TAG (7 page)

I approach the counter and wait for the woman to greet me.
“What can I grab for ya, hon?”

“Small roast beef with everything on it and a water.” I reach my hand into my front pocket to pull out my card, but Tango reaches his hand out in front of me with his card. Dad has been good at
depositing
money into my account since I can’t exactly settle down and do something normal, like find a job. I suppose it’s his attempt at
repentance
for making
me suffer alone. Maybe he thinks it makes me look at him as less of an asshole for the life he’s given our family. I can’t be bought, though. “I can pay for my own food,” I grumble in Tango’s
direction.

“Daddy’s orders, princess.” He hands the woman the card and says, “Add a large pastrami with cheese and sauerkraut. Oh, and a large soda.”

She takes the card from his hand as her eyes linger on his face. Her puffy cheeks turn a rosy red and the lines around her lips tighten while she fights the urge to smile at the Incredible Hulk.

“Small roast beef with the works, large pastrami with cheese and
sauerkraut, with a watta and soda,” she yells into the kitchen with a thick Boston accent. It makes me want to laugh, but I realize that wouldn’t go over well in a crowded shop full of other Bostonians.
“You two aren’t from around hea, are ya?”

“California,” I say.

“Missouri,” he says.

So, he won’t give me any answers, but a lady at the sandwich shop asks him something and he answers right away. He’s definitely being an ass to me.

She turns around, pulls the two plates off the counter, and hands them to my boyfriend-looking bodyguard. I snag my plate from his
hand and drop down into the nearest seat. He slides in across from me, and his knees knock into mine under the table. He doesn’t
apologize or excuse himself. He just smiles and laughs softly—it weakens me a bit. But then my mouth takes over with its automatic reaction.

“Excuse you?” I snap.

“I didn’t do anything?” he retorts, completely unaffected by my attitude.

“You just knocked your legs into my knees.”

“It wasn’t an accident. Why would I say sorry?” he laughs. “You should really calm that temper of yours.”

“And you should learn some manners,” I respond.

I knock my knees back into his and momentarily have the desire
to keep them there, not minding the warm feeling it causes in my belly. But instead, I slide out of the booth. I carry my plate over to the counter
and plop down on a stool. “You can watch me from over there, I’m
sure.” I might be laying it on too thick, but I don’t know how else to
lay it
on. “Excuse me,” I say to one of the waitresses behind the counter.
“May I have a knife to cut my sandwich, please?”

“Of course,” the waitress responds as she places it down beside my plate.

I place my elbow down on the bar and rest my head in my hand.
Some days, I wish Dad would disappear and leave me with a life of my own, rather than in the coattails of this fucking career he chose for himself. I didn’t choose this shit. No one ever asked me if I
wanted to
be followed around my entire life. Dad was the cause of Krissy’s death, and he’s out there carrying on with what he does best. Well, now it’s only me. My life will always be under some kind of microscope because of him. But Tango, he’s pretty much the fucking icing on top. To send me an amazingly hot man to ogle, only to be informed that he’s my new babysitter, is pretty screwed up. It’s like Dad wants me to be miserable.

Tango doesn’t take a hint. He sits on the stool beside me and
twists
the chair so his knees are only an inch from my right thigh. His
proximity is making me uncomfortable, but not in the worst way. Then again,
yes, it is the worst way. He’s making me uncomfortable. People aren’t allowed to have that affect on me. “Look, maybe we aren’t
getting off
to a great start,” he says, shoving a fry into his mouth. “I’m doing my job. We both know that. But people still make friends at work.
You know?” He sounds serious, which makes me realize he has no idea how unlikely a friendship would be with me.

I tip my water bottle into my mouth and take a long swig,
looking
into his eyes, trying to read him. I pull the bottle from my lips,
making a
slight popping sound, and look back at my plate of food. “Why do
you want to be my friend, Tango?” I ask in all seriousness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he shoves another fistful of fries into his mouth and chews for a minute before responding. He
clutches his hand around his napkin and looks at me. I turn to look at him, waiting for his answer, and watch as his dimples deepen a
touch. “Because I think you’re a pretty cool chick.”

His words force warmth to spread through my cheeks and everything
inside of me wants to say something nice in return, but that would be going against everything I think I should be doing—keeping him
at arms length. “You might not think that if you really knew me.” And the heat is gone. I have to keep reminding myself that a friendship is impossible with him. The words Mom burned into my
head constantly replay whenever I even think of befriending someone new.

She would place her hand on my cheek, look me in the eyes, and say:
know everyone . . . trust no one.
I promised not to forget those
words. It was the last thing she said to me.

TANGO

THIS GIRL IS
seriously in pain. I’ve seen pain. I’ve seen a mind destruct. My mind has had its moment too, but this girl has lost
everything
without ever having a say or a choice in the matter. I know she’s
snarky for a reason, but it’s her way of remaining strong. And I admire that.
Every second I spend with her, I understand her a little more. I understand
her more than she realizes. She’s so wrapped up with feeling alone in this world she likely hasn’t considered the possibility that there are other people living with similar feelings, even if the situations are different.

She doesn’t trust me, and I can’t blame her. I can see the struggle in her eyes to even accept me as an acquaintance. And again, I can’t blame her.

CALI

He’s pretending to act occupied as I pick up my prescription for
Vicodin,
which I appreciate. I’ve been taking painkillers for a year, and the scar is only half of the reason. The other half is emotional pain. I’ve been pacing the aisle for twenty minutes as they verify my
information and transfer my prescription from California. I’m sure he knows the list of meds I’m on, and I’m sure it will give him a good inside track as to how fucked up I am.

I lean over the counter to see if they’re any closer, but I don’t see anyone at all. I push back off the counter and walk down one of the nearby aisles, searching for painkillers and sleep stuff.

“You in pain?” Tango asks, turning the corner from another
aisle.

“Always.” I mean that in so many different ways.

“Do you have an injury?”

Here we go. First step to friendship is admitting weaknesses
about yourself. “Yes.” That was easier than I thought.

“Hmm. That wasn’t in your record.”

I twist my head toward him and stare him down until he looks back at me. My teeth grind against each other until my gums hurt.
“What else have you
read
about me?”

“Your birthday is August 2nd, which makes you a Leo—the ferocious lion of zodiacs,” he snorts. “Big surprise there.” He pulls a box of pain relievers down from the shelf and examines the back as if he’s never seen them before. “I know you’ve been through hell.” He
places the box back on the shelf and picks up another one. “I know that you
want a friend, but you’re scared of having one. I know you’re in physical and mental pain. But it’s not because I read it in your file, I know because it’s written all over your face, and it’s tattooed on
your collarbone.” He tugs on my sleeve, and I consider not pulling away,
but the look in his eyes makes me feel something and it’s not
something I should be feeling. I jerk my hand away from him as if it were an uncontrolled reflex.

“I was shot in the shoulder. They couldn’t extract the bullet
because
it’s too close to an artery.” I squeeze a box of painkillers tightly within my grip and graze him as I walk back to the pharmacy
counter.

He rushes to my side. “Who was supposed to be with you when that happened? Is that what this is all about? Someone let you down?”

I clap my hand over the bell to grab a pharmacist’s attention
quicker. “Excuse me?” I shout into the back room.

“We’ll be with you shortly, hon,” one of the pharmacists replies from behind the wall I can’t see around.

“Tell me, Carolina.” He pulls on my arm again, and I don’t pull away this time. I look up into his eyes and I swear I see what
compassion is supposed to look like.

“Yeah. The last guy didn’t exactly do his job. Let’s just say, I
don’t trust anyone—I can’t trust anyone, for a reason.” My words cause a jitter within his eyes—a look as if he’s trying to understand.

He nods his head as if he does understand. “Sorry to hear that,” he says simply. Sorry is as much compassion as I pull out of these bodyguards. It’s why I don’t typically talk about myself. Why bother? They don’t
really
care. With the exception of maybe one or
two, most of
the previous bodyguards usually remained quiet, like a soldier on
guard.
I didn’t speak to them, and they didn’t speak to me. It was
manageable. But Tango is slowly pulling me into his web, and I don’t know if this web is already a tangled mess or a beautiful dew droplet covered mesh of security.

“Tate?” My name is called from behind the pharmacy counter. “ID, please.” I hand the gum snapping, pharmacy assistant my ID. She studies it for a second and looks back up at me. Then back at my ID. “New tattoo?”

“No, it’s not. Is my prescription ready?” She looks at me and tilts her head to the side as if I said something to offend her. She extends her arm out and hands me the bag.

I turn around to leave and I hear the girl mutter, “Have fun snorting that.”

I pull in a deep breath of air through my lungs until I feel the skin stretching over my chest. “Excuse me?” I turn around to face her. Anger is bubbling through me and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to suppress it. I’m good at going from zero to one hundred when it comes to seeing red.

Her lips pucker and she shrugs her shoulders. “I call it as I see
it.” She crosses her arms over her chest and straightens her neck, trying to front some kind of confidence after she broke
pharmaceutical conduct, I’m sure.

“It is incredibly rude to make assumptions like that.” I
understand
I look damaged, and these comments seem to be finding me more
often
than not lately, but I need to gain some solid ground again. I’m
losing myself in this chase I’ve devoted my every waking moment to.

I feel Tango’s arm sweep against mine as he places his hand
down
on the counter next to me. “Is there a problem with your
prescription?” he half asks me, half asks the pharmacy assistant.

I stare at her for a moment longer, waiting for an apology
maybe. I
don’t see one coming, however. “I’m entitled to my opinions,” she sneers.

“You’re entitled to act as a professional, not an antagonist. Say what you want to me, I don’t care. However, for everyone else’s
sake, your supposed future profession will take you further if you learn to keep your misconceptions of others to yourself.”

 Another employee must have heard the confrontation, because I see a large burly man with ashen hair and a matching thick beard turn the corner, walking toward me slowly with a slight limp. He places his hands down on the counter and breathes heavily, trying to catch his breath from his twenty-foot walk. “I’m the manager, is there a problem here?”

“No, but thank you for asking.” He studies me for a moment. And I’m starting to gather who might be responsible for creating the open hostility around this place. It’s evident that a nose piercing and a couple visible tattoos warrant a drug addict label.

“Could I see your prescription for a moment?” No one looked at me this way in California. People had tattoos on their faces there and piercings in unpredictable places. No one gave them a second look. But here in this sheltered suburb of Massachusetts, I’ve been given twenty once-overs since I arrived six hours ago.

I hand him my bag and focus my eyes on his nametag. “Davis? Is that your name?” I ask.

He nods his head with confirmation as he turns the bag over to see what prescription I had filled.

“Do you trust your employees?” I ask.

He doesn’t blink before answering, “Of course I do.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I retort quickly. His eyes twitch and he looks from side to side at the idiot girl who was helping me and the other college student filling the drug containers.