One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(18)
“The news,” I nod, “Yeah, okay, let’s start there.”
Jeremy’s brows pull in confusion, as does Peter’s, and Russell stiffens when I turn to him and hold my index finger at eye level.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy asks, darting his eyes between me and Russell, a goofy grin plastered on his face.
“Think of my finger as the news, Jeremy,” I utter, moving my pointer back and forth just in front of Russell’s nose. His eyes follow, his own expression confounded.
“Watching the news, Jeremy?” I snap, slowly running my finger back and forth along Russell’s line of sight.
“Yep,” Jeremy says. His quick reply is jovial, as if he’s in on my joke.
I run it past Russell one last time and hold it before sucker-punching Jeremy with my free fist.
“Mderfucker!” Jeremy grips his nose as Russell and Peter burst into surprised laughter.
“Da fuck, Dom?!” Jeremy groans, tone muddled, eyes watering.
“See what happens when you pay attention to the diversion instead of what’s going on in your own fucking reality?”
Jeremy examines his bloody fingers. “You could have used a different tactic to get your point across, dickhead.”
“I could have,” I say, snatching the ski mask from his back pocket and holding it out to him to reiterate my point, “but now you know why I didn’t.”
Guilt-filled eyes lift to mine as he draws the conclusion intended.
Cecelia spotted the ski mask hanging out of his back pocket earlier while they were shooting pool and spoke up about it. A conversation I hadn’t gotten to have with him yet, and just made unnecessary. Even if Jeremy played it off expertly, it drew more suspicion from her.
“Sorry, man,” Jeremy grits out, “I fucked up.”
“You think?” I draw out in monotone.
“Won’t happen again, hand to God, man. My fucking bad.”
“Yeah, next time, leave the fucking uniform at home, especially when you didn’t even need it . . . and you know who the news is controlled by,” I remind him. “You’re better off believing conspiracy theorists at this point. At least there’s some merit there.”
“So, Tupac is alive and well and living in Cuba?” Jeremy snarks.
“You know better because they exterminate all the truth tellers.”
“You Nostradamus now?” Jeremy antagonizes due to his swelling nose and battered pride.
Stepping into his space as he retreats, I command his gaze. “Yeah, I’m a prophet, and here’s my prediction. When those doling out the selected forecast have everyone panicking about the price of an apple and a tank of gas so they can sneak more control through proposed legislation—having already taken freedoms fought for and won decades ago—we’re all fucked.” I palm his chest and lightly shove him. “That’s why we can’t get too cocky or parade around like idiots. There’s too much at stake.”
He nods, wiping his nose with his mask as I put him in a headlock and roughly knuckle his scalp. “And we already know they don’t have shit.” Breaking my hold, Jeremy looks over to me, eyes assessing as I give him due props. “Other than your shitty oversight, you did good.”
His expression lights up at my rare praise before I turn to Russell and Peter, “you too.”
Peter beams as he looks over the dollies full of merch being unloaded by recruits as Russell utters a low “thanks,” seemingly lost in his thoughts.
Pun intended, Russell is a rare bird who’s no doubt still mulling over my words. He’s made it clear his goal is to run his own chapter at some point, so he’s always paying careful attention to our words, actions, and strategies—especially mine. Of all our circle, he and I have the most in common.
Like me, Russell comes from a family of immigrants who came to the US to seek a piece of the illusion. His mother was born and raised Japanese; his father was a military brat raised on the Yokota Airbase. The second his dad was of age, he married Russell’s mother and brought her back to the States to seek his piece of the American dream. What Russell’s dad failed to realize—by not reading the fine print—is that if you gain sudden fortune of any kind, it better be in the multi-millions. Because once Uncle Sam is flagged, he’ll be coming for his portion, which is only a few percentage points short of the lion’s share. And if you spend your American Uncle’s money, he becomes a loan shark, and if you don’t pay, the reimbursement is freedom. The judge made an example out of Russell’s dad, leaving him fatherless for most of his formative years. We’re a lot alike in that Russell is also more of a man of action and rarely feels comfortable saying more than a few sentences unless he’s surrounded by us—his chosen family.
Looking over at Jeremy and Peter, I can feel the excitement of what’s brewing between us, all growing up in similar circumstances. Feral kids with no one looking for or calling us home while we did the best we could with our dealt hands.
Jeremy sniffs, his nostrils coated in red as remorse kicks in for the shit I just pulled. He’s bound to fuck up here and there, as we all are until he can fly solo. Same as Peter, whose fresh ink is in the midst of scabbing over.
Tyler enlisted Peter in a jail cell the cops had locked him in, in the hope it would scare him straight. He was an unprinted juvenile on the verge of a life of crime—which made him a prime candidate for us. What the cops didn’t know or care to recognize is that an empty stomach is a major fucking motivator. Peter had turned to thieving to keep the electricity on in the sad excuse of a trailer he resided in—which Tyler had relayed ‘had a gaping hole in the floor.’ His short stint in burglary was an attempt to feed his infant sister after his abusive Dad bailed.