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I add one more item to my list, just because I’ve already done it and I can cross it off:
- Have a one- night stand
If I’m starting over, I need to change more than just my location. I need to change my outlook. My habits. My ways.
It’s time to rebuild myself from the ground up.
Now I just have to figure out how.
Chapter Ten
The Past
TJ
“Gonna be a brutal one tonight.”
I rub my hands together over the fire. “Gotta love winters in New York.”
“One of my buddies didn’t make it last winter. We had that bad blizzard. He never met us back at the shelter. Died in the street and the snow just covered him. The plow wound up pushing his body all the way down to Times Square before someone found him.”
“Shit.”
Steve keeps talking, telling stories like he always does. He’s been homeless for ten years. Not exactly something to brag about, but when you’ve got nothing, you cling to anything to feel like you’ve got something.
In the year since Woods and I last spoke, I’ve been kicked out of three more foster homes. Expelled from two more schools. In and out of juvie. But once I turned eighteen … that was it. The revolving door stopped. There was only one place left for me to go.
Life’s been tough, but none of it compares to being homeless. This is rock bottom.
I’d go back to getting beat on by fatass Dave if I could. Crazy, isn’t it?
Homeless.
Not a word I thought I’d ever be associated with. Yet here I am, standing over a rusty old garbage can trying to keep warm. I’m even wearing a pair of fingerless gloves to complete my look.
“Hey, TJ. Let me introduce you to my friend. This is Bobby. He runs the underground fights here in the city.”
Bobby shoves him and Steve falls on his ass. “What the fuck, Steve? You can’t go runnin’ your mouth, tellin’ people about fighting.”
I stifle a laugh.
“Somethin’ funny to you, string bean?” Bobby walks over to where I’m standing and folds his arms over his chest. The dude is pretty muscular for someone who’s homeless. Wonder where he’s getting fed.
I shake my head. “Steve just broke the first rule of Fight Club.”
A slow smile stretches across Bobby’s face. “Kid’s got jokes. What’s your name, son?”
“Well, it’s not string bean. And I’m not your son. You can call me TJ.”
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want to call you. Look at you, mouthin’ off to me like you know somethin’.” His arms spread wide. “Why don’t you show me what you know?”
“No, thanks,” I say, turning away from the fire. “I’m not interested in your little fight club.”
“You not interested in makin’ money?”
I stop and turn around. “Money?”
“What do you think we’re fightin’ for, string bean? Winner gets paid fifty perfect. I get the other fifty. Loser goes home empty-handed. Or in a body bag.”
