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  The Weight of Blood

  Copyright 2021 Maura O’Brien

  Photography: Reggie Deanching

  Cover Model: Ammon Carver

  Cover by: Avery Kingston

  Formatted by: Dark Water Covers

  Editor: Edits by Erin

  ISBN: 978-1-953088-11-6

  Foreword & Dedication

  The Weight of Blood was originally written as a ten-thousand-word anthology piece for TNTNYC’s Cuffed & Pinched books. This book was written as a duet piece with Kristine Allen’s The Weight of Honor, which centers around Vince’s childhood friend, Roman.

  This book would not have happened without Janine Infante Bosco’s vision for the anthology pieces, the very talented Kristine Allen as my writing partner, or that amazing picture Reggie took of Ammon. A big thank you to the above.

  Also, my pre-teen niece, Megan, has been after me to dedicate a book to her – which I told her I wouldn’t do because she’s too young to read my works – so please help me keep the secret that she has a book in her honor!

  A CUFFED AND PINCHED DUET

  Prologue

  Vince

  “Come on, Vince!” Roman says, hitting me on my shoulder. “We always go to my house! I don’t even know where you live. I mean, exactly.”

  I scrunch up my face and feel a knot forming in my throat, not knowing what excuse I could use this time. And he is right, in the year since we became best friends, I had never had him over to the apartment mom and I live in. I cringe at the thought, but knew I had to give in and hope nothing bad would happen.

  “Okay, okay. But it’s an apartment so don’t expect much,” I tell him. Crossing my fingers, I turn off of Western Avenue to go in the opposite direction from his house and pray that his dad might happen by in his cruiser, stopping him from going to the Section 8 housing I live in.

  I knew my mom was at work this afternoon and I hadn’t seen her latest boyfriend in a few days, so I figured I would be spared that embarrassment. All in all, the guy she’d been seeing the past month wasn’t so bad, but he’s also kind of why Roman is inviting himself over today.

  The last time I got locked out of the apartment and Reggie found me sitting in the hallway, he showed me how to pick the door locks. Not that the locks in our building were very difficult to jimmy open, but then he gave me a couple thin pieces of metal and an old bike lock to practice with. When I started telling Roman about it and he became obsessed with the idea of learning how to do it also.

  Unfortunately, I forgot to bring the metal picks with me today even though I knew I’d be going to Roman’s house after baseball practice.

  “Whoa! I never knew this place was here,” he says, way too loud as he looks around the complex with wide eyes. “Do you have a balcony?”

  “No. Don’t point!” I hiss at him before further instructing him as he takes in all the units overlooking the courtyard that have balconies. “Just keep your head down and follow me.”

  Looking back over my shoulder, I almost stop breathing. He thinks I’m kidding so he extended his arms and is waddling side to side like he’s a robot. I turn on him, nearly knocking him over, but I grab his shirt and pull his face close to mine.

  “This isn’t a joke, Roman. The cops are here all the time and not because of some kid’s birthday party.” I whisper my warning and even though he’s wiped his usual goofy smile off of his face, I know he doesn’t understand. “Stay next to me and don’t make eye contact or talk to anyone.”

  “Jeesh, relax, Vince,” he replies, but stays quiet after that.

  “We don’t have a balcony,” I tell him, a moment later. “Our unit faces the alley so there’s just a fire escape.”

  “Oh, ‘cause I thought we could throw water balloons sometimes,” he answers, sounding truly disappointed.

  This is one of those times I feel so much older than him even though we’re both nine years old. There’s just so many things he doesn’t understand and I don’t have the words to explain it to him. ‘Balloons’ get thrown off the balconies all the time, except instead of water, they’re either used condoms or packages with dope.

  For all that I grew up five blocks away from him, I never knew what his world was like until that charity gave the Catholic school tuition so I could go there.

  As usual, the entry door to our building has been propped open and Frederick is sitting in a chair near the elevator. Roman starts to walk straight toward it and I can feel his excitement at riding in one, but I quickly grab his arm to tug him into the stairwell.

  “Come on, the elevator’s broken,” I say.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, little man. You got a guest, so I’ll let you take a free ride,” Frederick taunts me, giving me a wide smile. He and I both know there’s no such thing around here.

  “Thank you, but we need to stretch after practice,” I answer, hoping he thinks that was polite enough.

  My hand tightens around Roman’s arm and thankfully he has figured out there’s something fishy going on. We’re two flights up before he looks at me.

  “What was that? What did he mean?”

  “We can’t use the elevator unless I work for his boss or buy from him.” For once, he doesn’t ask any more questions.

  Luckily, our apartment is right next to the stairs and I quickly let us in when we hit the third floor.

  “Vincent!” My name is bellowed out by a man I haven’t seen in years. “There’s my guy! The man of the house!”

  “Hi,” I say nervously as he picks me up and swings me around—the smell of alcohol coming out of his mouth almost knocks me out.

  “What? Just a ‘hi’ for your old man? And what’s this? You’re playing sports?” he asks, looking at my uniform before he notices that Roman has crept into the apartment after me. “Who’s this?”

  “My friend,” I answer.

  “Hi, sir, I’m Roman Prescott,” he says, stepping forward with his hand outstretched like his father has taught us to do.

  “Sir!” My dad laughs as he looks down at Roman’s outstretched hand before finally taking it. Seconds later, I see my friend’s face turning red and I step sideways when I understand that Dad is squeezing Roman’s hand way too tight.

  Breaking between them, I look up at the man I barely know, “When did you get out?”

  “Couple days ago,” he says, then turns back to a massive bottle of alcohol on the table near the couch. “Where’s your mom at?”

  “She’s waitressing, I don’t know where,” I answer, wondering if we should make a break for it or not.

  “Relax, hang out with your old man. We gotta catch up,” Dad says after taking a big gulp of whatever he poured in his glass. “I bought some Mountain Dew, go grab some for all of us, Roman.”

  Shit. His mom doesn’t let any of her kids drink that, so I know he’s not going to turn down the offer.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, cutting him off. There’s usually something that smells awful in the fridge; another thing I don’t want him to know about.

  Walking past the kitchen, I pull the curtain that serves as my bedroom door. It’s actually a small dining area, but since we just have a one-bedroom, mom set this up as my room. I quickly get the picks that we had originally come for and grab three Mountain Dews on the way back to the couch.

  “What happened to the TV?” Dad asks when I hand him his drink then go to sit beside Roman on my bean bag chair.

  “Cable’s out,” I say.

  “Fucking bitch can’t pay her bills,” he slurs before taking another deep drink. “So, man-to-man, how many guys does she have giving it to her?”

  Roman had just taken a sip and he starts to choke on the soda stuck in his throat. I just sit there, trying to keep a straight face as I hold my unopened can.

  “Yeah, you think that’s funny, Roman?” Dad turns his glare on my friend. “My fiancée likes to fuck around cause I ain’t here. Like my boy should see that shit?”

  I press my leg against Roman’s, hoping he’ll take my hint to follow the advice I had given him outside the building.

  “How old are you now? You’re old enough to work for the crew around here, ain’t you?”

  “I don’t. I go to school and baseball,” I a

nswer, trying not to look at his glass as he pours more of the clear liquid into it.

  “Yeah, I was about ten when I started working.”

  “Um, Mr. Dalton?” Roman pipes up and I try not to show the panic I feel. “We are supposed to get back to the field for a game. They won’t let us play if we’re late.”

  I don’t know where he came up with that excuse, but I pray my dad falls for it.

  “Yeah, you know you get that from me, right? I was fucking hell on wheels in sports all the way through high school,” Dad says, laughing as he leans his head back against the couch. “What’s that line: All the guys wanted to be me and all the girls wanted to blow me.”

  “I’ll see you later, okay, Dad?” I ask, worried about leaving without his permission.

  “Yeah, fucking PLAY BALL!” He yells out, picking up the remote control and throwing it against the wall. We take that as our hint to dart for the door. Actually, we don’t stop until we’ve crossed Western Avenue again.

  Then I stop and lean against Waldo’s Pizza, gasping for breath and trying to size up my friend. Mainly to see if he still wants me to come home with him.

  “You can’t ever tell my parents,” Roman wheezes out.

  “Do…I mean, I don’t have to come over, if you don’t want me to…” I stutter out, desperate for his friendship, but too proud to force myself on him.

  “Oh, you are definitely coming over! Just, you know,” Roman says, hitting my shoulder again.

  “I saved this for you,” I tell him, showing him the unopened can of Mountain Dew. “But you gotta hide it really good or your mom will kill us.”

  “You’re the best!” he yells, rushing to give me a noogie before I push him off and chase him home.

  “You two are late!” Mrs. Prescott yells as we run in the back door, heading straight up to his room. “Get cleaned up before you set the table, dinner’s in fifteen minutes!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. P!” As Roman runs ahead of me, I turn back to smile at his mom. I want to say more, but I get that knot in my throat again. Looking at me for a second, she blows me a kiss and I spin around to catch up with Roman.

  We never spoke about that day again.

  Chapter 1

  Vince

  Sipping my coffee, I can’t believe no one in the store has noticed what I have. Typically, I wouldn’t be looking at someone like her after I just dropped off the goods procured from my last job, but her every movement screams: I’m about to shoplift! So, I couldn’t help but turn into the boutique to see if she would actually follow through with it.

  Plus, I’m a sucker for redheads. I always have been, and after her auburn, wavy hair drew my glance as I was passing by the boutique, the next thing I noticed was that she was casing the place. I’m sure I looked much the same way when I was a kid and shoplifted from time to time. More than anything, it’s the desperation that radiates from her. She’s not doing this for a rush or a dare. She needs something she can’t afford.

  Entering the woman’s clothing shop, I slowly sip my coffee while I look at racks with one thing in common—they all give me a line of sight to the girl. Not a girl exactly, but I definitely have a handful of years on her.

  Looking past her, I see one of the sales lady’s eyes look her up and down, judging what she has on and seemingly finding her wanting. The sales lady makes a comment to her coworker and they both laugh. Finally, Little Red, as I’ve decided to nickname her, enters into the dressing room with several items and I’m silently cheering her on as she makes her next move.

  Within five minutes, she’s back out and I immediately catch onto the fact that she has layers on that weren’t there before, her frame was less padded when I first saw her. She manages a quick look at my face and I throw her a wink; Little Red has no way of knowing it, but I’ve got her back.

  There’s no way I’ll let her get picked up for this, I cast another look around the store and am pleased she picked a place without surveillance cameras.

  Following her, I swear she even squeezes her eyes closed when she’s walking past the sensors before the doors that lead out onto the street. It’s the high-pitched voice behind me that catches my attention.

  “That girl with the red hair!” The original sales lady calls out, holding onto an empty hanger. “I think she took a blouse.”

  Although, I was intent on following the woman who caught my eye, I turn on my heel as if suddenly noticing something on a display and collide with a woman in slacks and sensible shoes. Catching her ankle with my foot, I ensure that we both end up on the ground.

  “Omf!” I cry out dramatically, grabbing my knee and scrunching my face together. All of the store employees have now focused their attention on me, rather than the girl who stole a blouse.

  To be honest, this is painful. I spilled my coffee all over a suit and shirt that I paid a few thousand dollars for, just to help a stranger escape with what was probably a fifty-dollar top.

  Here’s hoping she’ll rethink her ways, because she sucks at stealing, I think to myself as I slowly stand up and delay the people around me another moment before I take my leave.

  Cassie

  Oh. My. God. Oh. My. God.

  From the moment I walked into the boutique I was certain everyone was staring at me, as if they could hear my heart beating or were reading my mind.

  What a stupid thing to do, but this meeting tomorrow means everything, and I’ve seen how everyone at the company dresses. This will be my second interview, and this time it’s directly with the woman I’ll be reporting to, so I need to nail it.

  I showed up in my best clothes for the first meeting, and no matter how many secondhand shops I waded through during the past three days, I could not find anything that fit me. Other than items that screamed she doesn’t belong here.

  But I do. I know I can not only do this job in my sleep, but I can really add something. I’m already a step behind my competition because I haven’t finished college, but as the head of human resources said when she called me about a second interview, I scored the highest on the aptitude test that was created to fill this position.

  The look she gave me when I originally interviewed said it all, I was there because another employee recommended me, even though she obviously didn’t think much of my resume.

  David and I were in school together a couple of years back; while he was able to finish, I’ve been stuck at dead-end jobs while trying to save up enough to go back and complete my degree. I tutored him during the two years we were in school together, so he knows I’m qualified, but I was shocked when he messaged me about the opening. Like most of the people I was friendly with in school, he drifted away after I left.

  “Can I get you a dressing room?” a woman asks me, breaking me out of my musings. Maybe it’s just my nerves but I feel like I’m being watched, other than the woman who’s still waiting for me to answer her.

  “Oh, no thank you! I want to look at these against other items before I try things on,” I answer, giving her the line I had rehearsed, careful not to make eye contact with her. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

  Turning away from her, I find a few more things that I don’t want and walk back toward the dressing room. While I usually shop someplace that counts your items before they’ll let you into a room, I decided to go big today. The top that I want is nearly sixty dollars! I know it’ll look great on me.

  Unless I get arrested. With my hair, I don’t look so hot in orange.

  I immediately search the seams of the top, looking for any kind of shoplifting sensor doohickey before taking my shirt off and putting it on. Pulling my shirt back over it, I make sure no part of it is sticking out—just then there’s a knock on the door and I nearly scream in terror.

  “Is there anything else you need? Maybe in a different size?” the woman asks me from outside the dressing room.

  “No. Thank you.”

  I inspect my outfit again and rattle the hangers to make it sound like I’m trying things on, then it hits me! There’ll be an extra hanger. I should have brought a loose item in to hang it up! Looking around, I jam the hanger between the wall and the rectangular ottoman. It won’t pass close inspection, but it should work until I can get out of here. Especially once I pull my fleece on.