The Bad Boy Next Door: Lance & Chastity (40 page)

“Geez, you scared me,” I gasp, my heart still thumping.

He winks, “I could tell. Sorry about that. I shoulda rolled her out of the garage and started her on the driveway.”

“It’s okay.”

A BMW drives up outside and parks beside the curb. The driver door opens and a woman steps out. She’s very attractive and wears a knee length maroon business dress that looks expensive. She clicks up the driveway on black pumps. “Are you Lance McKnight?”

Mr. McKnight walks out of the garage, smiling casually. “I’m his father, Rod McKnight.”

She’s grinning, obviously affected by Mr. McKnight’s charm. “Do you live here with your son?”

“Yeah. What’s your name?” He holds out his hand to shake hers.

She pushes an envelope into it. “I’m with the rental company that owns this house. Please make sure Lance receives this letter.”

That doesn’t sound good. The woman turns and walks away, whipping her long dark hair behind her as she climbs in her BMW and drives off. I guess I was wrong about Mr. McKnight’s charm.

“That was odd,” I say.

“Sure was.” Mr. McKnight stares at the envelope in his hand. The rental company logo is printed on the top left. Lance’s name and address are in the middle.

I wonder what’s inside?

Mr. McKnight opens the envelope without a thought and reads it. “Three day notice to pay rent or quit.” He stares at me. “Why didn’t he say something?”

Whir.

++++8++++

LANCE

I feel like a total tool.

“I’m broke, you guys,” I mumble across the kitchen table. The letter from the rental company lays in front of me. Dad and Chastity sit facing me like this is an intervention. Not a booze hound intervention. A broke-ass loser intervention.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Dad asks.

I scoff, “What, do you have a bunch of cash stashed somewhere I don’t know about?”

“No, but I could sell my hog. It’s worth at least ten grand now that it’s cleaned up.”

I shake my head and sneer, “You’re not selling your bike, Dad.”

“I have money,” Chastity says earnestly.

I roll my eyes, hating every second of this. “I told you before, Chaz, I’m not taking your money. You earned it. It’s yours.”

She smirks, “That’s why I can do anything I want with it.”

“I’m not taking it to pay my rent.”

“Your rent?” she smirks. “I live here too, you know. What if I mail a rent check to the rental company and pay them myself?”

I reach across the table and take the envelope and letter and jam them in my jeans. “No. You’re not doing that.”

“You can’t stop me.” She’s smiling.

I force a grin. “Thank you. But please don’t. Okay?”

She sags. “Why won’t you let us help, Lance?”

Dad says. “Yeah, son. You’re not alone in this. You understand? We can help.”

“Thanks, Dad. But this is my mess. I’ll fix it.”

Somehow.

Too bad I’m all outta ideas.

That night in bed, Chastity asks, “What do you think about moving to Illinois? I was looking at rent online and it’s cheaper than California by a lot.”

“You want to be close to your sister and your Dad, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah. But I want to be close to you too.” She rests her hand on my bicep. “Seriously, Illinois might be good for both of us. I mean, living next door to my Mom is weird.”

Why does it feel like everything I worked for is falling apart? If I leave LA, it will fall apart. I can’t keep the DJ thing going from Illinois. All my juice will drain away and I may as well get a job at a gas station. I mean, what the fuck else am I gonna do? The fucked thing is, I already feel Chaz slipping away. Women always love you when you’ve got your shit together and money coming out your ass like a golden fucking goose. But once the golden shit dries up and you’re nothing, they leave. Look what happened to Dad. “I have to stay here with my dad, Chaz. If you need to move, I get it. Family is important.”

“Do you want me to move?” She sounds hurt.

“No, it’s just… Fuck. I don’t know.” This is killing me. What kind of man can’t pay his own fucking rent? I am such a fuckup.

“Let me pay rent this month, Lance.”

“It’s too much.”

“I told you I can cover it. We can figure something out next month. I’m sure there are cheaper places here in LA that will fit the three of us.”

“Fuck, Chaz. I told you I’d figure it out.”

She looks hurt. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because you shouldn’t have to.” I am such a douche.

“That’s ridiculous. People help each other. And I’m going to help you whether you like it or not.”

“Don’t pay my rent.”

“I’m not going to.”

Why does that freak me out? “Then what are you going to do?”

She rolls over on the mattress, turning her back to me. “I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”

++++8++++

LANCE

The house is dark when I come home the next night.

“Dad? Chaz? Anybody here?”

Silence.

I flip on the lights and stare at the thrift store couch and the folding chairs in the living room. Man, this place is a fucking dump. I’d buy better furniture, but fuck. I’m broke.

I smile to myself, but there’s nothing happy about it.

I drop on the couch and stare at the sleeping TV.

I fucking hate TV.

But the silence in this place is driving me fucking nuts.

I call Chastity on my phone. She doesn’t answer. I text her:
Call me
.

She doesn’t.

That’s not like her. She always answers the second I call or text. At first, it was kind of weird that she did. Most chicks I’ve hooked up with always played hard to get. I saw through that bullshit so I didn’t care. Chastity isn’t like that. She’s straight up.

But she’s not answering.

Now I’m worried.

Why wouldn’t she be answering?

If she’s hurt, I’ll fucking—

I don’t know what I’ll do. You can’t kick the ass of a car accident or whatever. Fuck, it kills me she doesn’t have a car yet. Maybe she’s with Lark. I don’t have Lark’s number otherwise I’d call. Fuck.

I’m going nuts wondering where Chastity is.

An hour later I’m still sitting on the couch waiting for her to call. My mind bounces between where she might be and what the fuck I’m going to do next. I don’t have rent money. And I doubt my credit card will front me a $2,400 cash payment at this point. I’ve already run up enough debt as it is. These days when I call them they aren’t nice like they used to be. Missing payments will do that.

Technically, I’m not broke. I have some semblance of credit left. But my cash flow dried up a month ago and that means I’m heading straight toward broke like a runaway train.

If it was just me, I’d crash on a couch somewhere and live off mac and cheese. But I have to think about my dad. And Chastity. I would never ask her to live with her mom. That’d be torture. If she moves to Illinois, I won’t have the money to fly back and forth between here and there to see her.

Fuck.

I hate this.

My boots bounce on the carpet.

I spent all fucking day trying to figure out a plan of action to dredge up some investment cash. Sadly, I don’t got shit. It’s getting to the point people won’t return my calls. I’m quickly becoming a nobody. One thing’s for fucking sure. I’m not going to beg. I say fuck to that shit.

Now my boots are practically jumping up and down. I’m going nuts. If I sit here any longer, I’m gonna pop.

I call Chastity again.

I really need to talk to her right now.

Still nothing.

Fuck it.

I need some relief. With Chastity gone, I can’t fuck away the stress.

That leaves one thing.

One thing that always works.

Am I doing this?

I’m doing this.

I grab a backpack out of one of the cardboard boxes still in the living room and head out the door to the liquor store. I don’t even bother searching the house because Dad is fucking Houdini when it comes to hiding his shit. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at the kitchen table in the dark house.

Alone.

The cheap chandelier over the table shines down on a bottle of Jim Beam.

Fuck, I want a drink so bad. I can taste that shit in my mouth. Feel the burn and the sting when it goes down. I swallow dry, wishing it was whiskey.

Just one drink.

I don’t need the whole bottle.

I’m not like my dad.

I can control it.

Fuck, I haven’t drunk a drop in more than five years.

I’m rock solid.

Just one shot.

Just one.

That’s all I need.

My boots dance under the table.

I reach for the bottle and stop.

No.

I sit back and rest my elbows on the table and crack my knuckles. I don’t need a fucking drink. I jump up from the table and pace the kitchen, staring at that fucking bottle of Beam like it’s my enemy and my savior.

I don’t need it.

Yes you do
.

Fuck no I don’t.

Yes.

I grab the bottle and twist the cap off and throw it in the sink where it clatters like a hockey puck. I hold the bourbon up to the light. Look at that fucking color. Like liquid caramel for adults. So fucking sweet.

Just a sip. That’s it.

One sip.

Yes.

Fuck, no, I don’t—

Yes…

“What are you doing?” Dad asks quietly.

“Fuck!” I blurt, every hair on the back of my neck standing up. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Didn’t you hear me calling your name when I walked in?”

“No.” I frown. “You did?”

“Yes.” His eyes are locked on mine. Somehow, there’s a fight to the death going on between us right this very second, but we’re both just standing here motionless. “What are you gonna do with that?” He’s talking about the bourbon.

I picture him walking to a cabinet and pulling out two shot glasses and pouring some for both of us. Then we can get drunk like two washed up fucks. “Why?” I bark defensively. “You want some?”

“No.”

“The fuck you don’t,” I scoff.

“Okay. You’re right. I do want some. But I’m not gonna drink any.” He stares at me for a long time. “Are you?”

I’m waiting for him to do something dramatic like grab the bottle from me and pour it down the sink like I did that time, or throw it through a window. Then we’ll fist fight until neither of us can stand up. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Dad looks so fucking calm. His eyes never waver from mine. “The choice is yours, son. Don’t let the alcohol make it for you.”

“What the fuck do you know,” I spit. “You’re an alcoholic, Dad. All you do is drink. I mean fuck, I pay your goddamn rent every month!”

He sighs heavily. “You’re right. These days, I don’t know shit, son. But I know I love you. And I don’t want to lose you like I lost myself.”

I’m stunned by his words.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, setting it on the table with a clink.

A gold-plated aluminum Alcoholics Anonymous coin.

Two Months.

The curved inscription reads:

TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE.

The three sides of the triangle read:

UNITY - SERVICE - RECOVERY.

I flip it over and read the inscription.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I say, “This is yours?”

He nods. “I’ve been going since… Since…” He looks away and mutters, his voice thick, “Since that night next door. At the pool.”

“Charity.”

“Yeah.” He nods slowly while staring at his feet. “I almost killed her.”

I say nothing because it’s true.

The kitchen is quiet. Just me and him. He looks at me again. “You’ve got a lot to live for, son. You’ve got a beautiful young lady who loves you. You’ve got your health, and you’ve got me. For whatever that’s worth,” he grins. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did, son. Be a better man than I was. Be the man I wished I was.”

A flood of painful memories from childhood slam through me. Dad drunk. Dad yelling at Mom. Dad yelling at me. Mom disappearing. Dad and me fighting, punching each other in the faces like sworn enemies. Why the fuck were we always fucking fighting? The rage builds up inside me until I’m a bomb ready to blow. “FUCK!!!!” I shout and hurl the Jim Beam against the kitchen wall. It shatters and the booze rains down the paint.

Dad smiles quietly, “I’ll get a broom.”

I smirk, “We don’t have a broom.”

“You’re right,” he chuckles. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll clean up your mess.” He stares at me for a moment. “You’ve cleaned up enough of mine. About time I returned the favor. Oh, by the way. I found this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another coin.

A bronze five year coin with a Roman numeral V embossed in the center circle.

My five year coin.

“Where’d you find it? I thought I’d lost it.”

“Remember that old acoustic guitar of mine I gave you way back when? The one you never play anymore?”

“Yeah. Didn’t Mom buy that for you?”

“Yup. Before you were born. I decided to start playing it again since you weren’t. Your coin was in the case.”

“That’s where it went?”

He nods. “You must’ve left it there for safe keeping. Anyway. You wouldn’t want five years of hard work going to waste, would you?”

I stare at that bronze five year coin for a long time. He’s not talking about guitar playing.

“No,” I mutter.

I take it from his palm and slide it in the front pocket of my jeans.

For safe keeping.

++++8++++

LANCE

“I’m fucking broke, Dad. I mean, I’ve got nothing.”

He drops the wad of newspapers holding the glass shards of the bourbon bottle into the trash.

I grab a fresh roll of paper towels and unwrap a bunch.

“Gimme those,” he insists, taking the wad from my hand. He’s down on hands and knees, wiping up my mess. “I don’t know much about what you do, but I know you always have options. You can always solve a problem if you stop and think about it.”

“I’ve tried, Dad. I went to every investor I know and asked for money. Everyone said no for one reason or another.” I can’t believe I’m talking business with my dad. It feels too good to be true, but it’s happening. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have any easy answers. It just matters that I’m talking and he’s listening and he’s trying to help. Trying. That’s the important thing.