King of Forgotten Clubs

King of Forgotten Clubs

Jennifer Recchio

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Recchio

Cover by Stephanie Mooney

Edited by Red Adept Publishing

All rights reserved. Except for the ones covered in polka dots that breath too loudly. You can have those.

King of Forgotten Clubs is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. If it is discovered that it is actually a depiction of a parallel universe that is sending radio waves to the author’s brain, the author apologizes for the misunderstanding.

Kindle Edition

To Dedication. Not that he needs it. That guy gets all the credit.

Pak Higgins

AP Psychology

Fifth period

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is a load of shit. It assumes that once we reach one step of the pyramid, we go on to the next. Once we achieve security, we seek love. Once we find that, we search for self-fulfillment. It doesn’t even account for self-sabotage.

What about those of us who go backward? Once we’ve destroyed ourselves, we search for someone else to alienate. Once we’ve done that, we take a sledgehammer to our security.

Exhibit A: I stabbed love in the back and left it by the side of the road to die.

We were in the park in mid-July, and Annabelle tore up a Styrofoam cup with her long fingers as we walked down the dirt trail that circled the lake that surrounded the island where Elvis Presley had supposedly had a fling with the Queen of England.
Rip, rip, rip
—a counterpoint to the whistling birds and laughing children—
rip.

I was nervously trying to pretend our relationship wasn’t a live grenade. “The weather’s nice,” I said, as if I could fill the canyon between us with small talk. “For July, I mean. It’s not too hot.”

Annabelle nodded, still not looking at me. A chunk of Styrofoam fluttered to the ground.

“We should come here more often,” I said to fill the space the torn cup left behind. “Learn about stupendously dangerous ways to walk dogs.” I nodded at a preteen boy on a bike who held the leash of the slathering greyhound bounding ahead of him. It was unclear whether the bike was speeding forward from the effort of the boy or the dog.

Annabelle stopped. I halted and turned to face her. Her brown hair was windblown, messy. Her aviator sunglasses were wedged on top of her head. She tugged them down to cover her eyes. I tried not to think about what that meant.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she asked.

“No. Not you.” I had a bad habit of not thinking much of other people, but I’d never considered Annabelle to be “other people.”

“We’re a fucking joke.” She dropped the cup on the ground. It didn’t seem like a great time for a lecture on littering, so I tried to ignore it. “I’m just your way to pass the time.”

“That’s not true.” I should’ve put more conviction into the words. I felt them, I think, but being earnest was never my strong point.

“Do you love me? Even a little bit?” Her voice wavered. Before that moment, I had assumed Annabelle immune to the uncertainty that so plagued others.

“I don’t know.” I used to think I knew what love was. I used to think it was adventure and wildness and pushing each other places you never thought you’d go.

Then the love of my life dumped me for a pizza delivery boy.

“I’m bored of this game.” Annabelle turned away from me. “See you in the fall.” She shoved her hands in her pockets as she walked off.

If my life were a movie, I might have gone after her. I might have fallen at her feet and pleaded for a second chance. I might have declared possession of unfathomable pits of feelings and emotions.

As it was, I picked up her Styrofoam cup and wiped the mud off of the torn edges. Was this the part where I missed her? Was this the part where pain taught me to be stronger?

Dirt lodged under my fingernail. The only things that stayed with me had no other choice.

Exhibit B: I ditched a life of luxury and glamor to live in a crumbling pit.

My keys rattled as I searched for the one to the apartment. My roommates were already home. Their punk rock music and raised voices blared through the door.

“Pak-rat!” Lenny shouted as I walked in.

I tried not to cringe at the nickname. “Busy,” I yelled over the stereo.

I waded through a layer of old pizza boxes and lost socks until I reached my room, “my room” being a relative term for a carefully partitioned section of the main room. I’d set up cardboard walls around a corner. Because I paid the biggest portion of the rent, I got the corner with the window.

I pushed the cardboard closed behind me. Papers covered the walls, along with a tangle of red strings vainly trying to connect relevant ideas together. I’d been working on the plan for weeks, but now… It just looked like a bunch of old paper.

I ripped it down, piece by piece. Sheets fell in a flurry, coating the floor until I was up to my ankles in trash and thumbtacks. I collapsed onto my bed.

There. No more plans. No more plotting. No more trouble.

And who can forget Exhibit C? I chose a girl over security.

The universe had a funny sense of humor. Since I wouldn’t go to trouble, trouble came to me. Trouble, as usual, showed up in the form of a girl.

She crashed through the window at 3:35 a.m., which I knew because I’d been up for the past hour, staring at the clock on the wall.

I jolted up. We stared at each other. Her eyes were unreadable in the dark. Her hair looked muddy blond in the glare of the streetlights behind her. I wondered, for a moment, if I was hallucinating.

“Don’t scream,” she whispered.

“Just someone breaking into my room in the middle of the night. No reason to panic there.”

“Please.” Her dark eyes were wide. “They’ll kill me.”

Either she was crazy, or someone was messing with me. “Is this a trick? Did Birdie put you up to this? Reformed, my ass.”

She shook her head, darting glances out the window. “They’ll be at your door in a second. You need to say you never saw me. You need to say it, okay?”

The girl was terrified. If this was a trick, it was about to become the only home video where someone won an Academy Award for acting. “Okay.”

She nodded rapidly.

Someone knocked on the door. I froze, listening for another sound. It occurred to me that if this wasn’t a trick, someone was actually trying to kill this girl. If I helped her, they could come after me, too.

“That’s them,” she said so quietly I could barely hear her. “Go.”

I went. I still don’t know why, but I went. My roommates were passed out on the floor and draped across the couch. I could barely remember how to breathe as I made my way around them and opened the door.

A man wearing khakis and an old T-shirt stood in the hall. He smiled as if knocking on doors at three in the morning was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. “Are you the resident here?”

I didn’t answer. My brain spun without producing a single thought. I tried to play it off as grouchy to fit with my half-asleep look.

“I’m looking for a girl.” He pulled out a badge. Underneath a golden tower on silver backing were the words
LOS ANGELES POLICE
.

Of course she was running from the police. Because “harboring a fugitive” was the one criminal offense I was missing. Come to think of it, I should start playing rap-sheet bingo.

“I haven’t seen anyone. I’ve been asleep.” I probably should have turned her in right then, but…
Please, they’ll kill me
.

I didn’t think he believed me. His eyebrow raised, and he looked over my shoulder. “Are you sure? Blonde, about five-five, pierced nose, wearing a soccer uniform? Rather hard to miss.”

“As I said, it’s hard to see anything with your eyes closed.”

He studied me with blue eyes like stained glass. “I’ll keep looking, then.”

“Good luck.” I closed the door, slumped against it, and cursed my luck. I walked back to my room. Empty.

There wasn’t much space to check, but I sifted through the piles of paper as if she might be hiding under a sticky note. I crumpled back onto the floor.

She was gone. She might as well have been a dream.

Not like I needed the trouble, anyway. I pushed yesterday’s clothes off the bed.

Something that definitely wasn’t mine fluttered to the ground. I picked it up—green shorts, like the kind a girl might wear to run, with a fourteen printed on the side.

The bitch had stolen my pants.

Exhibit D: I try to follow through but follow the girl instead.

I paced the boardwalk, pockets full of notecards. I’d always preferred the boardwalk to the park. The boardwalk never felt more than half real, as if all the people swarming over it had agreed to pretend we were all part of some brilliant movie where no one had to do anything besides lounge on the beach and have passionate affairs. Women ran down to the beach in string bikinis, vendors hawked slushies and ice cream, and surfers carried their boards on their backs as they pretended to be gods.

I took a breath and forced my thoughts back to the job at hand. This was supposed to be a two-man operation. I’d finished planning it with Annabelle a few days ago, but I couldn’t ask her for help. I couldn’t claim to be an expert on the rules of breaking up, but I was pretty sure calling your ex the day after a breakup and asking for help with a covert op was not allowed. And anyone else would just want to talk about where Annabelle was, a conversation I wasn’t ready for yet.

A server in a white apron stepped out of the back door of the sushi place, trash bag in hand. That was my cue. I took a deep breath. I wasn’t even sure I cared anymore. But I had to see it through because it had seemed like a good idea two weeks ago.

It occurred to me that life decisions weren’t my strong suit.

I strode up to the door.

“Excuse me, sir?” the server asked. He was tall in a gangly way, with a shadow of stubble on his chin. “The entrance is around the corner.”

I froze. I couldn’t remember my line. I fought the urge to pull out a notecard and check. I didn’t even want to be there, and I looked like an absolute idiot.

“He’s with me.” Annabelle strolled over as if she owned the sidewalk and everything that dared border it. A clunky purse framed her shoulder. Her aviators hid her eyes.

The server shook his head but stepped out of our way as we swept in through the back door.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.

Did she mean she didn’t know what her plan was, or that she didn’t know why she’d showed up at all? It might have helped if I knew which one I had been asking. I did know the answer I wanted, the answer she’d never give me:
I missed you
.

Inside, the restaurant was all chrome and black, with small circular tables scattered around in faux casualness. A few diners talked quietly over their meals. The place was like a high-end clothing shop where they only put out a few pieces to show how fancy and expensive the place was. On the back wall was the famous fish tank, lit with flashing colors.

We were going to steal the piranha.

I pulled my black polo shirt straight and stepped onto the marble floor, Annabelle close beside me. One of the diners looked up, and our eyes met. I missed a step.

Dark eyes framed by darker lashes framed by bleached blond hair met my gaze. The piercing on her nose winked at me. We stared at each other, neither of us so much as blinking.

“Pak,” Annabelle hissed in my ear.

I shook off my daze and refocused. Piranha. Running girl. Piranha.

I couldn’t stop wondering what her nose piercing was. I followed Annabelle across the floor, chancing a casual glance at the girl as we walked past. It was a small red stud. I’d expected something more dramatic from a girl on the run from the law, like a motorcycle or a really angry butterfly. Maybe she was trying to blend in.

We reached the tank. I watched a shimmering beta fish flit by. I could almost catch a glimpse of the girl’s reflection in the glass.

Fish, I was supposed to be focusing on the fish. “Do you see it?” I asked.

Annabelle shook her head. I looked back at the girl. She was staring across the room at someone else. I shouldn’t have been bothered by that, but I was.

“Who’s that?” Annabelle whispered in my ear.

Did she see who I was looking at? Could she follow my gaze to the black ruffles of the girl’s dress, the sleek line of her blond hair? I needed to look away.

I turned to Annabelle, thinking
casual
as hard as I could at my limbs. “Who’s who?”

Annabelle’s gaze met mine. “You don’t trust me.” She didn’t sound accusing, just resigned.

“I always trust you.” I didn’t know why I could never get away with lying to her.

She turned away from me. “There.” She jabbed a finger against the glass wall of the tank.

I should’ve noted its location. I should’ve kept an eye on it. I didn’t.

“I’ll start the distraction,” she said.

I nodded and turned back to the tank, trying to focus on the job at hand. The trick was to get the one fish out without breaking the glass or distracting from Annabelle’s distraction. Smoke and mirrors. I shook my head.