The Cold Academy
"The Backpack Generation"
Part Three
By Jericho Vilar
19.
November 12, 1989
It began with grey, bulbous clouds wading in a pool of dirty water sky, threatening rain. The heater was silenced when the power was knocked out from Sedgewick all the way down Evergreen. He heard shouting through the frosted window eighteen stories up, it shook the whole tower. He felt it climbing up from the floorboards not satisfied until it woke the thunderheads in the mid-day sky. He remembered the smoothness of the couch's arm, shrink wrapped in plastic, as he stood up from behind it's shadow when curiosity finally got the best of him and the sharp bite of the window's glass when his little palm wiped away the fog it collected brought on by his baited breath. His eyes were wide, sparkling, and untainted by the red veins and dark circles of sleepless nights. 18 stories below, he saw the devastation, cars overturned, and huge trenches carved onto the sidewalks. There were tornadoes of dust mixing with the smoke of unseen fires. He saw a sea of broken glass shimmering on foul concrete and the color red. No, he remembered correcting himself, it was orange. Even through the haze, he recognized his older brother's prized possession. His little eyes followed it like a beacon, careful not to lose it among the crowd that surrounded it. From 18 stories up, he watched them frantically spilling out of the tower and onto the streets like bees storming from the hive. His brother was one of the first. He stopped outside the mouth of the door flailing his arms, pointing, and shouting. The wave of bodies moved went where they were told. They swallowed the little part of Sedgewick that they called their home. They created a perimeter. The window vibrated underneath his fingertips. He braced himself. He had to see it. He couldn't close his eyes.
The sky exploded. He imagined the sound of jet engines. Then, for one brilliant split-second, he saw them. Two men in the middle of the sky, hands locked, one screamed as he pushed the other to the ground, Mr. Imperial and The Grizzly dueling to the death. His eyes snapped like a camera lens, freezing the moment before the speed of their melee took them away from his sight. Quickly, he turned back down to the street, back to his brother, and saw sparks. His brother and the people around him, all neighbors and friends, spit fire into the heavens. Unconcerned, the two men let the bullets from the street below bounce harmlessly against their frames. Through dust and blurs of motion, he desperately searched for his brother, his mind raced with the thought of orange, orange, orange. The room tightened around him, constricted by an immense heat and the sound of humming not from this world. From the corner of his eye grew a blinding circle of light, they snapped again. It captured a look of murderous glee on the face of The Grizzly.
Then darkness.
Slowly and clumsily, he picked himself up from the floor. His face and arms were wet with something, he didn't know what. Reaching the window sill, his cheeks became flushed when a flood of cold, winter wind collided against it. Pulling himself up with trembling limbs, he leaned through the window, through the space that once held a solid pane of glass, and whispered to himself.
"Orange, orange, orange..."
The words left him when his breath deserted his little chest. Eighteen stories down, the silent street below him became another world. The street, once grey, ran rampant with the color of crimson.
In the middle of it, eight year old Khalil Caldwell found the crumpled remains of his brother, lifeless. He laid next to a fallen light post still wearing the armor Walter Payton wore before him.
***
20.
"Lilly's, 'round ten, money."
The economy of words gave Khalil's message an air of grave importance, one of the few people Jack knew to have the ability to effectively turn off and on at the drop of a dime. With his first day back from break past him, Jack shrugged off the three chapter reviews he needed for tomorrow and dragged himself off his warm bed and back down to the city, to the affluent platinum card stench of Lincoln Park.
Already half an hour late, Jack made his way in quickly, slipping the doorman a Jackson before diving headfirst into the stuffy, conversation thick environs of Lilly's Bar. Its stuccoed caverns packed with pretentious faux intellectuals, Lilly's Bar shed its skin of once being a nice, quirky, little blues joint into an indie rock dive bar. Its ancient archways groaned over a crowd of DePaul's finest irony enthusiasts. His sneakers creaked on the old wooden floor as he ambled over to the bar for his customary pint of Killian's Red. Slamming a handful of cash onto the polished bar top, Jack always paid double what the drink cost, also customary to him at least, partly because of their continued tolerance of him being underage and also because of their top notch service. The night's beneficiary, Madison, a third year student from DePaul, waved off Jack's kindness and pointed to a corner table.
"Your man over there said he's taking care of you tonight, Jack," she shouted over the conversations of nearby patrons. Waving coyly at Jack's table, she slowly licked her lips. "You lucky son of a bitch."
Questioning his sexuality had always been one of their, Madison and Jack's, "things" even though she knew that Jack had defiled half of Lilly's female staff ever since they first met.
Still at a loss, Jack started tapping his finger on the bar top.
"Better make it two then."
Reappearing with another glass of Killian's, Jack grabbed both pints and marched towards the table that held his generous host.
"Fag!" Madison shouted.
"Bitch," answered Jack before gulping down half the contents of his left hand. Expert in the art of not spilling a drop, Jack squirmed through the throbbing crowd and stopped only to nod before taking his seat.
"Sup."
Jack carefully made room for his drinks amid the mess of empty glasses that already covered the table's surface. He felt the heat of Khalil's stare square on his chest as he dropped himself onto an empty chair.
"You're late," rumbled Khalil from behind a raised glass.
"Yeah, sorry. The El was being a bitch tonight."
Jack reached for his half gone pint and toasted it with Khalil's.
"You're never gonna get right with that, ain't you money? You'll always be lagging and shit."
Khalil shook his head and drained his glass. Jack, used to Khalil's big brotherly ribbing, smiled at his genuine disappointment and slapped Khalil on the arm.
"Alright, alright," Jack snickered. "Whatever your say, grandpa. So c'mon, what's this all about that you gotta pay for my drinks and shit?"
During the whole time they've known each other, Jack's been to Lilly's at least once every two weeks, more during the concert season, and Khalil's only accompanied him the grand total to two times. Of the many understandings they had about each other, examples of which being that Jack hated being reminded of the day he listened to John Mayer and Khalil retching at the mere mention of the Black Eyed Peas. It was made abundantly clear that Lilly's Bar wasn't a Khalil Caldwell sort of place. The overly expensive drinks, the perversion of its roots in the blues, and the bar's recent type of clientele were reasons enough for him to balk at a night's drinking on Jack's mother's dime if it involved going to Lilly's. Khalil never denied being a class warrior, but if he were, he never hid it well.
"We got some shit to talk about, Jack."
Deep down, Jack cringed. With his stomach knotted, he was suddenly reminded of the priceless record that, at that exact moment, was laid snugly on his turntable.
Jack took a moment to force down the rest of his drink and whispered, "What the fuck happened?"
Khalil leaned back, away from the table, his face became shrouded by the shadows that formed around their corner of the bar. He turned to both sides making sure no one was listening in then let the darkness release their grip as he leaned back to face Jack.
"Got word that Pastel's back from lock up. Lil Rob saw his boys forming up down by the Heights. Says they got a van full of product ready to move in, that they're looking to set up shop in the west towers. Lil Rob thinks that they're about a couple days away from bringing hard times back down to the projects. Just like how it was back in the old days. Those thirsty motherfuckers will be all over place. They hear what we hear you damn well better know they coming. They're ready for the rain, y'know what I'm saying? They're gonna to turn Harmony back into "Little Hell," son. It'll be fucking '83 all over again."
A group of bookish, well-dressed art students passed their table on the way out the door. Jack knew that, outside the news reports, they could never comprehend the potential state of emergency that they weren't a few miles away from. Not wanting to bullshit himself, Jack knew that a part of him wanted to be in their shoes. He wanted to be able to drunkenly walk away from that bar, that night, without a care in the world. As the risk of each job escalated and escalated, so did the temptation to leave it all behind. The thoughts that haunted his mind were much louder and less passive when they swam in the effects of the alcohol.
Get up.
Walk out.
Its not your fucking fight.
They were much harder to ignore because no matter how deep they got, Jack knew Khalil would give him the chance to take that walk.
"What do we do?"
Khalil studied the movement of Jack's face, the tightening of his jaw, the narrowing of his brow. Khalil heard the words, but he wanted to know if Jack meant them.
They let the choruses of other people's conversations drown out their corner table, a sinking ship in an ocean of workday accounts and failing love affairs. They held their breaths for a second, a ceremonial last gasp for air. Their glasses were empty, not a drop to drink.
Khalil nodded his head, satisfied at Jack's intentions. Jack's a big boy, he told himself, he knows exactly what he's doing.
"You know how we do, money. Get the hustle before the hustle gets us."
***
21.
Rafferty's tremors blew doors down with armageddon grade potency. Rough like dancing on the fists of a hurricane, they filled internal cavities mercilessly, kicking out oxygen from lungs and red blood cells from veins in its wake.
Despite having felt the sharpened hilt of its teeth in the past, Zoe Ahern entered the room on her own accord.
"Keep the lights low, sugar, cause I know that's how you like it. This doesn't have to be awkward, parts of me want it to be romantic."
Rafferty's voice had a way about it to both relieve inhibitions and prophesied the danger that lurked around every dark corner. A hungry snake charmer with a taste for venomous meat, his timber rang like the vibrations of a knife hidden behind a murderer's back.
"Don't be like that, baby. I just have this sinking feeling that I missed you."
Zoe took one step before she felt the cold rush of a closing door, courtesy of her escort Ryjan Allen. He left her like the boatman of the River Styx, silently on the gates of Hell. She took one more step, but it was one too many. The second her foot fell Rafferty's tremor took its hold.
"Baby steps, sugar, baby steps. I know how you get around me."
Zoe held be breath. Her vision labored as she fought the chaos that Rafferty brought onto her subconscious. After months of calm seas, this was a test of her progress. That and nothing more, she decided. Stick your hand in the fire just to see if you could take it. Trapped in a safe and dropped into the Atlantic, Zoe struggled against her better judgement. Turning around and leaving the room, she knew, was the coward's way out. She's already been on that road once, long ago, when she was weak.
"Remember what we used to do back then? Just you and me in the dark."
Zoe Ahern stood her ground, her Pumas wanted nothing more than to take root deep into the hard, marble floor. This was to be her greatest escape.
"What do you want, Raff?"
She put on a brave face with the help of her dark sunglasses. The blood thickened in her body, on the verge of retreat.
"Ever since I got back that's all I've been hearing. I understand though. I never was one for bullshit pleasantries, was I?"
The air around her grew restless. A strand of hair blew into her eyes.
"You could feel me inside you, right? Knocking around in your pretty little skull. I know you could because of that look on your face. So determined, so focused. Not like how I saw you last. Remember that day? We worked so hard, but you still didn't quite get it, did you? All that time, all that practice. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed that day. We were so close. I thought you had it cold, but I guess I had you figured wrong cause look at you now. I'm so proud of you, baby. I just wanted you to know that."
A bitter draft set her skin on fire. Her legs quivered, the trunks of giant trees not wanting to bend for the gale. She hung tough.
"I've always known you were special. You always had that certain something about you. You're meant for greater things in this life, I've always told you that. You just never had the guts for it, sugar. You were always too content to just keep it socked away somewhere so no could could ever see it and know that you are the shining star that we all know you are. Maybe you're still like that, but I'm watching you now and I'm wondering maybe you aren't. You've been practicing. You're finding your way with it, aren't you? Maybe it was because of me, of what we went through, but for some odd reason I'm beginning to think that it wasn't. Wishful thinking, right? I always thought that I'd be the one to break you out of your hell. I guess I was wrong, huh baby?"
"Raff..."
"S'okay, sugar. I understand. Things happened since we last...spoke. You could appreciate why I'm a little jealous though, right?"
"Rafferty..."
The air became spiteful, particles of dust began to swirl around her.
"Who did you tell, Zoe? Who knows?"
"I didn't..."
The tremor exploded in her lungs, catching her sentence mid-stream. It shouted, "LIAR!" Her right leg jerked back one step.
"Doesn't matter. You'll tell me when you're ready. I'm still very happy for you, baby. We all need something in our life, something that helps make sense out of all this shit, right? I'm glad you have that now, whatever it is. Before I go, I have to ask. Did you get that present I sent you? It must've been a bit of a shock, but it as just so you that I had to send it. You have it with you now? Of course you do. Take it out. Let me see how it works."
The room exhaled, one long gasp before turning back into silence. Without protest, Zoe's arms reached into her messenger bag. Her fingers glided smoothly over its casing, undoing latches and pressing buttons. Feeling its weight shift in her palms with a loud click, Zoe placed the Polaroid camera to bespectacled eye and pointed it towards the dark void of the room.
It snapped once, the flash rang along the walls and the angels of the empty desks before culminating with the whirring sound of the photograph leaving the camera's womb.
"If you could only see how much I want to hold you right now."
The tremors evaporated and the classroom lights sprang to life.
Zoe held the photograph in her left hand and shook it into remembering what it had seen.
"Now that I know how much you've grown, I want to show you that I have, too."
As the chemicals reacted to the artificial lights above it, the memory of that moment settled into shape.
Looking down, Zoe examined the contents of her left hand. Shivering, all it held was a photograph of an empty room.
***
22.
Half drunk and plagued with the ruminations of his current place in the world, Jack dragged himself behind Khalil the same way he always had when he stumbled after the upwardly mobile, super achievers he one day wanted to be. Jack's heroes were steadfast, focused, and knew without a shadow of a doubt where they were going and how they were going to get there. The charade was made impossible by the dozen or so pints of beer coursing through his system, Jack struggled with lighting his cigarette, plainly disappointed with his position in the rankings. Hidden behind his dark aviators, Jack's eyes emitted a beam of spite hitting the back of Khalil's forest green parka half a block ahead.
"Fucking asshole. The New Duncan Imperials were playing the Beat Kitchen tonight."
The slurred mixture of words left his mouth, toothless. He never meant them to be hateful. Jack knew Khalil never forced him to follow.
"Bossy fucking prick."
They left the warmth of Lilly's Bar exactly ten minutes after the deal was struck. With Jack firmly committed, Khalil graciously gave Jack a few moments peace drinking in the bar that he was quite fond of before shoving him back out into the thirty three degree night and away from a place that Khalil hated to his very soul. Khalil didn't mind the petulant cries Jack threw at him on their way out. He understood them and their creator reason for creating them. It was late, it was cold, Jack was drunk, but they had business to take care of.
"Keep the fuck up, money! We fucking almost there," Khalil yelled behind him.
"You keep the fuck up!" answered Jack, his voice not afraid to let the world know that the only place he wanted to be was home.
Still marching briskly ahead, Khalil's lips curled into a quiet smirk. My soldier, he though to himself. What he didn't know or couldn't have know was that he wasn't the first general who tried to recruit Jack that day.
When they turned the corner onto Milwaukee, the pair were greeted by three men shivering in a tight huddle in front of Hard Times Records.
Lil Rob, legs rattling and balled fists up against his mouth, was the first to spot them.
"Goddamn, nigga! Finally!" he swore in their direction. His voice rang like shots in the stillness of the evening complete with puffs of gun smoke trailing from his tongue.
Khalil, by the time they reached the others, was pulling Jack by the collar, like a leash, keeping him from walking blindly onto oncoming traffic.
"Shut the fuck up, B," commanded Khalil. "You'll wake up the whole fucking block."
His tired legs finally able to rest for a minute, Khalil deposited Jack in front of the little formation before heading towards the front of the shop to unlock the gates. He gave Lil Rob the slightest of nods along the way.
Under a cream colored Kangol, Lil Rob returned the gesture before turning to consider the lanky, drunk white boy who fought to keep his balance in front of him.
"Damn, man. What'd you do to Jack?" he asked just as he alertly caught Jack from tripping on his own feet.
The rattling of the rusted metal gates mixed with the snickering of the two other men wrapped tight in hoodies and parkas next to them. Lil Rob joined them while he straightened Jack's abused collar.
Jack extended a ghost pale hand towards Lil Rob and the others and motioned for a cigarette.
"I'm good, man. I'm good. Gimme a smoke," Jack forced out from behind the wave of nausea that rose up from his boiling belly.
Lil Rob jokingly returned Jack's request for nicotine with a pound from his fist.
"Naw, money. Look at you. You ain't good," Lil Rob giggled, the other laughed with him. "Too many white wine spritzers or what, nigga?"
Jack threw himself back and performed a fake rich man's guffaw, before shoving Lil Rob once on shoulder. His eyes half closed, Jack didn't see Lil Rob trying to keep his sides from splitting. Putting his glasses away, Jack mocked their laughter and presented them with a raised middle finger.
The cold metal grating collapsed when Khalil pushed the gates to one side. The keys that dangled in his hand sparkled under the street lights. The largest in the ring dug it teeth into the eyes of the main lock and clicked into place among the old tumblers. It spoke of heat and safe harbor.
The laughter stopped when Khalil held the door open for the others, his head nodded towards the store telling them to get inside. Without a word, Lil Rob and his companions filed in. Jack, still stung by the insinuation that he can't hold his liquor, stopped in front of Khalil. He took in a lung full of the store's stale dust, the welcoming aroma of old vinyl helped him shake off the effect of the alcohol. His eyes were still half open, but they did their best to stand at attention when to came time to face Khalil.
"I know its time to get serious now."
Khalil nodded again letting Jack walk past him into the store. He took a long look at the empty street and the somber el train platform above them, turning from one side to the other, to make sure their racket didn't disturb the scene.
With a deep breath, Khalil finally stepped inside and closed the metal gates behind him.
***
23.
The driver stopped on the driveway of one of Wicker Park's biggest estates. The engine hummed in soft tones before dropping out of gear into a state of well deserved slumber. Stoic with military precision, the black clad driver exited his perch to the open the rear passenger door. He stood rigid and straight like statue or an honor guard encumbered only by the thought of hi next cigarette break and not by his unfulfilled life spent chauffeuring the children of spoiled, rich bastards throughout the city at ungodly hours of night. His backbone clenched in an effort to keep the weariness at bay. He knew his day was far from over.
On the soles of his fresh, limited edition New Balance sneakers, Ryjan Allen rose from the limo's embrace onto the smoke stained night. Shuddering at the immediate change of temperature, Ryjan tightened the collar on his deep blue pea coat before starting on the long trek to the estate's front door. He walked past the driver with pure indifference. It had always been in his nature to disregard the presence of those lesser in stature. Smugly throwing open the handle on the ornate gun metal gate, Ryjan never knew the trials of life behind the wheel. Rush hour traffic was always an obstacle he watched slouched comfortable in the air conditioned back seat and the El to him will always be the city's service entrance. It spoke of his estranged father through and through. Publishing magnate Nathaniel Allen never took the service entrance.
The intricately designed oak doors made no sound when they were opened. The dust in the foyer tickled his nose upon his entrance the state of the mansion's interior came in stark contrast to the regality of its outer half. Silent with the specters of tarp covered antique furniture, the mansion and all of its 18 rooms were left grey with apathy and neglect. The shapes of paintings long removed dotted the lengths of the estate's walls and hallways. Towers of sealed moving boxes stood next to the sheeted forms of grand pianos , grandfather clocks, and roll-top typewriter desks. Its former glory was forgotten both by the owner who bequeathed it from his father and the son who was given it after him. Ryjan heard a faint rumble above him and slowly took the once elegant staircase up to follow it. The rumbling turned into a crash that shook throughout every square inch of the old mansion. The empty bottles of red wine teetered then fell on the dining room table. They rolled past sterling silver candelabras and the corpses of broken syringes before shattering on the smooth marble floor. Unflinching, Ryjan noticed the passing of wine bottle as much as he cared for their well-being. It wasn't new to him. One would've experience such an occurrence every few hours whenever one was inside one of Rafferty's club houses.
***
24.
When Ryjan Allen found him he was speaking in tongues. Hovering six feet above the floor, legs kicking, striking, scissoring in the air, his neck was the color of eggplant, bulging the size of a small tree trunk. his hurried gasping breath rioted inside his lungs, trying to enter and escape through gritted teeth. His eyes welled up with tears, grip threatening to break free from his skull. Glowing and covered with a tapestry of delicate red veins, they trained themselves onto the person who entered the room and recognized him not to be his, just his audience. Strands of sweat and saliva rolled from his lips, down his chin onto the fingers that held the links of the chain wrapped around his neck. The language he uttered was a code of half words, hisses of oxygen, broken syllables, coughs, pull, push, twist, and inevitability. Six feet above the floor hanging from a noose of his own design, Rafferty sang a song of escape.
Ryjan Allen placed his hands on his hips and started shaking his head.
"When you called I thought it was for something important."
Rafferty's struggling intensified as if it were somehow thrown into another gear. The constitution of the chain maintained its position, not giving an inch, and bit harder on the flesh of his neck. His corrugated artery stood t high alert, its shape unmistakable from underneath the fangs of the chain running the length of his neck.
As casual as a Sunday stroll, Ryjan walked over to the pillar on the corner of the bedroom that the chain was tied around and studied the logistics off it all. A look of piqued curiosity appeared on his mask of disinterest. He knew a point of maximum leverage when he saw one.
"The whole thing about a time and a place for stuff just over your head, right?"
Rafferty's eyes kept their point of focus, health and well-being at the expense of theatricality. He jerked, maneuvered, and shifted his weight to follow Ryjan's path across the room. His reward was the expression on his companion's face when it turned back to him just in time to see his neck contort in ways a neck never meant to. Stretch, crank, push, pull, he manufactured a pop that echoed throughout the dimensions of the room.
Ryjan stuck his tongue out in disgust. He tasted the bile that ran up his gullet and swallowed it back down. An act of vomiting would only encourage him more. Turning back to the pillar, Ryjan reached for the customized latch that was grafted onto its base. He placed a finger on the release and turned back to the joker hanging himself on the ceiling.
"Play time's over, gorgeous."
With that, Ryjan Allen sent Rafferty free, crashing onto the floor like a ton of bricks. Meat and bone collided onto the polish hardwood, a sound not foreign to a meat packing plant or a slaughterhouse. It was also a set of vibrations not remotely uncommon to a certain estate on Wicker Park.
Ryjan, grabbing a designer black pullover from the mound of clothes on the foot of the bed, glided over the fallen mass of heaving, blast furnace lungs that was Rafferty.
"How long were you up there for?"
Not a stranger to the sensation, Rafferty quickly composed himself and sat up peeling the chain from his upper torso. Bare chested and drenched in salty perspiration, Rafferty smirked devilishly like a businessman after a swift corporate takeover, an archaeologist after a glorious find, a junkie after the ultimate score.
"Nine minutes, thirty three seconds," he answered, triumphantly catching the sweater Ryjan threw at him.
A man of many vices, it took a gather of like-minded individuals and large weight of heroin on an ill-fated night to discover the fact that Rafferty was an asphyxiation enthusiast, an appreciator of the absence of oxygen.
"Thirteen seconds better than last time," Ryjan added. "Brilliant."
It wasn't the question of morality or the search for a white light at the end of a tunnel. To Rafferty, it was about testing one's limits. Even as the fears and doubts of the waking world gave way to the single, all encompassing thought of escape while he hung himself in the middle of the room, it was always about finding that line that no one should ever cross and him trying to cross it. The spine that should've been broken and the heart that should've been still was a constant reminder to Rafferty that the line that he had been searching for hasn't been found. Watching Ryjan Allen stare blatantly at his granite cut muscles and exposed hip bones as it was slowly covered by the fabric of the sweater, Rafferty was haunted by the night of that first attempt and the moment of desperation when he realized the importance of that line and how father it became.
"Not brilliant enough," Rafferty started but was cut short when more pressing matters reared their ugly heads. "How was our first day back?"
Ryjan's eyes drifted back to meet Rafferty's making sure to keep his mind from the adult situations that formed in the murky depths of his imagination. When he spoke, he felt a slight glow from his cheeks. Irony and catholic guilt made Ryjan Allen prone to blushing when in the presence of impure thoughts.
"Not as well as expected, chief," he answered. "The new crop isn't as talented as last year's and most of that class is either gone, dead, or in place far far away from here. Whatever the opposite of the cream is what we got left."
"I figured as much," nodded Rafferty. "Just like I said its all starting to cycle back to how it was like before the boom. The natural progression of a dry spell after a golden age."
"If we only knew back then," Ryjan followed.
Rafferty rose from the floor with an unaffected look on his face. "Hindsight, Mr. Allen, hindsight. Now its all about making do with what we have."
"Which isn't much. Not fucking much at all."
Rafferty grinned at his friend's obvious concern. In a single bound, he leaped onto his disheveled bed. "Granted, but doesn't it feel good to know that you'll be special for at least a little while longer?"
Breaking eye contact, Ryjan looked down at the empty spot on the floor where Rafferty had been and stuffed his hands into the folds of his pea coat.
"I suppose we have the lapse in evolution to thank for that," he replied.
Silence.
For the majority of his life, Ryjan Allen was the outcast. Rafferty knew the major draw for Ryjan's decision to follow him was, among other things, to be a part of something big and loud and influential. A faint shadow of his former self, Ryjan broke out of his shell because of his place in Rafferty's orbit. A fact that Rafferty never shied away from using whenever it was necessary to. Although he could appreciate Ryjan's plight, Rafferty didn't have time for face man who was a wallflower.
"Don't be such a fucking drama queen."
The words hit Ryjan hard. They shook him, it reverberated down his spine. He turned back to Rafferty responded to the glare in the same manner he always had to whomever he was in that situation with. A raised eyebrow, a flash of ivory teeth, and the veneer of unquestionably being the man who held all of the aces.
"Don't look hurt," Rafferty mockingly consoled him. "I hate it when you look hurt."
Ryjan shook his head in disgust of Rafferty's cold blooded callousness and for him leaving himself open for such assaults time and time again.
"So..how is Jack?" Ryjan asked, the name tasted bitter on his lips.
A glint shone from Rafferty's pupils at the mere mention. He sighed and leaned back onto the headboard.
"Jack? Jack Street?" Rafferty let the sounds slowly drip from his mouth like heavy syrup. He watched Ryjan's jaw line tighten at the gesture. "He's fine. He's more than fine. He's progressing nicely, but he's getting deeper in with those fucking friends of his. Him, we'll have to work on."
"Do you want me to..."
"No," Rafferty cut in. "I'll take this one myself."
Ryjan exhaled loudly, his breath hissed from his nostrils.
"And Zoe?"
Rafferty, still catching all of Ryjan's tells as plain as the wrinkles on his sleeve, couldn't help but laugh. Just by subject matter alone, he knew that it wasn't one of the easiest things Ryjan had to endure all day.
"She's fine, too. A lot stronger since we left. She's had help. You may have to look into that."
Outside, the wind began to howl. The city reminded them what it was famous for. Rafferty let it fill the lull in the conversation. Ryjan complied because it was what Rafferty wanted. They let the moment linger and turn into two. Ryjan turned to the window, the reflection of the night stared back at him.
Rafferty jerked his head towards the door.
"How about you get out of here," he ordered, turning his gaze to the pile of chains that littered his bedroom floor.
There are certain kinds of silences Rafferty hated.
"I've got a record to break."
( e n d o f p a r t t h r e e )