Your Loss by Layla Simon

CHAPTER ONE

GEORGE

I floathome from the bus stop, buoyed along by the two good—no, great—things that happened today.

The first is I got an A on my history exam, the class I struggle with most because of its absurd reliance on dates and times and titles and names. Collectively, my nemesis.

The second is I think I’ve made a friend. My first in the three months since the golden teens of Kingswood College took one look at my raggedy scholarship arse and decided I was Not-Like-Them™.

But all that good energy is wiped the moment I see the drops of blood on the top step.

Not just blood. I think it’s my father’s blood.

It’s fresh. I know that even before I drag the toe of my sneaker across the largest spot, smearing a crimson streak on the off-white rubber. Know it before I hear the faint thump inside as whoever has come to collect their debt uses their fists to convince my dad they’re serious.

As if he didn’t realise. As if we hadn’t been on this roundabout a half-dozen times before.

My stomach, which had been sending a few nudges to my brain on the values of toast versus apples as an after-school snack, crawls up the back of my throat to hide.

I clutch the doorhandle with my shaking fingers and twist the knob, but it catches. My keys are at the ready in my front jeans pocket, but it takes so long to snag them out that I’m sure somebody will get there first, will pop their head out the door, will grab me and drag me inside, slipping and sliding across the pools of blood my father is leaking over the kitchen floor as he stammers all his excuses, his reasons, his lies about how if they just give him time he’ll be good for the money, he’ll earn enough to cover it, he’ll pay it back, every cent, just please—please—give him more time.

Half the images that flood my mind are conjured from the same inventive imagination that never wants me to get a full night’s sleep. The rest is pulled from my memory bank, from the file labelled things-I-never-want-to-see-again.

I rub my hand against my jeans before retrying, this time succeeding.

The key slips into the deadbolt lock and I bite my cheek, holding my breath as I turn it, hoping nobody inside will hear. I don’t own much, but there’s one thing of value I’ve hung onto all these years. My mother’s rings. Hidden away in my bedroom at the far end of the hall.

They’re worth a lot to me—far more than just their monetary value—but I doubt the debt collectors will care how much sentiment I’ve invested in the jewellery in the years since my mother’s death. My tears haven’t given the gold and platinum bands any extra shine.

The only other thing in the house worth more to me is my dad. He’s even harder to replace. I’ve bundled far more emotional energy into him.

I doubt the men beating him see his value, either.

The door releases and swings open, a relief after two weeks of mild weather left the jamb just as likely to stick and squeal when opened.

With one foot on the top step and the other in the hallway, I gently flick the catch on the bolt, then swing fully inside as I close it, turning the handle so the tongue doesn’t bang against the frame. When it’s flush, I let it go and step back, ears cocked for sound.

Low voices tell me there are two men in the kitchen. Two men apart from my dad. I hear the soft mutter of someone asking a question, then a slap. A second voice, deeper, more commanding, also asks a question. When the response doesn’t suit his needs, there’s the solid thud of a head being bounced off the table.

The same table we picked out of a second-hand shop together, getting it for five bucks and putting about two hundred worth of effort into sanding out the dents, cuts, and scratches of careless ownership, then varnishing it with a warm chestnut stain, making it ours.

I listen, but I already know what the conversation will be. This isn’t the first time I’ve come home to find my dad at another man’s mercy.

My increasing pulse, dry mouth, jittering hands—they’re not from despair that he forces me into these situations, the fear that one of these days, men like this will break me apart as they try to extract payment from me.

It’s anger at them that burns inside me. Not anger at my dad. Not anger at the only parent I have left.

He’s an addict. Anyone can see it. For these men to know that and use it to enrich themselves rather than help just proves they’re not worthy of mercy. He’s worked so hard with his sponsor to put this all behind him, but every day brings a fresh battle.

To take advantage of someone at their lowest is the worst kind of crime. And these men will be criminals. Banks and lending societies take their jobs seriously. Whatever dark hole these lenders crawled from, they won’t be legitimate. They’ll be shady guys who frequent the back tables in pubs and clubs, charging interest in direct proportion to their victim’s desperation.

We fled these men once already, stealing out from our home in the dead of night, praying no one would see us, running halfway down the country to land here, Christchurch, a place where we don’t know anybody and, more importantly, nobody knows us.

I can’t believe all that effort to be free of his debt, of his gambling, is gone. Wasted. Just because these vultures won’t leave him alone.

There’s another slap and then a low giggle that makes my skin crawl. Men don’t giggle often and when they do, it’s usually a prelude to some insanity. Right now, that insanity will be at my father’s expense.

If you go in there, it’ll be at yours.

I stop, wrestling for control over my emotions, over my mind. Later, I can feel anything I want to. Right not, I can’t afford to think of how big these men will be, how I won’t be able to fight them off if they want to hurt me. I won’t think of what weapons they might have or how ready they’ll be to use them.

A second passes, then another. My body thaws until I can tiptoe along the hallway, keeping as close to the far wall as I can while slipping past the ajar kitchen door.

From there, I can move a little quicker. One enormous step over the squeaky floorboard outside the bathroom, then I’m at my bedroom door, easing it open while my entire face winces, anticipating a rusty squeak from the hinges.

But my luck holds. Either that or the WD40 has finally worked. It swings inward with barely a sound and when I close it behind me, I sag against it in relief.

I step away after a moment, the hammering of my heart returning to a normal level. I cross to the bed and drop to my knees, reaching an arm under. My fingers brush against the toy, stuffed in the corner, but I can’t get purchase. With a sigh, I lay flat on the floor and wriggle underneath.

A door slams farther along the hallway and I freeze, breath catching in my throat. The man with the lower voice is speaking into a phone, his tone sharp with urgency. I can make out maybe one in three of his words. Not enough to make sense of the conversation. There’s a loud banging on the hallway wall, then a muffled shout, then nothing.

I wait until a full minute has passed without a return of the voice, then snag the toy and unzip the stuffing pouch. Hidden in the middle of the springy cotton is a small velvet ring box, in red with my mother’s initials imprinted in gold, and my throat tightens as I clutch it in my hand.

My mum’s ring box.

I’ve thought to sell the contents a dozen times over the past year; to use as a buffer so the threats against Dad’s life didn’t escalate. The closest I came to actually doing so was just before he told me we needed to run.

Now, I’m glad I held onto them. Hopefully, they’re enough to sort out the debt for today. Assuage the men beating my father. Buy him a few days. Maybe a week.

Enough time for us to run again, even though the thought makes me exhausted. Still, it’s not like I’ve settled into our new city. It won’t be as hard to leave here as it was to leave my family, my friends, my boyfriend up in Auckland.

The door to my room swings open and I go rigid in horror. A dump of adrenaline lands in my system, sending every nerve into code red, tripping my anxiety into extreme mode.

“Don’t hang up on me,” the man says in a rumble that makes every hair on my body stand to attention. “You’re coming along to the party tonight. Everything’s arranged.”

There’s a burst of shrill energy from his phone and his voice takes on an even more menacing air. “Don’t you dare do this. I don’t give a shit about your reasons. Don’t you dare embarrass me.”

Another trill of frenetic speech bursts from his phone’s speaker, and he paces the width of my room, his foot kicking against the wall before he turns, and his footsteps tread back towards my corner.

I curl into a ball, trying to fold myself into the tiniest shape possible to avoid detection.

Stupid. The man’s having an argument with his girlfriend. He’s hardly going to stop and peek beneath the bed.

The thought does little to soothe me as the speed of his pacing picks up. The kick as he turns sounds like it’s denting the plaster. Much more damage and we’ll lose our security bond.

The thought hits my funny bone at full speed, high on adrenaline, making it seem like the wittiest, most laughable joke ever written. I squirm until I can clamp my hands over my mouth, terrified that hysterics will take hold and give away my hiding place.

“Jesus, it’s not like you have to do anything more than show up. I’ve arranged your dress, your hair, your makeup. How much fucking easier do you need things to be?”

His voice sounds oddly familiar, and I try to place it. An ad on TV? A late-night radio host? A teacher?

The recognition tugs at me, dancing around my straining ears like a word sometimes dances on the tip of my tongue.

Just as I want him to speak, there’s a pause, punctuated by him kicking his shoe into the far leg of the bed. The frame judders above me, the springs of the base taking his energy and doubling it. Rattling the side of the bed so I’m getting a vibration from it and from where my shoulder rests against the far wall.

“This isn’t funny.”

Another volley of kicks at the bed leg.

“If you don’t get your arse to the store before closing, we’re finished. Do you understand me?”

Another indignant squawk from the phone then his rage overflows. “Don’t you give me that! You know exactly how much this night means to our families. If you have even the slightest—”

He breaks off, punching into the wall, his knuckles digging through the tatty brocade paper, tearing into the plaster and gib hidden beneath.

“You think I like this situation?”

Another long pause, this time without the energetic punctuation.

“Come on, Kari.”

And suddenly I know who it is. The man pacing my bedroom, idly destroying its walls, isn’t a man. It’s a boy of eighteen—my age.

Lachlan McManus.

Son of Creighton McManus.

My heart sinks so much further that I want to cry.

My dad didn’t just get into debt again. He got into debt with the largest crime family in the South Island. The McManus clan has a stranglehold over the city; they take a cut from every income-generating crime that occurs within its boundaries.

A shady deal with a second-tier bookie hanging around the back of the TAB I can handle. A debt to a family this powerful, a debt so bad he’s sent his only son to deal with it, no.

This is so far out of our league that I’d be impressed if I weren’t about to get a front-row seat to the aftermath of my father’s compulsion.

Lachlan goes to my school, but that’s where our similarities end. And it would be more proper to say, I go to Lachlan’s school. Given the money his family has invested in Kingswood College, not to mention the legacy of attendees stretching back ad infinitum, he exerts more power there than the principal.

The only way I can even attend the private school is through a scholarship, turned down at the last minute by another deserving candidate. A set of circumstances I mistakenly took as a sign our luck was turning.

I doubt he knows my name; I learned his on the first day.

Kari Abercrombie’s father is a lieutenant in their enterprise. A power couple of the underworld in the making. The only person with enough standing to defy him and apparently, she’s putting that to good use right now.

Couldn’t have picked a worse time, girl.

My shoulders tense so hard, they’re close to cramping. No blood flow can get through while they do their best imitation of concrete.

I clutch the ring box in one hand while the other tries to punch nail holes in my palm—finally a good reason to keep biting them, a habit I’ve never been able to shake, even when painting them with that horrible polish that tastes like Chernobyl took a dump on my hand.

“If you do this, I’ll make you regret it.”

The warning sounds terrifying to me, but I hear the careless tinkle of her laughter, a response that eats away at him so hard I can actually hear his muscles tensing.

For every new bit of anger surging through Lachlan’s body, there’s a likely target for its release.

My dad.

“You’ll be the one crying to your father when I dump your arse and find someone who doesn’t need to count money to get wet.”

The low growl turns the insult into a threat. If I thought there was a chance in hell of me making it out of there if I bolted right now, I’d take it.

Instead, I listen as the conversation devolves another notch.

“Then fuck you and fuck your family.”

Something hits the wall, and it takes a second to realise it must be his phone. When I turn my head to the extreme right, so extreme my neck is in danger of seizing, I can just see it, lying on the floor.

Two heavy boots appear either side of it.

I hold my breath. He’s so close if I were a complete madwoman, I could reach out and touch him.

Instead, I try to stop moving, stop even the blood travelling around my body. Become something that absorbs sound rather than emitting it.

Freeze so solid nobody could suspect there was a living, breathing human being tucked under the bed.

Lachlan squats, one hand seizing the phone, the other dangling between his legs.

My eyes bug out as my blood pressure goes full throttle. Spots dance in front of my eyes. The room dims.

Then a hand reaches under the bed, grabs my hair, right up near the elastic, and drags me out from underneath.

The shock of the pain is exquisite. A thousand hairs being torn from their roots, all screaming in symphony. A discordant tune. Fingernails on a blackboard in B minor.

I claw at him, forgetting who he is, who his father is, in the frantic need to get free. Panic at being caught elevates my senses until I’m close to fainting.

I kick out and strike the bed, sending a wave of pain up my toes.

Good one. Miss Uncoordinated strikes again.

He releases his grip, still holding onto my hair but not tugging at it, not dragging my entire body along like it’s a handy rope affixed to the bow so strangers can reel me closer.

I lie still. Gasp in a breath, puff it out between clenched teeth, then huff in another one, my head swimming at the overdose of oxygen, lights startlingly bright.

“We heard you from the moment you came in,” he says, smiling from a face that could tempt the most recalcitrant truant back to school.

His cheekbones catch the light, plunging the rest of his face into darker shadow, aided by the dark curtain of his too-long fringe. The eyes assessing me from under his smooth brow are hazel, shards of pounamu green glowing in their depths.

He untangles his hand from my hair, wiping the long strands that come away on his shirt before straightening.

“Get up,” he says, nudging at me with the steel toe of his boot. “We’re having a family conference in the kitchen, and you’re invited.”

I tuck the jewellery box into the corner of my bra—finding plenty of space there—and stand, locking my knees to stop my shaking legs spilling me straight back on the floor.

“After you,” Lachlan says, a grin elongating the plump cupid bow of his lips. He waves his hand towards the door like he’s a gentleman instead of someone who has my father’s blood drying to a crackle glaze on his knuckles.

I obey him, so eager to follow his directions that my cheekbone comes dangerously close to smashing into the door. I twist at the last second and make it through the gap instead, pausing in the hallway to cast a curious gaze back at him. Hoping like hell he’ll direct me anywhere other than the kitchen.

I don’t want to see my father. Don’t want to see him beaten for the stupid choice that he just keeps making, again and again, no matter what his intentions. I don’t want to force a smile and pretend everything’s fine while the two men who might soon kill us parade around our tiny flat, treating it like home.

But of course, that’s where he points for me to go. Where else?

The moment I walk into the kitchen, my father’s eyes well with panic, with regret, with apology.

I reach out my hand to touch his shoulder and Lachlan slaps it away, shoving me forward while his companion pulls out a seat for me. The best reassurance I can offer my dad is a watery smile that falters as I see the lumps and bumps, the blood, the bruises already forming, the leaks of crimson staining the whites of his eyes.

It all becomes too much, and I turn aside, glancing instead at Lachlan’s companion. A decision I regret the moment my eyes fix on him.

If Lachlan looks like he stepped out of the pages of a youth magazine, this man looks like he crawled out of a sewer, picking his teeth with the rigored arm of a dead rat.

“Take a seat, love,” he leers at me. “Nice of you to join us.”

“What’ve you got?”

I spin back to Lachlan, my eyes widening as he points at my bra. Creases appear at the corners of his eyes as he smiles. “Or do you want me to hunt it out?”

He hooks his fingers over, darting them directly at my inadequate bosom, and I fling up an arm to ward off the attack, my throat letting out a squeal that I did not intend to make.

“It’s some jewellery,” I say, panting because my chest has forgotten how to fully inflate. “As payment.”

I continue to avoid my dad’s gaze as I pull the velvet box out, sliding it across the table until my arm runs out and Lachlan has to lean over to pull it the last of the journey.

He flips open the lid, pursing his lips and arching his right eyebrow.

“The stone’s small, but it’s a good clarity, so it’s worth more than it looks. The setting is platinum and so is the stripe on the wedding band.” I wait a few seconds and when there’s no acknowledgement, lamely add, “That’s worth more than gold.”

“I’m well aware of what it’s worth,” he says slowly, a frown briefly contorting that perfect brow before he snaps the box closed and taps its edge on the table. “Are you aware how much money your family owes mine?”

“Uh…” I stumble to form words, not sure if this is a game I should join in, or just let him make his point. “I’m not sure. A thousand?”

His debt had been ten times that in Auckland. It might sound small, but it soon compounds. The interest rate he agreed to added another grand every second week.

Lachlan grins at his colleague, shaking his head. “You think my dad sent me out to collect a thousand-dollar debt?”

“I don’t know.” Perhaps a phrase that would have gone over better if I’d started with it. “We can get you your money, I promise. I started a new job last week. I can transfer every paycheque straight to you.”

“How generous of you,” he drawls, keeping his face expressionless, so I have no idea if he’s agreeing or laughing at me. “What’s your new job? Executive of a fortune five hundred company? CEO of a bank.”

“I’m washing dishes, but I’ll take as many—”

“You think dish pig wages are going to buy you out of this debt?” Lachlan tucks the ring box into his jeans pocket and puts his palms flat on the table, leaning over towards me until his face fills my entire view. “Your dad owes us thirty grand, principal.”

The horror of that high number grips me and I cast a blame-filled glance at my father. It goes to waste. His head is bowed, so he doesn’t need to look at me. The shame creeps in red stains from the neck of his shirt to the tips of his ears.

“Want to hazard a guess at the amount of interest he’s chalking up?”

I shake my head, biting at my lower lip and wiping at my cheeks where the flush of colour is so intense it makes it itchy.

I don’t want to know anything unless it’s that this is an elaborate joke and a moment from now, someone’s going to reveal a hidden camera operator and yell surprise.

A phone rings, making my body twitch. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to stop the useless tears that want to fall as though their tiny trails could wash this mess away. I’ve always been a crier. Always hated it.

“This better be a different answer than last time,” Lachlan growls into the mic, turning his shoulder towards the table as a belated measure of privacy. “There’s only two hours until the party starts.”

I grip the edge of the table in my hands, watching the expression of anger play out across his features. Wondering just how much pain the girl on the other end of the phone is adding to our current sentence.

My legs are crying from being held so tense. My scalp wriggles like worms are burrowing deep into my skin, the aftermath of where he pulled me by my hair.

I shoot him a wary glance, then catch my breath when his penetrating gaze locks on mine, staring straight into my tear-filled eyes. Slowly, slowly, his eyes rove over my face, my chest, my straining fingers. He stares so intently, it feels like he’s cataloguing me, totting up an appraisal.

His stern expression morphs into a grin, sinister, predatory; a smile that makes my jaw clench and my stomach flutter with nerves before he barks out, “What size are you?” One ear remains pressed to his phone, though nothing on his face suggests he’s listening to the call. His entire focus is on me.

“C-clothing size?” I clarify, shooting a concerned glance at the companion before remembering why I’d looked away from him the first time. I mutter the answer, still not sure if that’s what he’s asking.

“Fuck off, Kari. I’m sorted,” he says, snapping his phone shut and shoving the folded device into his pocket with my mother’s rings. “It’s your lucky day, whatever-your-name-is.” He checks his watch and raises his eyebrows at his companion before glancing back at me. “Get up. We’ve got a date.”

“No!” my father yells, trying to get to his feet before the sewer rat kicks his legs out from underneath him. A knife appears in the collector’s hand, and he licks the blade, staring intently at my dad as he flinches away.

I can barely breathe, shrinking into my chair. “Oh, I-I—”

Lachlan spins to fully face me, grabbing my upper arm and hauling me forward. “You, what? You have something better to do this evening? Planned to spend the next few hours washing your hair?”

I try to catch my father’s eye, but Lachlan doesn’t wait for an answer to his faux questions. He pushes me ahead of him, out of the kitchen, along the matted carpet of the narrow hallway, shoving me aside to pull open the door, then clutching my arm even tighter as he guides me outside, letting it slam behind him.

“There’s a party,” he says as though that’s sufficient explanation. “You’re my date. If you get a minute spare, test out a smile to wear. Everything else’ll be provided.”

My heart beats so hard it feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest. He lets go of me to open the passenger side door of his car, moving around to the driver’s side without glancing to see if I obey the unspoken command.

Never get into a car with an assailant. That’s what someone on a long-ago talk show taught me. Never let an aggressor take you to a second location. Never let them pick a spot because it exponentially increases the likelihood that’ll be your burial ground.

They were less detailed on how to avoid it. “What’s happening to my dad?”

Lachlan’s response is a long time coming. His fingers drum an offbeat rhythm on the steering wheel before he adjusts the rear-view mirror to his liking.

“You can get in the car, do what I say, and at the end of the night, you’ll still have a father to come home to.” His hazel eyes gleam almost golden in the late afternoon sun as he turns to me. “Or you can go back inside and take your chances.” The predatory grin reappears. “I think my friend took a shine to you. I’m sure you can work something out.”

A shudder of revulsion grips me, and my hand shoots out to grip the edge of the open door, glancing back at the flat. We’ve only been in there for three months, struggling the entire time. I hadn’t minded because we were building something better. Something more stable.

My face flushes with colour, cheeks so hot it’s like someone’s shovelling coal into them.

I sink into the passenger seat, a thousand voices immediately shouting about why that’s a bad idea, a mistake, huge, the worst decision I could ever make.

But fuck those people who ‘make better decisions.’ They should try it out with my choices and see how far they get.