Burnished Gold

[redsox907]

Princess Diaries ass name.

Criminal in the making. We see the vibes.

I had to look up what that meant

criminal in the making just cause he latino?!?

Sox can't be stopped

don't know if this will become a yearly thing, but fuck it I'm vibing right now

[redsox907]

Season One, Episode Three: Hell To Pay

“It is a letter from Ignacio Ceniceros himself, expressing his preference regarding this modification.”

Everything seemed to slow down all at once for Cassie Cantrell. The moment those words crackled out of the speaker of Clay’s office phone—the same phone she’d once listened to Clay and the Mayor discuss new renovations for City Hall, which eventually led to Clay building Mayor Dunham a million dollar cabin in Willow—everything seemed to slow down.

She could practically see the color in Clay’s face begin to rise, starting right above the collar of his navy blue dress shirt and slowly marching up his thick, muscular neck, over his jawline, then creeping up his ears where it turned the brightest. Clay never hid his anger well, but on the few occasions he didn’t wouldn’t tell her out right, she only needed to look at his ears. By the time the color had reached them, they nearly glowed with heat, as if someone had turned the knob that controlled their temperature to “HI.”

At the same time as she watched the color slowly climb up his face, it turned towards her. The cigar he was smoking was hacking haphazardly between his lips, only being kept from falling by the smallest pressure from his upper lip. His slack jawed look of bewilderment transformed before her eyes, twisting into a painful expression that someone may confuse with agony, but she knew all too well what it represented.

Betrayal.

Lost in her observation of the domino effect that had happened inside her home, 3,000 miles away from the court case unfolding in Tolleson, Arizona, was their own lawyers objection.

Two seconds before his voice thundered throughout the room, reverberating off the black oak desk he was turning away from, bouncing off the matching book cases and the heavy-plate steel safe that was bolted to the floor in the corner of his office, Cassie knew what was coming.

The next words that came out of his mouth weren’t directed at her, but they didn’t need to be for the outrage to land in her chest, suffocating it.

“WHAT IN THE BACKWATER COURT IS THIS?! YOU CAN’T ALLOW EVIDENCE SUBMITTED WITHOUT DISCLOSURE! AND ON TOP OF THAT, HOW THE HELL DID HE WRITE A LETTER WHEN HE DIDN’T EVEN KNOW ABOUT IT! HE MUST-”

Before she even knew what she did, the call was muted. She’d pushed the button as Clay’s roar was peaking, and now she stood there, still depressing the button, unsure what would happen next.

“You,” he snarled at her.

“I didn’t,” Cassie whispered. It was all she could think to say.

Judge Melton asked her a question, but Clay either hadn’t heard it, or simply felt his anger was more prudent than the Judge’s question.

“How else did he know about the hearing? Rodrigo asked you to tell him. And we AGREED that we wouldn’t. To protect him.”

His voice had once again reached a fever pitch on the word agreed, before dropping it several registers so the next words didn’t just hit her like a brick wall, but slithered into her heart. The word ‘we’ being the key point.

She heard Melton ask the court clerk something.

“Clay,” she pleaded, hoping he would listen. If things didn’t turn around quickly Rodrigo might win more than just a visitation. He might take Iggy from her. “I have to answer the judge.”

Clay didn’t answer. He had finally noticed his cigar still hanging dangerously out of his mouth, reaching up to reposition it before taking a long pull. She had to risk it and hope that despite his anger, he saw reason. He wouldn’t want to explain why Iggy was suddenly gone.

“Sorry, your honor. We were having, uh,” Cassie fumbled with the words in her mind, thinking of three different excuses and struggling to choose the believable one, “technical difficulties.”

Then, adding for good measure and hoping Clay received the subtle hint, added: “There will be no more outbursts on our end.”

She once again depressed the mute button, hoping Clay understood.

He maintained his simmering gaze on her, taking another long pull of his cigar before blowing the smoke towards her.

“This isn’t over yet.”

Cassie nodded. She took a deep breath and steadier herself for the coming storm. She didn’t know what else to do.

~~~

Clayton Gentry didn’t lose. He may have setbacks. He may underestimate his opponent at times. But, when he was prepared, he simply didn’t lose.

He’d made a hefty donation to the Blackstone Country Club, an exclusively private, members only club with a championship designed course and a hacienda style-club house. A club house that was in need of renovations, according to Dean Sampson. And more importantly, one of the senior members of the club was none other than the honorable Judge Mike Drinkman, who was persuaded by the sizable donation to request the civil custody case in regards to one Ignacio Aurelio Ceniceros.

Then there was of course Sampson himself. He’d reached out to his former coworkers at Anderson Engineers and was told Sampson was simply the best.

“Hugh cheated on his wife, got the nanny pregnant, got arrested for a DUI, and STILL got custody over the kids and kept the house,” praised Scotty Hallon, the hiring director at Anderson, “If Becky ever catches me bringing one of those escorts home, he’s the first person I’m calling.”

So he’d called Sampson, who’d told him which Judge to grease.

It was all supposed to work out in his favor. He had a Judge in his pocket, the best civil lawyer in the State of Arizona, and a wife that he thought stonewalled Rodrigo’s attempts to recruit Iggy himself to the cause.

Yet, here he was. Cigar hanging from his mouth, his wife defiantly begging him to let her take control, a lawyer who was objecting and still somehow losing the fight.

The Judge’s wife had been in a car accident two days prior, defaulting the case to the next available judge. That had been Judge Nicholas Melton. Sampson had run the logistics and came back with unsettling news.

“Uh, he actually favors keeping families connected and reuniting them whenever possible.”

So his Judge as gone, Clay had thought. He still had Sampson, who was lauded, and Iggy was still in the dark.

But now? It was all unraveling. And the only finite answer sat directly in front of him, her shoulders hunched over, tears always wetting her eyes.

“She’d better not start crying all over my god damn desk,” Clay thought to himself with disgust.

Cassie had answered another question from the Judge, but at this point Clay had checked out. They were going to lose. His outburst at the letter probably hadn’t decided it, but it certainly didn’t help.

The boy would see his deadbeat father. He would be spoiled. Allowed to slack on his responsibilities. He would probably start thinking that since his Dad was ‘fun’ that meant he was the better parent.

Where was Rodrigo when someone had to pay for Iggy’s sports equipment? Or when Iggy ruined all of Clay’s ties by throwing them in the washer, instead of putting them with the dry-cleaning, like he’d been instructed to do since he was 10? How about when Iggy backed into a car in the school parking lot and Clay was forced to cover the damages, out of pocket of course so the premium wouldn’t go up?

There was one answer for all of the questions burning in Clay’s mind.

Jail. Rodrigo was in jail, because Rodrigo was a criminal.

And now, he would finally get the opportunity to continue the cycle. Iggy would go to Arizona. Iggy would spend time with his family. And then Iggy would think that because they loved him, that meant he was guaranteed happiness.

He’d tried for ten years to teach that boy love didn’t equal happiness. Usefulness did. Responsibility did. Hard work did. Rodrigo represented none of that, but that wouldn’t matter to a 17-year old boy.

“Because it would be fun,” Clay sneered mentally, his face contorting to match the disdain filling his head.

The Judge had finally finished his self-righteous speech, as if he himself was the savior of the broken homes.

“Probably a lil’ brown boy who lost his father,” Clay thought with a smug air of certainty.

The Judge made his verdict and Clay reached across his desk, nudging Cassie to the side with his forearm, and ended the call.

“Sampson will tell us the verdict, Clay said cooly. “We have bigger things to discuss.”

“Clay, I swear. I didn’t tell him anything.” Cassie had started proclaiming her innocence again, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, her mascara already seeping at the edges.

The frustrating part was, deep down, he knew. Over ten years he’d learned all of her tells, could discern the crocodile tears from the large, rolling tears that indicated true sorrow, or despair.

These were those tears. To his relief, she’d moved backwards into the room, directing her tears away from his desk and the numerous building plans scattered across it.

Clayton sighed. As angry as he was—and he was furious—directing it at Cassie would solve nothing.

“So then, how?”

Seeing a glimmer of opportunity, Cassie started grasping at every straw that darted into her thoughts.

“Maybe Pastor Isaac? Or he wrote Iggy a letter first. Or, I don’t know, called Fred Meyer when he was working?”

Clay shook his head dismissively at each answers, unbuttoning the sleeves of his dress shirt as Cassie frantically searched for answers, then slowly rolled each loose sleeve up to his elbows before creasing it.

“Appearance is everything,” his father, Gerald, always told him. And the only time he broke that principle was when worked needed to be done. And right now, God damnit, he had work to do.

“It doesn’t matter how, or who, informed him,” declared Clay, waving his hand over his shoulder as if physically slapping the ideas away. The rolled up sleeve bulged once when his bicep flexed with the motion.

He snuffed the faintly glowering cigar tip out into the equally black ashtray on his desk, making a mental note to get a lighter one at the same time. Twice last week, reaching for his ash tray out of the corner of his eye with a lit cigar, he’d accidentally singed a pair of building plans.

“It matters how he is going to learn his lesson.”

Cassie shrunk away from the idea, clearly having not reached this conclusion herself yet.

“If he’s so desperate to do things his own way, I’m sure military school would break him of that,” Clay said to himself more than Cassie. This wasn’t Cassie’s punishment to hand out, but he always gave her the illusion of choice, even if there was none.

“Military school would give him freedom, too though,” squeaked Cassie. It may have been a last ditch effort to keep her son home, but Clay couldn’t argue the reasoning in it.

“Maybe make him quit that job of his then and get a real job, working as a farm hand somewhere.”

Thinking of the job again, Clay realized Cassie was likely right. Rodrigo had known Iggy got a job at Fred Meyer, and although he didn’t know which one, it wouldn’t take too much effort to find out. That had to be the answer. It was the only logical conclusion.

“That’s where I think Rodrigo got his hooks in Iggy. We simply have to cut it out.”

Clay had already shook his work computer awake, intending to start researching local farms in the area, when Cassie’s voice, sounding a little more sure of itself than moments prior, beseeched him again.

“Clay, how else would he pay for the gas to drive Charlotte around? And before you say we would, you know he uses that car for more than Lottie. He should earn that gas. Just like he earned the car.”

Iggy had earned the car by cutting the grass and trimming the hedges not only at the Gentry’s house all summer, but also four other contractor friends who also lived on Italy Circle.

“You should be thankful,” Clay called mockingly one sweltering hot summer while Iggy struggled to push the gasoline powered lawn mower up the steep hill in their back yard. “Some people in your heritage never escape doing yard work.”

“If Rodrigo is so eager to finally play father, let’s let him.” The coldness in Cassie’s voice surprised him. But instead of questioning whether it was genuine, Clay convinced himself it was bitterness towards Rodrigo abandoning them still flowering beneath the surface, rather than preservation of Iggy.

Make him be a father. The thoughts reverberated inside Clay’s mind. Then, something clicked.

With a devilish smile spreading across his face, Clay opened Google Chrome and started to research.

[Soapy]

Criminal in the making. We see the vibes.

[redsox907]

Criminal in the making. We see the vibes.

[redsox907]

Season One, Episode Four - Paying Penance

The tires of Iggy’s Altima, the first car he’d ever owned and paid for fully with his own money, whispered silently as he turned off Italy Circle and through the electric gate that separated the driveway of the Gentry’s house from the rest of the community. He pulled a few feet forward, checked his rearview to make sure he was clear of the automatic gate, then sat and idled as he watched it close.

One year ago, he’d pushed the button on the gate, then simply drove up to the house. A branch had fallen over the track, blocking the sensor, and the gate never closed.

Two hours later, Clay came roaring into the house, screaming for Iggy.

“What’s the point in spending all this GOD DAMN money on a gate, if you’re ignorant ass isn’t going to close it!?”

Iggy shivered at the memory of Clayton’s fury that day. As punishment Iggy had stood outside, still wearing the basketball shorts and tank top he had on inside the warmly heated house, and proceeded to open, then close, the gate for an hour. It had been November.

Iggy watched in the sideview mirror as the black iron gate slowly slid into place, stopping with a small shudder as the gate hit the end of its track. Iggy continued up the driveway, trying to brush the memory of his chilly punishment back into his subconscious. As the Altima took its final turn up the driveway, revealing the garage that marked where the asphalt of the driveway ended and the Gentry house began, Iggy abruptly slammed on the brakes.

Sitting in the driveway, parked in his assigned spot, was Clay’s pearl white Ram 2500, Gentry Built stamped in bold black on the hood, a silhouette of Mt. McKinley set behind the logo, a design change Clay had made the moment he took over his father’s company seven years ago.

Clay wasn’t supposed to be home. He was supposed to be in Juneau, bidding on the restoration job for the State Capitol. If he was home, something was wrong.

Iggy had slowly crawled the car forward, easing into the spot next to Clay’s Ram with practiced silence. Whatever had Clay home on a Wednesday afternoon when he was supposed to be in Juneau would have him in a sour mood. They knew he’d be back from school soon, but if Iggy was quick, and careful, he may be able to sneak to his room and avoid the brunt of his frustrations, at least for now.

He moved with practiced efficiency, easing the door open, then shut again, moving deliberately to avoid the cobblestones in the walkway that shifted with pressure, threatening to topple whoever disturbed them straight into the rose bushes Cassie had on either side of the walk. He slid the key into the deadbolt as if it were made of glass and the slightest friction would cause it to shatter beyond repair.

Whenever you’re trying to sneak somewhere, every sound feels amplified, and it was no different for Iggy as the front door to the Gentry house slowly creaked open. Iggy slipped in, removed his shoes in a quick double motion, and was nearly at the stairs before he saw movement in the hallway.

Lottie was in the hallway, the door to the living room still propped open behind her. Judging by her focus, she was moving towards the kitchen, that is until she spotted Iggy mid-step, clearly focusing on maintaining absolute silence.

Iggy raised one finger to his mouth, pursing his lips behind it.

“Shh.” He indicated.

Charlotte smiled and nodded, as if agreeing to a silent pact. The sound of some reality TV show escaping from the sound-proofed living room and assaulting the quiet hallway through the open door was the only sound as their eyes met silently.

Charlotte waited until Iggy gave her the thumbs up, turning with the same motion to start climbing the stairs.

“DADDY!” She wailed. “IGGY’S HOME AND TRYING TO BE SNEAKY!”

Iggy threw his hands in the air in exasperation, furrowing his brows in confusion at Charlotte at the same time. She merely giggled to herself, then turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Iggy and the drone of the TV alone in the hallway.

The speaker mounted to the wall beside the stair crackled to life.

“Iggy, my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Iggy shot one more singeing glance at Charlotte as she emerged from the kitchen, a bowl of white cheddar popcorn in one hand as she shoved a handful into her mouth with the other. With practiced grace, Lottie flipped Iggy off with the hand holding the bowl, before disappearing back into the living room, the drivel of reality TV cutting off with finality as she closed the door behind her.

Iggy took the stairs two at a time, promptly turning right once he reached the landing. Clay’s office was at the end of the hall, situated above the garage with a giant French window in the north-facing wall, so he could see anyone making the ascent to the house well before they’d reached the crest of the driveway.

Clay was standing in front of the window, gazing out over the landscape, a glass of scotch sweating in his left hand, the ice having softened at the edges as the liquor eroded its shape. He waited until the mahogany door made a barely audible click, the latch bolt settling securely into the strike plate, before addressing the trespasser in his sanctuary.

“Think you could sneak into the house? What’ve you got to hide?”

Failure resonated inside Iggy’s brain. He hadn’t been able to see Clay behind the glass, it was tinted for that exact reason, but had hoped that Clay was distracted with whatever drew him home and hadn’t noticed his Altima. With a sinking feeling, Iggy had the sudden realization that he was likely the reason Clay was home instead of in Juneau.

“Nothing sir,” Iggy finally answered, not wanting to take too long and raise Clay’s blood pressure, and thus, his temper.

“It’s just, I thought you were in Juneau. So if you’re home from such an important job, something must be wrong. I just didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You didn’t tell me you’ve got a pen pal, Ignacio.”

Iggy tried to hide his sudden shock, smoothing out the sudden panic etched across his face. Thankfully, Clay was still staring out the French window and hadn’t seen the shockwave of surprise at the question.

“I uh, don’t have a pen pal?”

“Sir.”

“Are you sure? I just found out about the most amazing letter.”

Iggy gulped. He suddenly became aware that the lights were all off and the only light in the room came from the sunlight pouring in from the French window. The computer screens on Clay’s desk were all off, his laptop wasn’t propped open on the coffee table, his three cell phones lay face down on the edge of his desk.

With a cold realization, Iggy put it all together. Clay knew about the letter to the court, begging for the opportunity to see his father. His real father.

He could try and stall, hope that Clay was amused by watching him squirm and that was punishment enough. Or he could rip the bandaid off, tell the truth, and hope for the best.

He ripped it.

“How’d you find out about the letter?”

Clay finally turned from the window to face Iggy, a smile playing at the corners of his thin lips. With the sunlight behind him, he looked almost as if he were glowing.

“You wrote a letter? I would love to know who it was addressed too. Or how you sent it. I didn’t see anything in our outgoing post.”

The mock surprise in Clay’s voice told Iggy all he needed to know. This wasn’t Clay being amused and proving he was smarter than Iggy. This was personal.

Rather than defend himself, or get defensive, or even grovel, Iggy remained silent. It might irritate Clay more, but it was better than desperately pleading his case to the judge, jury, and executioner who had already handed down his sentence.

“Plea the fifth, eh? Figures.”

Clay took a measured sip of the scotch, exhaling as the burn rolled down his throat, his breath quickly clouding around the ice before evaporating. There was a small grin already spreading on his face as he pulled the glass back down even with his waist. It started at the corners, then spread slowly along the length of his jaw.

“Guilty people usually do. And we both know that runs in the family, too.”

Iggy’s anger flared, but he kept his face neutral, refusing to give Clay the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.

“Unless you’re at work, at mentorship, or out with the family, you’re grounded to your room for the next week.”

Iggy simply nodded. Clay had obviously been hoping for an outburst, an objection, something. His grin slipped at the edges. Clay raised the scotch to his mouth again, took a full gulp to down the remaining liquor with another sharp inhale, then waved Iggy out of the room with the empty rocks glass, the ice clanking against the glass with the motion as water droplets flew off it.

Face neutral, Iggy turned to leave the room. As the door was starting its downswing behind him, Clay called out one last time.

“Those family outings include running Lottie around town this weekend. Make sure you find out when she needs you, Ignacio.”

Iggy paused just long enough to give Clay one final nod, face still as if chiseled from stone, letting the mahogany door silently shut behind him.

~~~

The woman lay on top of him for a minute, maybe longer, her head against his chest as her own breath settled from the deep heaves that only came from physical activity back into its usual steady rhythm. Her fine black hair was sprawled across his upper body, the longest strands pooling on either side of his neck and enclosing the heat around him. He allowed her to lay like that, their bodies each slowly matching the other’s breathing, until the heat became unbearable.

“You’re killing me Claudia,” he whispered into her hair, lightly smacking her bare ass as he moved her to the side.

Claudia rolled off him, pulling the sheets that had started at their hips and slowly migrated to their feet, some spilling onto the floor below. One of the ends caught, pulling up only enough sheet to cover Claudia and nothing else.

“Sorry,” she shrugged.

Rodrigo sucked his teeth, swinging his feet off the bed and onto the rough polyester carpet. He leaned down and grabbed his boxers off the floor, sliding them up in one smooth motion. He grabbed his pack of Marlboro’s off the nightstand. He fished his lighter out of the pocket of his jeans, lying at his feet where the boxers had been previously, snapping the faux-gold plated lighter twice before it caught.

The flame ignited, engulfing the tip of the cigarette as he took a deep draw. Then another before sighing as he exhaled the smoke.

“So, you got to work tonight?” It was phrased as a genuine question, but he knew the meaning behind it.

“Nah, Jackie-boy’s got the night crew loaded back up. I’ll be swinging back to the day crew, so he gave me a few nights off to switch the schedule over.”

“I told him I’d work right through it, pick up the OT,” added Rodrigo with a humorless laugh. Jackie had of course said no. ‘No overtime, no exceptions,’ had become Wal-Mart’s main policy. Above filling orders, gutting trucks, and keeping the warehouse stocked. They’d rather have freight sitting at the door, waiting to be unloaded, than pay one unloaded time and a half to get the product out.

“But, I’m picking up what you’re putting down, señorita.”

It was nearly 10 P.M. and that meant her son, Cisco, would be home soon. He’d told her that letting him stay out that late was asking for trouble, ain’t nothing a 17 year-old boy could be doing that late at night that was wholesome. Rodrigo knew first hand, he grew up on these streets. But, he wasn’t going to tell Claudia how to raise her son, not when he had barely raised his own.

“It’s not that I want you to go, it’s just…” Her voice trailed off, searching for the right words. When none came, she simply leaned over, the sheet slipping down enough to expose the tattooed heart above her own beating one, and planted a firm kiss on Rodrigo’s shoulder.

“Nah, I get it. Or at least, I think I do.”

Her face still wore the torn expression, stuck between what she wanted, and what was practical.

“For real. I get it. I ain’t been back that long and the kid already bristles at any dude in your life. If this becomes serious, I don’t want his first impression being that I’m just another dude up the block looking for some quick play.”

Claudia recoiled at the bluntness of his words, her face turning away towards her own nightstand as she pretended to be checking her phone. He knew the words had stung her, but two years on the outside hadn’t softened the bluntness he’d adopted on the inside. In there, you couldn’t be in between. It was all or nothing, every day, for ten years. That wasn’t something you could just turn off.

Claudia, apparently over whatever had stung her, turned back to Rodrigo, inching herself closer on the bed and pulling the sheet with her this time. He leaned over and gave her another kiss, planting it directly on her forehead and holding for a brief moment, trying to show her the words weren’t meant to sting. She looked up at him, perhaps wanting more reassurance, perhaps another kiss that may lead to another workout—Rodrigo wasn’t sure which.

Instead, he turned and rose from the bed, pulling up his faded blue jeans from the floor as Claudia continued moving over the bed, filling the warm space he’d just vacated.

“Oh, I meant to ask you. How’d the custody hearing go?” Claudia clearly trying to keep her emotions under the surface, steeling herself for bad news while secretly praying for a reason to celebrate.

Iggy wasn’t Claudia’s kid, she only had Cisco. But, she had been there from almost the beginning, helped raise Iggy alongside Cassie, the two of them nearly inseparable for years. Then, everything changed. Rodrigo left, then Cassie and Iggy left. Rodrigo had been surprised she still lived in the McNeel Apartments when he was finally granted his release from prison.

“Grandfathered in, fixed rent,” Claudia had explained with a shrug that said that explained it all when Rodrigo ran into her once he himself moved back in.

“Good,” shrugged Rodrigo bluntly, still searching for his button-up plaid shirt that had somehow misplaced itself.

Claudia stared at him for a moment, mouth agape. Rodrigo clocked it out of the corner of his eye, but refused to elaborate. He hadn’t mentioned it yet for a reason. Because talking about it made it real. And when it was real, the fears that sit in the back of your mind become real too.

“Good? What’s good!?”

“Oh, it was granted. Temporarily. Iggy’s coming home this summer.” Rodrigo said it as if he were describing the weather, or talking about someone from work’s good luck.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” snapped a bewildered Claudia. “You haven’t seen your son in ten years and here you are, more concerned with finding your stupid shirt!?”

Just as Claudia’s bewilderment reached its highest point, Rodrigo snapped the shirt off the ground, pulling it free from the comforter that had also migrated to the floor, wrapping the shirt up with it.

“It’s not that I’m not excited,” Rodrigo sighed defensively, putting his arms through the sleeves and starting to button.

“I’m just not used to things going right.”

“There’s still time for that prick Clay to come up with something. Or the court to reverse the decision.”

“Or,” he added quietly, “time for Iggy to change his mind.”

He hadn’t mentioned that part to anyone yet, not the guys from his mentorship group, nor his parole officer. That was what was eating him up the most. He’d spent every day while he was a resident of Arizona State Prison praying for another opportunity to be a part of Iggy’s life. But now that it was almost in his grasp? The terror that gripped him kept him awake at night, worrying if he’ll be able to measure up the person Iggy remembered from ten years ago.

“Iggy isn’t going to change his mind. He wouldn’t have written the letter if he wanted to.”

She rose from the bed, the sheet falling all the way down to her hips, covering virtually nothing at this point, and planted one more kiss directly on Rodrigo’s lips.

“Stop stressing. You did your part. Now, get out of here before Cisco finds us and hates you before he can get excited that Iggy is coming home.”

“Until next time, señorita,” Rodrigo teased, adding extra embellishment on señorita, taking a long theatrical bow in the process.

As he turned to the door, a pillow went whizzing past his head.

~~~

She knew he’d come home. She’d heard Lottie’s yell from the hallway, heard the two-a-time climb up the steps, then the sound of footsteps moving down the hallway towards Clay’s office.

Then, nothing. No yells or protest, no stomping of the feet, or slamming of doors. Just quiet.

She knew he wouldn’t protest, or defend himself. Iggy was past that point. He wasn’t stupid, he knew fighting it was like trying to fight your way out of quicksand. The harder you fought, the worse position you found yourself.

How old was he when she finally noticed it? Ten? The number sounded right, but it could have happened even before they moved to Alaska.

It had all happened so fast she didn’t start noticing patterns until they were worn in like tracks in a dirt path.

She sighed as she reached for the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, the last bottle from Clay’s birthday a few weeks earlier.

If he was going to punish her son, then she was going to drink his expensive Scotch.

She poured two fingers in the glass, eyeballed it for a second, then added two more for good measure.

‘It was a get drunk and forget about your problems kind of night,’ Cassie thought to herself.

There was a light knock on the mahogany door of the dinning room. Cassie turned, slower than normal, from the barstool facing the lighted mirror behind the bar, to face the door. Charlotte was there, her head tucked just over the door, one hand holding herself against the door. If it wasn’t for the hand, Cassie thought she looked an awful lot like a floating head. Or maybe that was the liquor talking.

“Hey Mom, I chipped a nail earlier. Can we have a girls day tomorrow and go get our nails done, and maybe hit Bath and Body Works?”

Cassie looked at the hand still firmly holding onto the door. Still perfectly manicured, no chip in sight. They’d just gotten them done five days prior.

“Sure, honey. We can do that. If I’m not up by breakfast, come get me and we’ll get ready together, kay?”

Charlotte’s smile split her face in two as she nodded quickly, then dashed from the room.

‘Maybe she chipped the nail on the other hand,’ Cassie thought to herself taking a big swig of Johnnie Walker, nearly draining half the glass in one gulp.

Even if she hadn’t, it didn’t matter. Lottie got what Lottie wanted. Cassie learned a long time ago to play along, it was easier that way.

Cassie downed the last of the Scotch in the glass, grimacing at the burn that gave the same sensation she imagined drinking hand sanitizer would. A memory came flooding back, ten years earlier, sitting in Clay’s truck, the red Chevy Silverado he had before he inherited Gentry Built and the reputation that came with it.

A homeless man was passed out on the side of the road, filth covering his body from head to toe, making it hard to distinguish what was dirt, and what was something far more hazardous.

“I can’t believe someone sold to him,” Cassie’s righteous anger spilling out. “That should be illegal.”

“I doubt anyone sold to him,” Clay huffed, pointing at the hand sanitizer bottles scattered around their impromptu camp site.

“You’re kidding,” Cassie exclaimed, gasping at the thought of drinking hand sanitizer. Then, two weeks later, she saw another man pour water into a bottle filled with gelled hand sanitizer, shaking it vigorously before tipping the bottle to his mouth. Cassie watched as the watery-gel mixture slowly slid down the bottle, before finally turning away as she gagged.

“Told you,” Clay bragged from the drivers seat, chuckling at the thought that Cassie really thought she knew better than him.

Cassie shook the memory away, glancing at the clock mounted behind the bar in the process.

12:44 A.M. If Cassie was going to survive the mall tomorrow, Charlotte never went to the mall without making an event out of it, she’d need to head to bed. And soon.

She looked at the bottle of Blue Label, the amber liquid nearly to the bottom now.

‘How full had it been when she sat down?’ Cassie couldn’t remember. Maybe half, maybe more. She shrugged the confusion away, it didn’t matter anyway. Clay had stopped questioning where his Scotch went years ago.

Then, she reached over, wrapping her hands around the cool glass of the bottle, and tipped it into her cup one more time.

[djp73]

order in the court

[redsox907]

order in the court

Clay said fuck that mickey mouse ass court

[redsox907]

Season One, Episode Five - Next Stop, Arizona

Iggy was sitting in Clay’s office, across from his step-father, with the business phone that normally sat neatly on the corner of the desk pushed to the center, the speaker button illuminated, while his father drawled on about his week, unaware that Clay was listening like a silent assassin.

Iggy had been staring at a small crack in the drywall, it had formed at the corner where the window trim met the sill, and started to spiderweb out. He thought it was odd, Clay being a contractor, that he hadn’t noticed the small crack forming. Or at least if he had, he hadn’t bothered to fix it.

“Everything good over there Iggy?” His father’s voice cut through the small observations Iggy was making about Clay’s office, a place he was usually restricted from save for his own punishments. But with the latest chain of events, Clay had moved the monitoring of his weekly calls with his father from the dining room, where he mostly had privacy, into Clay’s office, surely to discourage any future planning between the two Ceniceros.

The question his father had asked was a loaded one. In the grand scheme of things, things were better than Iggy had thought possible. Not because life in the Gentry household had gotten any easier, in fact, it had gotten increasingly difficult for Iggy to remain defiantly nonchalant about the punishments Clay continued to come up with since their confrontation in his office two weeks ago.

Iggy was still grounded, only permitted to leave his bedroom for work, school, church, or when he was commanded to chauffeur Charlotte around town. Aside from those occasions, meals and chores were the only permitted ‘yard time’, as Iggy had started to call it. Iggy mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedges, hand washed all of the vehicles, even gone to work with Clay for a day and picked up nails around the construction site. Through it all, Iggy never once complained.

But besides all that, things were good for one simple reason.

Iggy had hope.

That was the small fire still burning in his chest, fueling his determination to not let Clay see him break. Because deep down they both knew, with each passing day Iggy grew one step closer to freedom.

The fact that freedom was only for the summer was not here nor there. For the first time since he stepped foot off of an Alaska Airlines Flight, the chill of February immediately hitting his face and sinking into his bones, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

So, Iggy didn’t complain. Him and his father talked about work, or school, things they could do in Tolleson once he finally made it. Planned events that would introduce him to an entire family of people he’d long forgotten, as if they existed in a different world he’d only dreamed of.

“Iggy, before I go,” his father announced through the speaker, clearing his voice once forcefully.

“The lawyers have finally approved of the dates for this summer.”

“You’re going to leave Anchorage on May 26th, the day after Memorial Day, then head back to Anchorage July 27th.”

Iggy didn’t know what to say. How could you express nearly ten years worth of excitement and waiting into only a few words? Instead, he simply nodded, forgetting that Rodrigo couldn’t see him through the phone.

Rodrigo mistook his silence for disappointment.

“I wanted to get you longer, but I guess football camp starts July 29th and you have to be back before then.”

“But I promise, once this summer is over I’ll push for more time as soon as they’ll let me,” added Rodrigo hopefully. Iggy hadn’t responded yet and you could sense the desperation through the phone.

“Sounds good, Dad.” He wanted to say more, wanted to tell his father how he hadn’t been this excited for as long as he could remember. But every time a jubilant thought announced itself in the forefront of Iggy’s mind, he would look up, towards the black off phone as he prepared to speak the thoughts into existence. Then, his eyes would settle on Clay’s face, stuck between disgust and annoyance, and the words would die in his throat.

He could show his father how he felt soon. Now, any outburst would likely incur further punishment from Clayton. And for all the trouble Iggy had been in during his life, these last two weeks felt like the ultimate test of his will.

He didn’t dare do anything to provoke Clay further than he had, lest he find some way to block the vision his father had magically secured.

‘It wasn’t magic,’ his inner-voice reminded him, ‘You did that shit. You wrote the letter and put that into action.’

His father, perhaps sensing that Iggy was holding back, shifted the conversation back to the upcoming baseball season.

Clay snapped his fingers, drawing Iggy’s attention away from the crack in the drywall to his face.

Clay put his index and ring finger together and twirled them, then pointed at the gold Oris watch on his wrist.

‘Hurry up, you’re out of time,’ the motion said.

With a sigh, Iggy started saying his goodbyes to his Dad, who was still mid-rant about the Dodgers luxurious spending habits again.

‘Soon,’ Iggy thought to himself, fighting against the urge to crack a smile, ‘Clay will be the one out of time.’

~~~

It was one of those late April days in Alaska that reminded you that summer was coming, and soon. The air was still crisp, cold enough in the mornings you could still see your breath and had to warm-up your car, or risk becoming a popsicle yourself. But once the sun finally broke through, it felt like you were under the microscope. There was still snow out in the fringe, spots where even the bright rays of the sun couldn’t penetrate, but if you were lucky enough to find yourself a place the sun had graced for more than a few hours, you’d swear summer had already arrived.

They’d found the spot by accident during the winter, wandering around the parking lot on their lunch break, with no where to go, but dreading returning to the busy store. Once they cleared the snow off the top of the decently sized boulder, Tori realized it was the perfect size for them to comfortably sit on and be close to each other, without prying eyes, a rarity at their young age.

Tori didn’t go to Iggy’s school, or attend Iggy’s church. They’d met here, at Fred Meyer, and had bonded over one simple thing.

Overbearing parents.

When Tori had gotten hired as a grocery parcel six months earlier and her arrival instantly changed the entire dynamic for the grocery department, at least regarding the high school kids. At six-foot tall with flowing black hair that always seemed to effortlessly float behind her, Tori had turned heads the moment she walked through the double doors into the stockroom.

Iggy didn’t hit on Tori because he wasn’t attracted to her—he once admitted to Derek he believed she was the most beautiful girl in all of Alaska—but simply because he didn’t believe he even had a shot.

It had started when Iggy got moved up to varsity during his sophomore year, then continued once he got his car. There was no shortage of girls who made it well known, either to his face, or to his friends, that they were interested in him.

But what Iggy really believed, even as his best-friends told him he was making it up, was that they were only interested in the things they thought Iggy could provide as a child in the perceived ‘upper class.’

Tori didn’t need that. Tori’s parents, David and Crystal Pugh, owned two ice cream parlors and a flourishing pizza business. She wasn’t looking for someone to take care of her, she was looking for someone to see past the money, just like Iggy.

The rock that had become Iggy and Tori’s impromptu ‘date spot’ was one of those places. As they sat lounging on its smooth surface they could feel the heat that had baked its way into the stone, the kind of warmth that feels layered, not rushed.

A peach ring looped its way lazily through the air, pulling Iggy’s attention from the semi-truck he was watching attempt to navigate some questionable parking by customers to the now air-borne candy. Iggy easily tracked it, plucking the candy out of the air with practiced efficiency.

“Stop throwing peach rings at my face,” he laughed, popping the stray ring in his mouth.

“Then stop ignoring me!” Tori feigned frustration, but the soft smile gave away her true intentions.

“We’re not going to have many more days to lounge around, regaling each other with our tales of terror from a weekend shift at the most popular grocery store on the south side, so lets make the most of it.’

‘You act like I’m not coming back,” he said, shoving her softly. This time, Tori didn’t return the laugh.

“Can I tell you something?”

“That’s how we started dating, if you don’t remember,” he chuckled, hoping to break the tension that had built in her shoulders.

“Seriously, Iggy.”

Iggy nodded in response. If Tori had turned the conversation serious, it was something she needed to get off her chest. They’d both learned very quickly in their relationship—which started innocently but quickly blossomed into a relationship that was approaching four months—that they were terrible at communicating their feelings.

‘If one of us notices the other stonewalling, we address it.” Tori had made him promise to uphold his end, just for the sake of working to break one of the many cycles they were stuck in respectively.

“I am kind of worried you aren’t going to come back.”

Before Iggy could answer, the worries came flooding out of her like a levee had broken inside her body.

“I’m not saying I’d be mad if you didn’t, because it’s your decision. And I know how much you hate it here, with him. But I would be lying if I said it wouldn’t hurt my feelings to get left behind. Like, this is a cruel joke, right? I finally find a great guy and now he’s deciding to go—“

Iggy waved a hand in front of her face, cutting her off mid-tirade. The red in her face climbed all the way to her forehead, as if boiling water were being poured on a thermometer.

Tori held her breath for a minute, seemingly waiting for an explosion of frustration.

“Tori, I totally get it. I didn’t have you stop because they aren’t valid points.”

“And if you need to get them off your chest, you can keep unloading once I’m done. But, seriously. Nothing to worry about.”

“I can’t even stay if I wanted to, I have to come back to Alaska or my Dad is technically kidnapping. Ya know?”

Tori brushed the sugar powder residue off the rock into the grass below, a few sprinkles finding their way into their shoes that had been kicked off into a pile that now was now lying beneath them at the foot of the rock.

“I know. I’m just worried you’re going to get your first taste of adventure and decide to never come back to boring old Alaska.”

“And boring old Tori,” she added quietly, clasping her hands together in front of her at the same time.

Iggy closed the distance between himself and Tori with one smooth motion, pulling her into him while he closed the gap himself. “I seriously doubt there’s anything better in boring old Tolleson than this right here,” Iggy whispered into her ear, before kissing her there as she burst into giggles.

The clouds kept rolling across the sky, the sun kept blazing, and the two teenagers remained on the rock, soaking in its warmth; content to enjoy each other’s company in a silence they rarely were afforded.

~~~

The heat that radiated off of the sun felt unforgiving, as if it was personally offended by everything else it came in contact with, assaulting them with heat until it finally disappeared behind the White Tank Mountains late in the evening. Even when the sun had finally ceased its attack, the heat didn’t go away.

The pavement, the benches, hell even the trees still radiated heat as if they were contaminated with it, waiting to burn the next unsuspecting person who dared try their luck.

Even worse than the heat was the dryness of the air. You could gasp until your lungs burned, which they surely would with that same heat lingering in the air, and would still feel like you were slowly suffocating.

Despite all of that; the heat baked into the surface and the air holding it hostage, the man walking down Fillmore Street was wearing all-black. Black converses covered his feet, behind a pair of thick Dickies, also black, with an oversized black pull-over cotton hoodie and a black beanie, pulled low just above his eyebrows.

He was tanned, even with his dark complexion you could tell he’d had his fair share of days in the sun, but even with most of the stranger’s features covered up, it was obvious he was on the young side. Still in high school, or perhaps just removed. He walked with the unhurried pace of someone who knew exactly where they were going, unbothered by anything else occurring around them.

Quite simply, he was on a mission.

As Fillmore Street met N 95th Avenue, his target rolled into view.

A black Dodge Charger rolled to a stop on the corner. In the sudden darkness that fell quickly in step behind the setting sun, the Charger seemed to almost sink into the background with its tinted windows, headlights, and brake lights. It held a certain aura that told anyone who wasn’t sure, this car had ill intentions. Or maybe it was just how it blended into its surrounding.

Despite this, the hooded man approached the vehicle, watching the front and rear passenger windows slowly disappear in unison. Two more similarly dark featured men sat in the seats, slightly older than the hooded man, but not by much. Instead of heavy dark clothing, they wore tank tops, one black and one white, with black Dickies shorts visible just below the window line, the tattoos standing out from their tan skin with bright contrast. They each wore a gold chain with a cross that hung down just above their chest. The chains weren’t flashy, as if drawing attention to them, but were simply there.

The young man continued walking to the car, extending his hand to greet the man in the front seat, who was extending his own. They locked hands for a brief moment, the dap turning into a coordinated handshake. He moved through the car in sequence, front passenger, rear passenger, then a quick head nod of acknowledgement to the two on the opposite side of the car.

They too boasted tank tops, crosses, and brightly inked tattoos that wrapped around their forearms and crept up their neckline.

“What’s good lil homie?” Asked the man in the front passenger seat.

“Just pounding the pavement, keeping my ear down big bruddah.”

The four men nodded in the car in unison, as if this was exactly what they expected to hear.

“Listen, shit’s been popping off lately. Expect a call from Raf soon, iight? We’re going to need some stuff to grow legs.”

The young man simply nodded. They once again exchanged quick, practiced handshakes before the windows rose, again in unison, and the car slowly rolled off the curb and back into traffic, disappearing like a shadow in the night.

The young man turned up 95th street, passing the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints on the right, before hurriedly crossing towards McNeel Park.

Around him, the world he’d known his entire life still moved on. Pavement still radiated heat, cars rolled along the highway, and everyone prepared for the next assault from the sun.

[djp73]

No way he goes back

[The JZA]

Four Things
1. Fuck Clay.
2. Fuck Charlotte.
3. I'm about to say fuck Cassie if she don't shape up.
4. All the above.