The Best I Could (10 page)

I didn’t have to look to know Deena had
ducked out of sight.

“No idea,” I answered.

Hetty’s gaze slid to the open window above
me. “I’m sure.” Sighing, she gestured at the ground. “Look, I don’t
know what you’re going to need to work on the yard, but here.” She
handed me a roll of money. “It’s my ‘use when needed’ stash. This,”
she gestured at the lawn, “is a good idea, Tansy. You can take the
van into town if you need.”

Above me, I heard a faint snicker and a
taunting, “Dirt whisperer.”

The night before suddenly washed over me,
ramming my thoughts with scarily seductive images of Eli Lockston
standing in the overgrown lot next to the rescue. My heart
pounded.

“What if … and this is going to sound crazy,
but,” my gaze rose to the window, “what if we enrolled Deena in a
boxing program. I heard there was one in town that caters to
troubled youth.”

Deena’s head popped up above the windowsill.
“Hell, no!”

Hetty studied my face. Minutes passed, her
voice full of suspicion when she asked, “How do you know that?”

I fidgeted, my fingers fisting around the
bills she’d given me. “I heard it from the new guy working at the
rescue. He was talking to Vanessa about it when he first came
in.”

Smooth lie. Not so smooth delivery.

“The asshole alcoholic?” Deena screeched.
“What the hell, Tansy?”

I glared up at her. “It’s part of his
community service.” My gaze dropped to Hetty. “From what I heard,
he has experience in boxing.”

She frowned. “He’ll be training troubled
youth?”

Deena laughed. “When he’s all messed up
himself? What a load of bullshit!”

“Deena!” Hetty warned.

“Whatever,” my sister continued, unfazed. “It
doesn’t matter because I’m not doing it.” She crossed her arms.

Hetty’s jaw tightened, Deena’s reluctance
pushing her over the edge. Stepping forward, she touched my
shoulder. “Boxing for troubled youth, huh?”

“You can’t be serious!” Deena scoffed. “Are
you actually considering this, Nana?” Her hands fell to her sides.
“The man is a criminal! You want me to take lessons from a
criminal?”

“He had a DUI, for God’s sake,” I intervened.
“He didn’t murder anyone.”

“He could have,” Hetty muttered, her
shoulders slumping. “But I don’t see how getting involved could
make things any worse.”

“There is no way in hel—” Deena began.

Hetty’s face hardened. “Then hell it is.
You’ve got to find some way to channel all of this rage.” Pulling a
set of keys from her pocket, she handed them to me. “Take your
sister into town and stop at the boxing club. See if she qualifies
for one of the classes. If not, maybe they’ll change their minds
when they meet her.”

“Total shit!” Deena spat. “There’s nothing
wrong with me.”

“No,” Hetty agreed. “Nothing except a
complete lack of respect for other people and anger toward anyone
who tries to help you. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
Shaking her head, she walked away.

My gaze trailed her.

“I hate you, Tansy!” Deena hissed.

Her words slammed into me, and I squeezed my
eyes shut, swallowing past the pain they caused before turning to
peer at my sister. “It’s good that I love you enough for the both
of us.”

Slamming the butt of her palm against the
window frame, Deena shoved away from it, her figure disappearing
from view.

I suddenly hoped Eli was right about the
boxing. Deena was angry at too many people, alive and dead, and
eventually, the rage was going to explode.

Deena burst out of the
house, the door slamming behind her. Hands on hips, she glared at
me. “Come on,
sis
.
Take me to town. Throw me at people who know how to punch. I’ll
practice on you first.”

She didn’t mean that. She couldn’t possibly
mean that.

My face burning, and my throat tight, I
brushed dirt off of my hands, gripped Hetty’s keys in my palm, and
marched to the van.

Deena didn’t trail me. She rushed forward,
climbing into the passenger seat and slamming her door before I’d
even reached the driver’s side.

I barely got the key in the ignition before
she commandeered the radio, blasting angry music at top volume.

I turned it down.

She turned it back up.

My lips pressed together.

I pulled out of the driveway. The battle over
the radio continued, but I gave her the win as the town blurred
past, my gaze searching the road. I’d had practice looking for
places when I had no idea where I was going. From the moment I’d
walked out of the DMV with my license, I’d been my dad’s chauffeur,
from liquor store to liquor store, doctor to doctor … it didn’t
matter. All I ever seemed to have was the name of a business and
its general vicinity. I was good at asking for directions and
equally good at spotting buildings from the road.

The first place I found was a gardening
center, a small wooden building surrounded by a lot full of plants,
flowers, trees, bird houses, and pottery. I passed it up.

Deena turned the radio down. “Didn’t you need
to stop there?”

Rather than answer her, I kept driving.

“You’re that determined to pawn me off?” she
asked, anger filling her voice.

“I’m not trying to do anything to you, Deena.
I’m just trying to help.”

“Screw your help!” she shouted. “I know all
about what your kind of help does to people!” she laughed coldly.
“Your help got Dad dead.”

My foot hit the brake, my heart thudding.
Tears clawed their way up my throat, my face so hot it was on
fire.

To keep from sobbing, I pulled over, flagged
the first pedestrian I could find, and yelled, “Do you know where I
can find a boxing center around here? Like fighting kind of
boxing?” As if the person didn’t know what boxing meant.

The pedestrian, a middle-aged woman with a
toddler attached to her leg and a grocery bag in her hands, stopped
at a mid-sized car and scanned the van curiously. She shaded her
eyes. “Do you mean Rebels Boxing? It’s the only place I know around
here for that.”

I smiled. “Then that would be it.”

There wasn’t much to the town my grandmother
lived in. A couple of streets, a superstore, a ton of fast food
places, and a historic district made up of doctors’ offices, tax
collectors, and lawyers.

“Momma!” the toddler whined, her chubby arms
wrapping more tightly around the woman’s leg. “Go!”

“Shush,” the lady chided. She nodded at the
road. “When you get past Flowers Nails about a mile down from here
on your left, take the first road to the right. Fifth Avenue, I
think it’s called. Rebels is the big red building next to George’s
Car Lot.”

I waved my thanks and pulled back onto the
road, my gaze on the rearview mirror. The toddler had started
crying, the grocery bag wavering precariously as the woman
attempted to calm her and open her trunk at the same time. It
reminded me of my mother.

My heart rate slowed, my tears pushed
back.

“Is that why you hate me?” I asked quietly.
“Because I stayed with him?”

Deena stared out the window, her brows
furrowed. “No.”

Flowers Nails loomed up out of nowhere, the
white building covered in glass windows on one side, a big flowered
sign by the road flashing its name.

I took the turn onto Fifth Avenue too
quickly, my fingers gripping the steering wheel. “Then why?” I
asked.

Deena turned to look at me, eyes flashing.
“Because you didn’t stop him. You didn’t make him quit. You helped
him kill himself.”

My chest tightened, so tight that it took
everything I had in me to pull the van over, swinging it into a
parking lot just outside a red building. I couldn’t have missed the
boxing club if I wanted to. Red was an understatement. The building
housing Rebels Boxing was painted brick, the paint a bright
crimson. It was windowless except for one large plate glass square
next to a wooden door that was also painted red. Like blood. Lots
and lots of blood. It hurt to look at it.

A familiar Porsche sat in the parking lot,
but I barely spared it a glance.

No words escaped my mouth. My lips formed a
silent O, but no matter how hard I tried to speak past it, I
couldn’t.

I couldn’t speak because I knew Deena was
right.

“You can’t even deny it, can you?” Deena
asked, snorting. Reaching for her door, she swung it open, hopped
down, and slammed it in my face.

Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

My forehead fell against the
steering wheel, my heart a steady rhythm in my chest.
Ba-boom, ba-boom. Ba-boom.
So loud, fast, and hard, it shook me. I wouldn’t cry. I
wouldn’t! Crying didn’t fix things. It made people pity you, and I
didn’t deserve pity.

“You just going to sit there?” Deena called.
“Or are you going to take me into this place now?”

Sucking in a breath, I lifted my head,
grabbed the door handle, and left the van, my head held high.

Anything to hide what I knew was true. I’d
helped my father die.

Eli

The first thing I learned
when I entered Rebels Boxing was that the owner either dreamed of
being an American mobster or got a kick out of speaking like Al
Capone. Maybe he’d watched
The
Godfather
one too many times. The man
looked like he’d stepped out of the prohibition era, down to his
wrinkled black suit and black felt fedora. He had a face like
leather and slicked back dark hair. His shoulders were broad,
filling out the suit but not enough to smooth out the rumpled
fabric.

“You must be Eli Lockston,” he greeted, his
voice booming. It carried, slamming against the walls and echoing
back at me.

I was suddenly grateful the gym was mostly
empty, the exception being a scrawny teenage boy throwing punches
at a red heavy bag. He was doing it wrong.

“I’m Ray Clark,” the man
continued, offering me his hand. “I’ve heard about you. Not huge on
the scene yet, but you’ve made some waves.” He gestured at the gym.
“This is my outfit, my Borgata, my
family
. You can call me Boss. It’s a
nickname I like to go by.” He edged into the building, gesturing
for me to follow. “We’re heavy and ready to go.”

“Heavy?” I asked.

He grinned. “Armed, all equipped up.”

My brows rose. It wasn’t enough that the man
was dressed like he belonged anywhere but in boxing, but he had to
speak another language on top of it.

This was going to go so well.

My gaze roamed the room,
landing first on the ring before hovering over the rest of the
space; a myriad of punching bags, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a
workout space, and posters full of program information. The place
was clean and organized. The
Boss
had put a lot of money and thought into the
gym.

“You’ve got a nice place here,” I admitted
grudgingly.

Ray Clark grinned. “And we’ve got a lot of
potential boxing greats. Especially in what I like to call the
reconditioning program. That’s the one you’ll be involved with.
These are mostly kids and teenagers who’ve been through trauma,
convicted of crimes, or dealing with behavioral issues.” He glanced
at me. “They’re good kids. They just need some direction in their
lives.”

“And you think the best way to give them
direction is to give them a teacher like me?” I asked. “You’ve seen
my record, right?”

The man nodded. “You took some heat, spent a
few days in the can, some time with a shrink, and now you’re being
forced to go straight. I got it, man.”

I stared. “Do you speak like this all of the
time?”

“All
of the time,” the scrawny teen informed me from across the
gym. Pausing mid-swing at the bag, he added, “I’m
Mouse.”

My lips twitched, my gaze taking him in. Too
skinny, a shock of mussed brown hair, wide eyes, and a shiny,
pimple-dotted forehead. “Mouse? Let me guess, your mama wanted a
pet instead of a son? Or you have an unhealthy obsession with
rodents?”

“It’s a play on my name,” he answered
seriously. “I’m Mickey by birth. People here just call me
Mouse.”

“He’s my nephew,” Ray announced. “Smart as a
whip. He’s going places one day.”

“In life or in boxing?” I asked, studying the
boy. “Your stance is all wrong. So is your swing. Keep that up and
you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Ray clapped, startling me. “I thought you
might notice that.”

“What?” My head swung in his direction, my
lips parting. Realization dawned. “He was doing it wrong on
purpose?”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I
wouldn’t have let you work here,” Ray said matter-of-factly. “As it
is,” he scanned me in approval, “you’ll do.” He flicked his chin.
Honest to God
flicked
his chin. All he needed was an expensive cigar. “You’ll make a
good capo.”

Running a weary hand over my face, I watched
him through my fingers. “Capo?”

“Leader,” Ray translated, grinning.

I was going to need to google mob-speak. From
the way he spoke, I had a feeling he kept a list of words he simply
plugged into sentences for effect, correct or no.

“What about you, Eli Lockston?” he asked
suddenly. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

I snorted. “Thirty.”

Mouse snickered.

“A wise ass, huh?” Ray muttered. “Good luck,
capo. Some of these kids can run that mouth of yours into the
ground.”

“Not if I’m doing my job right,” I told him,
my gaze wandering the room once more. “If they’ve got enough wind
in them to speak, then I’m doing this wrong.”

“That’s the spirit!” Ray exclaimed, clapping
me on the back.

“Not spirit,” I corrected. “More like the
desire not to speak.”