Turning off the main road into a small, sad-looking ethnic neighborhood, Peter scanned the barely-habitable shacks, noticing a curtain flutter in one of them as he went by. It wasn’t every day that these people had a random guy walking in their hood. And if they did it was normally a cause for concern. If it was him, he’d be peeking out his window wanting to know who the hell was out there too. It was a matter of safety.
He didn’t have to be there. Didn’t have to go back to his roots. But after avoiding it for almost a week by busying himself with all the legal hoopla and logistics of burying his old man, he’d finally accepted that he couldn’t stay away. Who he was now stemmed from growing up in this place.
The shacks he walked past were really worn-down, buckling old bungalows. Nothing more than rectangles with front steps, the tiny houses butted right up to the street. There was no grass, no green. Lawns were for rich people.
His old place came into view down the road as the memory of Leslie asking him about food came to mind. That woman saw everything—things about himself that he didn’t even recognize. It was more than a little scary. And now she said she was in love with him.
It ruined everything.
Peter didn’t want to be loved, or so he told himself as he strolled down his old street. The heavy sky kicked into gear and snow started to fall steadily now, covering the ground in minutes. He just kept on walking, taking reassuring sips of steaming coffee.
What the hell was he supposed to do with love?
Sex, he understood. Passion, desire, lust—those emotions he got. But love? About that, he didn’t know a fucking thing. All he knew was that it always screwed everything up. His mother leaving his pop for another man under the premise of “love” was his only point of reference, and it was a pretty shitty one.
Nobody loved him.
And that was okay. It was a flawed concept anyway. So why did Leslie have to go and mess it all up by claiming to be in love with him? They were good the way they were. Two independent people with a ton of sexual chemistry. That he understood. It made sense. Besides, even if she was in love with him now, it would only be a matter of time before she realized he wasn’t worth it.
She was a princess. He was this.
Peter shook his head, lips pressed together tightly as snowflakes clung to his dark hair and he approached his childhood home. He could see it up ahead and his gut went greasy, unsettled. The squat shack was literally falling down. Its roof was bowed and one of the back corners drooped, leaning listlessly to the side like the foundation had washed out from under it. The gray paint was mostly peeled and some of the windows were boarded up with a combination of cardboard and duct tape.
Pretty much looked the same as it always had.
Still two houses away, Peter whipped his head around when a front door nearby creaked open. Bracing himself, his body instantly relaxed when he saw who stepped out.
“Hey, Mrs. Petrov,” he greeted in Ukrainian, his breath releasing white puffs into the air. He couldn’t believe the old lady was still alive. She’d been ancient when he was eighteen. It was her grandson Ivan who’d called him Halloween night. Peter had assumed she’d died ages ago. Tough old Slavic bird.
“Is that you, Peter Kowalskin?” Her voice was paper thin and raspy with age. He could still remember the way it used to get all shrill when she yelled at him and some of the other neighbor kids, including Ivan, for stealing fireworks and setting them off in the middle of the street.
Peter smiled at the memory and strolled over to give her a kiss on each of her frail cheeks. Her faded blue eyes crinkled and she swatted a hand at him, chiding, “You stay away too long, boy. But look at you all grown and strong and handsome. Doing well for yourself. You came back for him,” she ended, not asking but rather making a statement.
He nodded. “I did.”
“Sad sight he was, at the end.” She made a tsking sound and pulled her head scarf tighter around her chin, shaking her head.
“So I heard.” He hadn’t, really.
“Shame what happens to a soul when it gets lost like that.” She made a sign of the cross with three fingers over her thin chest. “May he rest in peace.”
“You have a good heart, Mrs. P.” In a lot of ways she’d been his surrogate mother, taking care of him and her grandson when her daughter had taken off in the middle of the night with a local kingpin on a drug run. Far as he knew she’d never returned.
“Pssh, boy.” She batted at him again, but her cheeks were pink. “You’re one to talk, the way you spoil Ivan and me every Christmas with your basket of goodies.”
He’d thought he’d been sending it only to Ivan as thanks for keeping a watchful eye out, and now he felt bad. This year’s basket was going to be even bigger now that he knew she was still around. His conscience was making him feel guilty for not keeping in better touch with Ivan. Mostly their interactions had consisted of him giving the guy his number to call in case of emergency and the gift basket every year at Christmas.
The old Slav must have read his mind because she patted his arm reassuringly. “You did what was right for you, boy. You got out of here. He was proud of you for that, you know.”
Peter made a face, unbelieving. “Could have fooled me.”
She cuffed his ear unexpectedly, reminding him just how much respect a tiny Slavic woman could command. “Hush. He loved you, Peter. It was himself he couldn’t stand.”
“I hear you, Mrs. P.” So she wouldn’t get worked up, he dropped another kiss on her cheek, diffusing her. It might have been a long time ago, but he still knew how to soften her up.
Just then a car turned onto the street and both Peter and Mrs. Petrov craned their necks to see who was coming. Most of the cars in this neighborhood didn’t run. And they certainly weren’t fancy.
This one was both.
Suddenly apprehensive, Peter wrapped an arm around the old lady and smiled charmingly. “Why don’t you get yourself inside where it’s warm. It’s freezing out. All this snow will make you catch cold.”
She patted his hand with one of hers and let him help her up her front two steps. “Come by and have something to eat before you leave.” It wasn’t really an invitation. He knew it too. It was a command, and he wouldn’t miss it. The woman made a mean potato stew.
Peter kept up the smile until she was safely inside where it was at least dry and warmer. Then he rolled his shoulders like a boxer and turned his attention to the sleek black sedan that was crawling down the street toward him. Coming from the opposite direction, the car stopped directly in front of his old house, confusing him.
As he watched, a man climbed out from the driver’s side, bundled up in a wool coat, hat, and gloves. Peter’s apprehension kicked up another notch. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something familiar about the guy.
Peter took another sip of the rapidly cooling coffee and strolled over, taking his time scrutinizing the stranger. About his age, the guy had a lean and rugged build and a face to match. Though his clothes were tailored and obviously high quality, there was a toughness about the guy, an earthiness that no amount of designer clothing could completely hide.
“Nice day,” Peter broke the silent stare-down, keeping it casual as he strode over and stopped directly in front of his pop’s home.
The stranger rounded the hood of his car and gave a guarded smile. “Reminds me of home. Sean Muldoon,” he finished with an outstretched hand.
Peter’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Was that an Irish brogue he heard? This neighborhood was Ukrainian. Who was this guy? “I’m Peter.” He held out his hand and was impressed when it was met with a solid handshake. “Where’s home, Sean?”