Tethered

A/N: For those of you returning from The Line Begins To Blur, welcome back! I've been making some big changes to TLBTB, one of the biggest ones is I changed Jay's name to Gage. Going forward in this novel, Gage is Jay.

Noah

This is stupid. Of all the stupid shit I’ve done in my life, this is by far the worst.

Sitting up in bed, I swat at the bucket headphones I’m wearing, making them land on my bed before tumbling to the floor with a thud. Thumbing the lock button on my phone, I pull up my text messages and tap on Paul’s name.

Me: What time again?

Paul: Oh shit, you serious?

I wish I wasn’t but at this point, what fucking choice do I have?

Me: Yea.

Paul: Be there at 9

I look at the time that’s flashing on my clock next to my bed. 3:48. Perfect, exactly four hours and twelve minutes for me to constantly be telling myself I’m a goddamn idiot for doing this. Slapping my open palm against my face, I let out an exasperated sigh, dragging my hand down my face and fall back on my mattress.

Looking over at the eviction notices printed on bright red paper scattered on my floor cause a weight to settle in my chest. I need help. At this point, I’m desperate for it. It’s either I get help, or my brother and I are on the streets again and we swore we’d never let that happen.

Johnny is all I have in life. From as far back as I can remember, our parents didn’t give a shit about us. The only thing they cared about was their next fix. When they left us I was only fourteen, Johnny was eighteen. We couldn’t afford rent for the apartment we grew up in, so we ended up on the streets for a few months until I could get a job at a diner, getting paid under the table.

The owner of the place took pity on me and would always send me home with leftover food the cooks couldn’t use the next day. I worked there until I was eighteen and was old enough to get a job at one of the scrapyards in the city.

We’ve had each other’s backs, Johnny and I, working our asses off to afford to keep a roof over our heads ever since.

Getting up from bed, I turn up the music on my phone. I need something to distract myself from the fact that I’m going to be signing my life over tonight. But seemingly, no matter how high I turn up the volume, I can’t drown it out.

“Shit,” I breathe out. Reaching for my hoodie, I shove my closed fists through the sleeves and zip it up before tugging the hood up over my head. I grab the pack of smokes off of my dresser, my phone off the bed, and head out to the hall.

Passing the kitchen on my way to the front door, I see the curtain that’s hanging in front of the window moving from the draft of cold air that’s spilling in through the cracks in the window casing. My eyes catch on the hole that’s punched in the drywall a few feet from the window. I stop in my tracks, my eyes fixed on it, remembering back to that night.

For the past few months Johnny’s been coming up short, making me have to pick up the slack. When I confronted him about it, it ended up in a blow-out fight between the both of us. He slammed me against the wall of our kitchen, holding his forearm to my throat and put his fist through the wall next to my face to shut me up.

I’d never been scared of my brother, but now I find myself flinching when he comes towards me.

Johnny’d apologized a day later. He broke down at the kitchen table over breakfast. His hands constantly scratched at his arms while he told me he’d been targeted by some low-level Russian thug. When he looked up at me with his bloodshot eyes, I couldn’t help but think of our parents. I remember them looking like this when they were strung out.

When I called him out on it, accusing him of using, his fists clenched, his emotions flipping like a light switch. My face must have said it all when I saw him about to physically act out again because he quickly swallowed his rage and said it was from nerves and lack of sleep. That he was feeling so guilty for what he’d done to me, using his thumb to point to the hole in the drywall to clarify.

I never had a reason to doubt him before but after that day, there’s this new nagging voice at the back of my head telling me this isn’t right. Something’s off. He promised he’d make next month’s rent, that he wouldn’t let them shake him down.

That was three months ago, before the eviction notices started.

Shaking my head to get the voices to stop, I pat my pants pocket to make sure I have my lighter and my face mask before I head to the door, grabbing my helmet. My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down at it.

Paul: Piece of advice, don’t try to be funny.

Paul’s been my best friend since third grade. Another lost soul stuck in the slums that are the South end of Portland. Around here you have three options in life: you find God, try to stay clean and work the line down at the docks or in one of the hundreds of warehouses till you eventually meet him. You turn to drugs and try to hustle what you can, like most kids choose, until they wind up on a missing person’s poster. Or, you joined a syndicate.

Once Paul was old enough, he made his choice, turning to the ‘church’, The Malone crime family. He joined mostly because of his dad. He has some rare, incurable disease that’s been racking up a hefty medical debt, one that no one— even with a stable job— could afford.

I let it slip, my brother’s problem, to him and Ben over beers the other night at Moriarty’s. Paul mentioned that I could get protection for Johnny from his boss, if I could afford it.

At first I said no. I wasn’t going to become another statistic here in the city. Owing the church anything was one of the fastest ways to turn up missing, not to mention I have little to offer them. If you don’t have money, but still want something, your only option is to work it off, and that’s what worries me the most.

When I came back home from work today to a final eviction notice nailed to the front door and no response from Johnny when I asked if he had this month’s rent, my mind changed. We’re about to be out on our asses again.

Once outside on the porch of the old row home that’s been converted into two apartments, one on the second floor and ours on the first, I situate my helmet under one arm then smack the unopened pack of smokes against the heel of my palm a few times to pack them. A stupid habit Paul and Ben give me shit for. I saw my brother do it when I was younger and, you know, younger brother always looking up to his older brother bullshit, it became a habit.

Filling my lungs with smoke, I let it out with a loud groan and watch the column of smoke float up in front of me, mixing with the fog that’s hanging in the air from the late-summer storm. This is my grand plan; I’m giving my soul over to Desmond Kelly to become a member of the Irish mafia in hopes of saving my brother from the Bratva.

Pretty fucking stupid, but he’s my brother. He’s all I got. It’s always been me and him against the world, and I’d do anything to protect him.

Word around the city is the Irish own most of the cops so at least I won’t have to worry about getting pinched and tossed in the can. Gotta bright side this shit, I guess.

Checking the time on my phone again, I take another drag. “Four hours, seven minutes.”

Resting the smoke on the railing of the porch, I pull my mask over my head and situate it around my neck. I grab the cig and put it back between my lips and head for my Ducati.

✶

“Thought you were bailing on us,” Ben yells over the music playing. I slide into the booth, pushing Paul with my helmet so he’s on the inside, up against the brick wall. I toss the helmet in the open spot next to Ben. Paul quickly grabs his pint and drags it across the table, his draft beer spilling over the top onto his hand.

“Nah, told you I’d be here,” I answer, trying my best to smile because fuck, I’m nervous.

“Kept us waiting long enough,” Paul says, wiping the back of his hand on my hoodie.

Slapping his hand away, I turn to the waitress who’s walking by and try to grab her attention. “Hey, watch it, I gotta look good for the Godfather,” I say, using my best Vito Corleone voice.

She stops mid step and leans over so she can hear me over whoever played Dropkick Murphy’s on the jukebox. I mean, really, how fucking cliche can you be, playing them in an Irish bar? The waitress takes my order and tells me she’ll be over in a minute.

“Seriously shut the fuck up, you can’t be saying shit like that around here. And don’t be making dumbass comments like that in front of him,” Ben warns, keeping his voice low enough so that I can just barely hear him.

Ben was the cautious, level-headed one. People thought he was a stickler for the rules but really, it was his way of keeping things he couldn’t control in control. Ben joined the church because, like me, his parents were pieces of shit. They practically abandoned Ben and Lydia, leaving them to raise themselves. His kid sister, Lydia, has reached the age where she’s been garnering unwanted attention from the sleazy bastards who skulk around Southie. Not that the guys in the syndicate wouldn’t also try something on her, but at least they would be held accountable for their actions. And payment for those crimes was severe, or so I’m told.

“You guys act like I’m a ticking bomb. I can keep my mouth shut.”

“We’ve known you since we were nine, you’ve never once kept your mouth shut,” Paul counters.

Ben taps my arm from across the table, “This is serious.”

Now my anger is starting to rise. “You think I don’t know this? I’m about to get kicked to the fucking curb and my brother is in some Russian punk’s crosshairs. You really think I want to hand over the rest of my life like you dipshits did?”

They know my stance on them joining the church. I told them they were idiots, that there were other options. They gave me shit and told me to get the fuck off my high horse.

The waitress returns with my beer and I quickly take a swig to stop me from saying anything else. They’re like brothers to me, but I’m getting a little sick of being treated like I don’t understand the depths of the world around me. Between the three of us, I know first hand how fucked up this world can be. It wasn’t them who went days without food as a kid. It wasn’t Ben who had to tip-toe around used needles on the living room floor. It wasn’t Paul who walked in on his parent’s OD-ing, their faces covered in powder.

And yea, I have a messed up sense of humor that I use at really bad times, but it’s a fucking coping mechanism. One I’d rather have than sticking myself with a needle every day or snorting powder off a toilet seat.

It’s quiet between the three of us for a while. I can see the two of them looking between each other as I drink my beer, like they’re trying to decide who’s going to talk to me first.

“No word from Johnny?” Ben finally asks.

Keeping my hand around the pint glass, I rub my thumb up and down the sweating glass, fixing my gaze on the tiny bubbles rising in my drink. “Texted him over a day ago and still haven’t gotten anything back. He never came home last night.”

Running my now moist hand through my hair, I lean back until my back hits the backrest of the booth. The last time Johnny stayed away from home was when he had a girlfriend, but he never ignored me. I’m desperately trying to keep my mind from thinking that he’s in some back alley with a Russian necktie.

Paul checks his phone for the time and then taps me on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Time to go, bruv,” he says in a fake British accent.

My anxiety skyrockets. Downing the rest of my beer, I slam the glass back down on the table. It’s for Johnny. I need to do this for him, I tell myself.

Paul nudges me out of the booth. Ben follows us through the crowded dance floor, elbowing our way through the drunk people who are swaying to the shitty pop music blasting from the speakers. It’s getting to that time of night where the libations are taking their toll. I can hear the high pitched, drunk laughs from the girls who are dancing in such a way to get the men to look at them. All their previous mantras about how they ‘don’t need a guy’ have flown out the window, along with their modesty.

And don’t get me started on all of the desperate bros staggering around, drooling at anything that accidentally looks in their direction. Pathetic.

We get to the empty dining area of the building and Paul leads us to a door that’s painted a deep green color with a gold word plate screwed to it saying ‘Private’. He puts his hand on the matching gold handle and pushes the door open.

“Don’t fuck it up,” Paul says.

The smell of mothballs has me turning up my nose. God, I hate that smell. Ben makes sure the door is closed behind me before I start down the hall. Most of the rooms I pass are used for either storage or cleaning closets while the other two are reserved for employees. Two locker rooms, one labeled Lads, the other Lasses and an employees only bathroom.

My hands are shaking and I’m kicking myself for not having a cigarette before I came here. Maybe one of these doors leads to the alley between this building and the next? I can make a quick detour, have a smoke… think of a way to get Johnny and I the hell out of Southie.

The last door to the right is where I’m headed. It sticks out like a sore thumb, painted red with the word ‘Private’ painted on it in gold. Some obnoxious smelling cigar smoke is leaking out from under the door, making my stomach churn on top of what my nerves are already doing to it.

Grimacing at the smell, I run my hands down my face. I’m desperate. He’s my big brother, he’s had my back since the beginning. There’s nothing I can do to convince the Russian fuckers to leave him alone and going to the cops would do jack shit.

I reach out my hand for the doorknob. The bright light of the room hits my eyes, making me squint from being in the dimly lit hall for the last few minutes, contemplating my life decisions.

I take a deep breath before walking into the room filled with cigar smoke and close the door behind me. No going back now.

Across the room is a massive wood desk. The dark brown leather chair behind it is turned so I can’t see who’s sitting there but I already know.

Standing next to who I assume is Desmond in the chair, is some schmuck dressed in a black hoodie with his hood pulled up over his head, keeping his face in the shadows and black tactical pants. He takes a file that Desmond’s holding up to him and flips through it. Hoodie guy says something about someone named Alex, that he has some ties to one of their persons of interest. Most of what they’re saying is mumbled but I catch some things, like Ocean State Shipping and Patrick Murphy.

Not wanting to overhear too much, I clear my throat to bring their attention to me.

Desmond waves his hand and mumbles something to him, I can hear his Belfast accent from here, then holds out his hand for the file. Hoodie guy hands it back then rounds the desk, stalking towards me.

I don’t back down, holding my ground as he comes up on me fast. I catch a glimpse of him sneering down at me before he pushes past me, knocking his shoulder into mine hard enough to make me have to take a step back.

Asshole.

Just as the door slams behind me, Desmond turns and takes a long pull from his cigar, blowing the smoke in my direction.

Desmond’s brown eyes land on me and this situation all of a sudden becomes very real. Before, I felt like I was watching some character in a movie running head first towards a stupid decision but now I’m very aware that that stupid character is me. I’m the one running head first towards said stupid decision.

I try to speak, to say sorry, that I’ve changed my mind but he speaks. “So, you’re the lad who’s brother has some problems?”

“Putting it lightly,” I answer.

“Have a seat, boyo,” he says, gesturing his hand to the chair in front of his desk.

I do, sinking into the loud leather chair in front of him. He leans forward so that he can reach for his tumbler of whiskey then leans back. He swirls the tumbler around, making the ice clink off of the glass. “Tell me about your brother.”

Tugging on the collar of my hoodie as if that will help me breathe better, I answer, “He’s been behind on rent—”

“T’is isn’t a bank, boyo,” Desmond cuts me off, the amused look on his face from earlier drops.

“He’s being shaken down by some Russian punks,” I continue. “My brother hasn’t been able to pay his half in months and now we’re about to get evicted. He hasn’t been home in over 48 hours. Voices on the street are saying you Irish are having some problems with the Ruskies.”

Desmond’s expression hardens. “Those voices will get ’ya killed or worse, boyo.”

“It’s my understanding that to win a war you need bodies.”

He leans back in his chair, raising his chin so that he’s looking down his nose at me, like I’m some shitty piece of meat someone put in front of him on a deli counter.

“What an interesting proposition,” Desmond says, rolling his tongue over his front teeth. “You want protection for your brother by joining our ranks.”

“I see it as a win-win. My brother gets the protection he needs, you get another soldier for your army.”

Desmond leans forward, the leather of his chair creaking as he does. His hand lands on the wood desk, his fingers starting to thrum against the wood. My heart is hammering in my chest and I can feel the knots starting to form in my stomach.

Fuck, this is a mistake. I just put myself in the crosshairs of the Irish while Johnny is in the Russian’s. The old man is going to say no, to get the fuck out of here. I’m gonna be riding back to the house and I’ll be clipped by some low-level soldier trying to rise up in the ranks for wasting Desmond’s time.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Tis a big debt you’re about to take on,” he finally says. “You’re going to be paying back with interest.”

Rising from his chair, he leans over the desk between us, resting both hands on the surface to keep himself up. “Our families are granted protection but it’s never guaranteed. An occupational hazard, if you will.”

“I’ll need to look into t’ings first. Make sure you aren’t connected. If your friends are telling the truth and nothing comes back on ’ya, I’ll send a few lads out to set t’ings straight for your brother, Johnny is it? Right. But then ’ya’ll be working off your debt, boyo.”

Swallowing hard, I don’t know if I should be relieved or fucking terrified. Did I just get Johnny the help he needs? Yea. But I also just fucking handed my soul over to a devil.

“Now get the fuck out of my office.” Desmond barks, blowing the smoke of his cigar in my face. I try to blink my eyes a few times to keep the tears from the rancid smoke at bay, but fail. He sees it and the devilish smirk on his face grows as he watches me almost scramble out of the seat to the door.

Once I’m back out in the bar, Paul and Ben swing their arms over my shoulders, saying their congratulations. Paul pulls the joint from behind his ear. “Victory smoke?”

I swat it away from me. “You know I don’t.”

“What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t offer?” Ben laughs, pushing and pulling me to the left and right, making my stomach churn more.

“Welcome to the church,” Paul grins.