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[lou]

she's wearing this.

The majority of the morning was spent in something of a paralyzed haze, Lo moving to and from the kitchen with an anxiety-ridden gait equivalent to a newborn foal in terms of elegance and grace, shoving her fingers through her hair, biting her nails, twisting the rings on her narrow fingers. The stench of her Indian neighbor's curry, eternally burning on the stove, had made a conscious effort to brand itself into her nose and forced water from her delicate blue eyes, leaving her crying involuntarily on the couch, smelling like curry and nervously fidgeting with everything she could get her hands on. Zach was gone. He hadn't called or texted her in three days and the fact that he could be dead somewhere, washed up in a gutter or lying in a hospital where she'd never find him didn't escape her. He was just a baby, just a seventeen year old boy, and she'd been supposed to be watching over him because he'd moved out of his house early and was living with her and fuck, what a mess. She hadn't moved from the couch in the time since she'd last seen him – he'd gone to bed early after she'd maced that douche in the park because he was exhausted and he wasn't there when she left for work in the morning. What day was it? Friday? Saturday? Sunday? They were all the same. All hopelessly frightening and endless in duration; she felt the night crushing her down against the flimsy couch cushions each time she shifted. His parents didn't know yet. She didn't have the heart to tell Greta what had happened under her watch.

Today, she'd have to leave the couch. She'd have to stop waiting for him to get back or call her and go to her job to pick up her paycheck so she could continue paying the rent. She'd have to get over herself and her plight long enough to at least have a place to keep him if he ever did decide to come back; pushing herself away from the shitty, uncomfortable couch, she crossed the narrow room in two long strides and tried calling him one more time, leaving him a message (one of thirty) that told him where she was and when she'd be back before she went into her room and pulled in the first articles of clothing that were closest to the door. Luckily enough for her, it was a relatively decent outfit and she was able to slink out the door – careful to lock it knowing that someone had most likely snatched him from the bed – and begin the cross-city trek to Five Guys, her boots clunking the whole way and her heart painfully thumping with an uneven rhythm, melancholy rapidly creeping over what could have easily been a good day. First her father, then her cousin, who next? Who would leave her by her lonesome after developing a bond that shouldn't be broken? There weren't many people left.

Anxiously tugging at the claw earrings that hung from her ears, she made the journey and ended up at Five Guys in record time, struggling to keep her speed and ignore the suffocating California dry-heat, rushing, hurrying so she could get home and make sure he was okay, her head down, not really watching where she was going. This was evident in the fact that as she concentrated on approaching the door, someone shoved it open, and it hit her square in the face, knocking her back a foot or two, clutching her nose, cursing like a sailor. “Holy fuck,” she cried, closing her eyes, blinking upwards to avoid the tears that inevitably came. As she tried to assess who exactly had whacked her in the face with the door, she stumbled to a metal chair outside the restaurant and sat, blood trickling through her fingers, realizing exactly who it was. His eyes still looked a little red around the rims, and she couldn't doubt the fact that he probably hit her on purpose.

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[steph3]

[atrb=border,0,true] [atrb=style, width: 350px; height: 200px; border: 3px solid #232323; border-radius:50px 50px 50px 50px; background: #232323, bTable] "Oye, loco," Dom laughed as he walked into Five Guys and greeted his old friend from when he was in high school. The guy was Jorge, who was originally his older brother's best friend and had graduated with him but it didn't mean he and Dom weren't close, "Oye amigo! Hace tiempo que yo no te veo por aqui! Como se va la cosa?" Jorge laughed. He was a big guy, much like Dom, but had a scar running down the side of his jaw from when he'd gotten into some nasty trouble dealing drugs. Dom wasn't into the drug scene. To him it was shallow and depressing and he couldn't deal with people who were violent over some white powder or a little blue pill. Plus, injections? Gross. It just skeeved him out which was why it surprised him when his brother got caught up in the entire mess. But that was how their conversation started. Dom didn't eat anything, having already eaten some food he picked up earlier. He wore nothing grand; a plain black tee with some dark, loose fitted jeans, and some chucks. He had his signature aviator sunglasses tucked into the collar and then some dog tags from when he'd served the mandatory time in the military-a requirement in order to graduate high school in Barcelona if you were eighteen. Running his fingers through his hair, he laughed as he caught up with Jorge who was indulging in all the fatty deposits that was Five Guys-a place he hadn't heard of until he'd gotten here. Jorge even asked him if he'd been crying because of how pink the rims of his eyes were. Dom just laughed and explained what had happened and he was surprised Jorge reacted the same way he had. Maybe it was just that the two were so accustomed to their own country that it still shocked them when people in other countries, especially America, were so paranoid over such silly little things. He was handing her a pocket knife that was closed-not trying to stab her with it. Hell, he even showed his face. He'd made it obvious he wasn't going to do anything to her and yet she still maced him. The two just ended up laughing about it after Dom said it stung like a bitch but not as bad as he anticipated. His mother used to make a specific spicy dish that when eaten, one's eyes would turn bloodshot and it would suddenly be raining fire. That burned his eyes more than the mace-but he dealt with it and put it behind him. "Mira, loco," Jorge made him lean in a bit at the table in order to tell him what he needed to hear, "Tengo unas cosas que necesito..." and then he started telling him the basic overview of the situation. He needed to win some cars back that he lost in a couple races in this city-which was why he was here and contacted him. The cars were worth more than he could imagine and if he won them back-he'd give him the full payment of one of them which could tide him over until the next stop on his way south. He planned on eventually ending up in Brazil or Chile-maybe Argentina but he needed to get out of the States and Mexico. Too much shit here. As Jorge continued with the details, they started toward the exit. Sticking a cigarette between his lips to light it when he got outside, he opened the door and was so in tune with what Jorge was saying, he didn't notice there was someone walking in and thwack he hit them with the door. Hearing the curse, he looked over to see who it was and had to stifle a laugh that wanted to escape his throat, "Esa es," he told Jorge over his broad shoulder and Jorge laughed softly at the realization of what he was talking about. Telling him he'd call him later with more details, Dom looked over at her and shook his head, "Karma's a bitch, huh?" he chuckled before he headed inside and asked the manager for the first aid kit he knew they had to have in the back-mandatory procedure. Coming back out, he handed her a couple napkins to help stop the blood flow a bit. He didn't bother asking her for permission to help her-he was just going to do it. He'd just punch her if she tried macing him again. He wasn't about to deal with that shit twice within a week. Putting on the butterfly band aid on her nose which looked a little purple but not broken, he shook his head a bit, "I'd say I'm sorry but I'm pretty sure you don't give a flying fuck," and he shrugged it off like her bleeding from her nose, because of him, didn't mean all that much and it didn't. So she got hit. He'd been shot at. If hurting her nose was the worst thing that ever happened to her, well, then, Hallelujah lucky bitch.

made by rockie at caution

[lou]

she's wearing this.

Lo had an atypical fascination with blood. The ruby liquid that seemed to drip so sweetly from the rim of her pert little nose immediately calmed her unfortunate reaction, her stumble; it brought about a peace that she'd neglected to find within herself prior to being smacked in the face with the door. Every time she fell, got punched, hurt herself in any way, the moment she could find and transfix herself within the bloody parameters of her wound, she was almost instantly sedated to the point where whatever had happened could be fixed largely without her even noticing. She was partly paying attention to the person who she'd maced, partly staring at the smooth fluid that had pooled in her hand and was dripping through her fingers, down her wrist to the edge of her red blazer, leaving darkened stains that most likely wouldn't come out, when he commented about karma and she couldn't help but laugh. It was true. But he still shouldn't have called her stupid. Even if it was an inconsequential action on his behalf, she figured it made her feel better, or enough so to get home without freaking out. Still, she wouldn't have helped herself if she were him. She'd probably have pulled the door closed to hit her again and then walked away. As evidenced by the fact that she maced a complete stranger, it was clear that she had a little bit of an anger-management problem and probably could due with some therapy to tide her over. Until then, she accepted the napkins, muttering a vague, “Thanks,” and dabbed delicately at the sore area, temporarily letting the worry that soaked over her about her cousin dissipate as she tried to make it stop bleeding.

In something of a delicate, unexpected action, he stamped a bandaid over her nose, the area where it had been cut by the edge of the door down the center, and in something of a subservient, unexpected action, she let him without protesting. Pushing the napkin to the edge of her nose one final time to make sure she wasn't still bleeding, she crumpled the bloody napkin in her hand and shoved her messy hair away from her face with the careless grace she had lately been lacking, the subtle sophistication of her movements that proved she had once been something great and was now relegated to a life of mediocrity, suppressed by her father's stupidity and his inability to get his act together. And her cousin, doing the same thing, leaving her by herself without a trace and he could be dead because he wasn't answering his phone but she wouldn't know because she had no way of contacting him and the idea wouldn't leave her alone, it left her eternally stuck in this strange midway where she would never live and she could never die because somewhere along the way, she decided she had to be the one to support everyone else and it was too late by now to take back her offer. So she sighed and she stared at the ground for a little bit before she looked back up and his eyes were still rimmed in pink from the mace and she almost felt bad, “You didn't have to do that.” she squished the damp napkin in her palm. “I wouldn't have.”

She was supposed to be the one who was charitable and kind and helped homeless people because she didn't want another kid to be deprived of their live and their family the way she was without anyone who cared for them, who gave a flying fuck. She was lucky because she had Greta and Greta treated her like a daughter, but she needed a mother, a real mother, not just a mother figure, and it was never lost on her that if she lost Greta she'd have no one left. Her cousins wouldn't extend the same kindness beyond what they were required to do, she wasn't stupid or naïve enough to believe they would. Even Zach, assuming he wasn't dead, would give up on the lost cause she'd be if Greta hadn't been there to scoop her up before she could go down that road. It was only a fine line between making it and never even looking at it. Licking her finger, she wiped away a bit of drying blood she could see on her cheek and looked away from her hand, pulled her gaze away really, to let it fall back on him, “If I asked you if you'd seen Zach Duchamp, you probably wouldn't be able to tell me, would you?” she wasn't actually asking him, unable to believe he would have any clue in her natural defense against people who probably wanted to slap her. Thankfully, there weren't that many.

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[steph3]

[atrb=border,0,true] [atrb=style, width: 350px; height: 200px; border: 3px solid #232323; border-radius:50px 50px 50px 50px; background: #232323, bTable] He shrugged his braod shoulders at her words, not thinking much of what she said to him at this point. Of course she wouldn't have. She probably would have maced him while he was holding his nose and claimed he had attacked her or something. Women sometimes seemed like entirely different creatures all together. He put his hands in his pockets once he was done, so she would know he wouldn't touch her again and keep his hands to himself. He didn't feel like getting mauled by pepper spray today. He had business to attend to after all and because of that incident that night, he hadn't been able to race because his vision was crap. He lost a good couple of thousands thanks to her and once again he was back to running on fumes. At her question, his eyebrows furrowed together at the notice of distress on her face over this Zach guy. He shook his head a bit, "No. But I can ask around if anything," he promised, making a mental note of the name Zach Duchamp so he could ask his boys later. He highly doubted they'd know who he was but then again, you never know. They could know his parents or lover or ex lover and slowly the puzzle pieces could come back together, "Do you need ice or anything? To bring down the swelling a bit," he explained in case, once again, she took it the wrong way. It wasn't out of fear. There was no fear in his voice. It was just that he really needed the money this time. Badly. If anything or anyone got in his way it was all over and trying to find another gig this good would be next to impossible. He knew what was on the line and so did Jorge. He couldn't just pull jobs out of his ass. He would admit he felt bad for hitting her with the door even if it was by mistake. If it had been a guy, he probably wouldn't have cared all that much. He would have helped him up, patted his back, and then walked off after asking if he was alright-but not apologize. But this chick was, well, a woman and he didn't like disrespecting women. Last thing he wanted was for God to smite him for treating a woman badly. She was skinny too so that didn't help at all with the situation. It just made her look more fragile.

made by rockie at caution

[lou]

she's wearing this.

“All right,” she said, a little disappointed and simultaneously relieved. The fact that he hadn't heard about him meant he probably wasn't doing anything illegal, which was good, assuming whoever this person was was doing illegal things because he seemed shady and she could never be sure who was doing what anymore without asking. In this case, asking would obviously get her nowhere since she'd already assumed and asking would make her look foolish. Besides, wasn't it implied in the fact that she'd even bothered asking if there was any chance he might know who she was talking about? What part of that sounded even remotely legal? None of it, was the sad answer, and even if his nefarious attitude didn't transfer so far to his actions, she still doubted his legal tendencies with a strongly dubious inflection in almost everything she said. He was bound to notice it, Lo typically didn't bother hiding what she said under layers of pretense and duality. It was generally one of her simultaneously redeeming and incriminating characteristics.

“Actually that would be good.” by now the manager probably knew she was bleeding on the exterior of the store and was doubtlessly waiting for her to get up and come inside so she could get paid and leave the grounds before she got blood all over his furniture. Still, it was slowing slightly with every passing minute and she had no doubt that ice would help her tremendously. “I'll get it, though.” she didn't want to put an undue burden on him. Still, she felt compelled to compensate. He'd hurt her and then he'd helped, while she'd hurt him and just left him there to suffer with the pain. “Can you just wait here for a quick second?” she waited for him to agree, patiently. They were equal now, done exchanging hateful blows, and it was about time for her to return to pacing aimlessly around the apartment waiting for some indication that her cousin was alive. Pushing herself up from the chair, she threw away the napkin in a trashcan outside the door and opened the door, careful to avoid her purplish nose, ignoring the catcalls from the guys behind the grill once they saw the bandaid on her nose and the off-kilter hue of her flesh.

Waiting a couple minutes for her boss to count it out, she received the narrow envelope with the bills inside and pushed the door back open. She got paid in cash because she didn't have a banking account; he accommodated her needs for whatever reason and let her act like an illegal immigrant because she could. After the stock market crash and every local bank closed out and she lost a couple thousand dollars of her own hard-earned cash, she decided that she'd keep a solidified amount of every paycheck in a sock under her mattress. Counting out twenty five dollars, she handed it to him, “Here, buy yourself dinner or something. For your efforts.”

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