even when she was falling-down drunk, even when she was caught red-handed.

  River never knew what to believe. But he knew how she made him feel.

  Megan Svoboda had over twenty-five years of alcoholism under her belt—periods of sobriety not included—and was good at hiding it from everyone but her kids.

  Her disease was a radio frequency River was always tuned to, one he could never turn off.

  “River, please don’t make me beg. I know you’re upset, but I really need help.”

  “Mom, I just don’t know if I can.” River closed his eyes. It wasn’t a lie. He’d have to book extra clients if she needed a serious amount of money. What is it this time? River clenched and unclenched a fist.

  His mother’s voice was hushed. “You always make this so hard. I feel like you’re punishing me.”

  Yes. I should. You should.

  “I’m not, I just—”

  “They’re going to shut off my electricity. I swear, I promise I’ll pay you back.” The slur, the gaslighting turn of blame, the weight of years of shouldering her mistakes, were too much.

  “Mom, I’m not going to lie, I don’t want to talk to you right now. You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “I’m not drinking, River.” Her voice was sharp. It dripped hurt through the phone and stained his hand with guilt. “Why would you say that? To hurt me?”

  You hurt me.

  Shouting the words, saying them, begging with them when he was younger and thought his own heartbreak would be stronger than her disease—none of that worked, nor would it ever. He’d stopped saying it a long time ago.

  River had worked hard to separate the guilt she trained into him from who she really was when she was sober. To understand the truth of fault lines and failures and human frailty. No matter what he did, no matter what strings he cut or bridges he mended or forgiveness he gave, his mother only needed a handful of words to make him feel like shit.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m at Steve’s. Listen, I love you. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “River—”

  His phone took a bad bounce off the couch when he tossed it, landing with a crack on the floor. River didn’t lift his head from where it rested on the back of the couch. Steve’s sigh wasn’t helpful.

  “Do not start,” River warned.

  “I’m not,” Steve said. River grunted. Steve retrieved River’s phone. “Screen is fine,” he said. He put the phone next to River and patted his knee with a small, comfort-shaped smile. Steve, like Val, was intensely protective of him. Unlike Val, his issue with Megan wasn’t her broken promises, or a lifetime of fucking with River’s head, or memories layered like sedimentary rock of a household always on the brink of war. It was simply a desire to protect River from harm.

  River both loved and hated being so loved. Because no one really trusted him to know what was best for himself. To protect himself. No one trusted his capacity to forgive as protection enough. It took tremendous effort to hang on to something so tenuous, to practice love at every turn. It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t.

  “I know better than to answer the phone at night, is all,” he said. His phone vibrated. He didn’t look. Steve set another beer on the table. The game was going into overtime.

  “Crash here,” Steve urged. “You’ve got spare shit in your old room.”

  “Yeah.” River twisted the cap off his beer, took a long drink, and picked at the label. He had a room here, an open invitation, and the kind of friendship many people wished for—one he absolutely trusted.

  A string of texts came through, his phone vibrating frantically for a few seconds. River muted it and set it on the side table.

  II

  Svara

  To poison anything it touches.

  Chapter Eleven

  Days went by slowly.

  Winter morphed into a greater version of itself, slick and daunting, the tail end of its brutality a long-winded hiss that Seattle endured day after day. The weather reflected Erik’s brittleness. Something was coming—a storm, a fit of freezing fog, a cold that felt alive.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that he might be too distracted to fight, that he should’ve bowed out on Friday and let someone else take his slot. But the money was good. The bruises that littered most of his right side had paled, and the cut on his cheek had disappeared.

  Despite an eerie warning that hovered close enough to touch, Erik did fight.

  Pete owned the Warehouse, Gem, and a few other niche establishments in the Pacific Northwest. Virgo was his posh ultra-lounge—perfect for rich blood. It was the kind of club where drugs were easy to find and sex scented the air. When the fights were scheduled, the dance floor was turned into a cage, the dancers were flushed out to make room for cigar-smoking gamblers, and tarps were draped across the pretty tile to catch any blood.

  Erik had bled that night.

  He’d done two lines of coke off a glass-top table, pushed away a lanky boy with pretty eyes before he could make a worse mistake than the drugs, and got his ass handed to him in the ring. The other fighter was young like him, fast like him, and ruthless like him. Erik tapped out after being pinned with a sharp knee pounding on his ribs.

  The coke numbed everything except his pride.

  It was the Wednesday after that fight, and prep needed to be done at Gem before they opened later that evening. Erik couldn’t shake the constant noise in the back of his mind. It fluctuated, changing from River’s voice to the sound of bones cracking. He wanted to see River, but he didn’t want River to see him.

  Watermarked: When should we schedule your tat?

  Wolfbite013: I lost.

  Watermarked: Are you okay?

  Wolfbite013: I’m fine.

  Watermarked: Do you want to come over for dinner? Netflix? Something?

  Yes. Yes, God yes. It was too bad Erik didn’t trust himself enough not to be awful. The urge gnawed on him. He wanted to fight or scream or cry. He needed something to break against.

  Wolfbite013: I’m working until Friday, but I have this weekend off.

  Watermarked: Oh. Okay…

  Erik knew what those three dots meant. River was worried. Or he was disappointed. Both, probably. He tried to think of something to say, a way to discreetly mask the panic squirming under his skin. If he went to see River, they’d talk about the fight and the drugs and, God forbid, maybe Lee, and Erik couldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.


  “Can you grab one of the kegs for me?” Desiree asked. She patted him on the shoulder, and he flinched. “Whoa, hey, or not. Lemme see.”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped.

  “Let. Me. See.” Desiree set her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  Panic settled into embarrassment. He pulled the collar of his long-sleeved shirt down and exposed the nasty bruise that snuck under his clavicle.

  “Oh, hell no. Uh-uh. Go, get, leave.” Desiree snapped her fingers and pointed to the door. “Ice that shit and come back tomorrow.” Erik opened his mouth to protest, but she closed her eyes and raised her voice. “Erik O’Malley, go. Rest. Take a goddamn night off and get patched up.”

  “I’m fine,” Erik said again.

  “You’re not. I see it here”—she pointed to his shoulder, ignoring his tone—“and here”—she jutted her index finger at his face. After the initial anger subsided, Desiree sighed. “Everything okay? Did something happen with you and that tattoo artist?”

  “No, River has… He’s got nothing to do with this. I’m fine, seriously.”

  River had absolutely everything to do with this, but Erik couldn’t tell Desiree that.

  Erik’s secrets were keeping him where he was. His anger and his past and the shadows they left. River made everything that hurt feel worthy of something better, and the only thing hurting Erik was himself.

  “It’s quiet tonight. I’ll throw you some hours on Sunday, okay? You can help me with inventory. But tonight, go home. Eat. Sleep. Ice that.” She nodded toward his shoulder and then to the door. “Go.”

  Erik did as he was told. But as soon as he hit the sidewalk outside Gem, he sent a quick text to Jadis. Their response was almost immediate.

  Jadis: long time no talk.

  Erik: You got anything?

  Jadis: always

  …

  “Damn, kid. Just one? You’re a lightweight,” Jadis said.

  Erik shook his head. “It’s been a while since I’ve had high-quality stuff.”

  “Well, it’s definitely high quality. Should make you feel tip-top.” Jadis pushed their freshly dyed red hair out of their face. They looked feline, almost, with high cheekbones and copper skin. “My guy cuts the MDMA with pretty clean coke. Shouldn’t be too bad of a comedown. You using with anyone?”

  “No.” He glanced at Jadis, the pits beneath their eyes, the caverns under their collarbones. The last time he’d done ecstasy had been at a party with Desiree. He’d followed Jadis into an empty bedroom, crushed up a pill, and done lines off of their bare stomach.

  “No?” Jadis purred. They touched Erik’s wrist, tracing over the Imugi with talented, scrawny fingers. “That’s unacceptable.”

  “Perfectly acceptable, actually.” Erik tossed the pill into his mouth and swallowed. It tasted like drain cleaner. “Eat something, Jadis. You need it.”

  “You could stay,” Jadis called. They crossed their arms and leaned against the wall outside a lackluster apartment. “We’d have fun.”

  Erik gave a dismissive wave and walked away. He waited for the spin. The crash. For the euphoria to overwhelm him. Ten minutes was all it took. Rain hit his face, and it made him lightheaded. He climbed the stairs to his studio and locked the door behind him, afraid that if he didn’t, he’d leave and head straight to River.

  His blood heated. His muscles relaxed. Nothing hurt. Nothing.

  Erik scrolled through Facebook. He looked at old pictures because the drugs made pain irrelevant. He looked at Beverly, at himself, at Lee, at everything he’d left behind. Beverly, who refused to let him go even when he insisted on being left, who had stayed in Los Angeles for the funeral, who called him every year on his birthday, who kissed him once and followed it with Yeah, no, sorry, buddy, not into guys. Who was sweet and kind and cried the loudest at the hospital when the doctors said Lee didn’t make it.

  Lee, who Erik missed more and more every day. Who was his best friend. Who’d said Those fists are like a wolf bite. Who overdosed on coke that Erik had given him when they were seventeen. He’d been all smiles, always positive, as loyal as they came. But he was gone.

  Somehow, Erik couldn’t outrun his ghost.

  He swiped through more pictures, closed the app, and opened another.

  Wolfbite013: Have you ever wanted something to hurt you?

  Watermarked: Not necessarily. Have you

  Wolfbite013: yeah sometimes

  Watermarked: do you want me to hurt you?

  Yeah, Erik thought. Sometimes.

  Wolfbite013: I don’t think you will

  Watermarked: I don’t think you’ll hurt me either

  Wolfbite013: I’m trying not to

  Watermarked: Where are you?

  Wolfbite013: alone in my apartment

  Watermarked: do you want to be alone?

  Alone was the last place he wanted to be, but it was the only place he had.

  Wolfbite013: If I asked you to hurt me, would you?

  Watermarked: depends. What’re you doing right now?

  Erik bit down on a smile. His hand snaked between his legs.

  Wolfbite013: Thinking about you hurting me. I think I want you to

  Watermarked: tell me how you want me to hurt you

  River was good at this. He was patient and sexy. He sent simple one-line messages that made Erik’s toes curl and his breath catch. I’d do that for you, one said. I wonder what you’d sound like.

  Wolfbite013: I’d say your name.

  Watermarked: I’d wrap my hand around your throat.

  Erik imagined it, his spine against River’s chest, one of River’s hands squeezing his throat, the heat of his breath on Erik’s shoulder, the way River’s name would sound when it slipped from him.

  He typed out: Fuck, River. Come over.

  He deleted it.

  His imagination spun images behind his eyes that made him weak. River in his lap, back arched. River’s fingers wound tight in his hair, holding him in place. Erik didn’t get the chance to respond. He was breathing heavy, sticky and sated in his bed, head spinning, skin tingling, thinking of River.

  Watermarked: You fall asleep on me?

  Wolfbite013: Not quite

  Watermarked: There’s still one half of this conversation we haven’t had

  Wolfbite013: Like?

  Watermarked: like how you’d hurt me.

  Wolfbite013: Do you want me to?

  Watermarked: I do now

  Erik smirked at his phone.

  Wolfbite013: how do you want me to hurt you River?

  …

  The comedown sucked. Erik’s head hurt, his body hurt. Guilt squirmed in his gut, a reminder that drugs were an escape that never lasted—a trapdoor that led him back to the same place he’d run from. Food sounded like the worst idea he’d ever had; training was a close second. But he had to do something.

  He went for a run in the early hours on Thursday and ended up at the gym that afternoon, lifting weights and doing laps in the pool. After, he scrolled through the text conversation with River from the night before. He blushed, laughed, and wondered. The last text River had sent pinged Erik’s phone after he’d fallen asleep.

  Watermarked: a Svara is the next dragon you want right? What’s its story?

  Erik typed out an answer, hesitated, and backspaced it.

  Wolfbite013: wish me luck tomorrow

  Watermarked: Good luck. Kick some ass.

  …

  Erik tore his opponent to shreds Friday night. He knocked the other fighter out in under five minutes, wild-eyed and charged, his recklessness buzzing in his fists. He hadn’t realized he’d been hit until he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and saw the fresh cut on the right side of his mouth.

  He tongued at the wound, licking away blood and sweat.

  Dark bags circled the skin beneath his eyes. He examined a muted bruise on his cheek, still felt bones cracking against his fists, still heard the winded gasp from the other fighter when Erik’s foot con
nected with his sternum. He couldn’t see himself fight—he didn’t want to see himself fight, but he did see the winces from the audience, heard the chatter when he walked out of the ring.

  O’Malley’s back in the game.

  He’s like an animal.

  Did you see that?

  “Hey.” Desiree stepped in front of him before he got to the door. “That was quick.”

  “Yeah, I guess it was.” Erik zipped his coat and tongued at his lip again.

  “Careful, Erik.” She touched his chin. He jerked his face away. “Fighting is one thing, hurting someone is another.”

  “That’s the point. People get hurt.”

  “Not like that,” Desiree bit. “Did you see his face?”

  I didn’t see anything. “Yeah, I saw it. He’s fine.”

  “This time.” Desiree pinched his chin with two fingers. “Get it under control, sweetie. Blood is one thing, but you don’t want a funeral on your hands, okay?”

  Desperate, angry memories seized the air in Erik’s chest. The sound of Beverly’s voicemail, the one he still had saved. You could’ve at least stayed for the service. The paramedics hauling him away from Lee’s body slumped in the bathroom.

  “See you Sunday,” he said.

  Wolfbite013: You home?

  Watermarked: yeah

  Erik hailed a Lyft and went to the only place he could think of.

  River answered the door in sweats and a T-shirt. He glanced at Erik, then over his shoulder, back at Erik.

  He suddenly regretted his impromptu appearance and wondered if there was blood on him still, if he looked as desperate and aggressive as he felt. “Is Pax here?”

  “No…” River swallowed. He glanced down at Erik’s raw, pink knuckles. “You okay?”

  Erik didn’t really know anymore. “I won,” he said. “It was quick, though. Too quick.”

  “Isn’t that good? Winning fast?”

  Erik reached for him when River stepped back. He felt River’s fingers on the inside of his palm, a testing touch to a freshly used weapon.