Chapter 9: You're Just a Boy Playing at Being a Man

Cora

I'm really having trouble working at the bookstore. I just can't stop thinking about Jim. Please Hank, bring him back safely.

"Miss, do you work here?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you work here?"

"Yes, I'm the manager," I stutter. Back to work, Cora, back to work.

Hank's got Jim.

I'm not sure if that makes me feel safe or nervous.

HADES

"My worst nightmare, huh?"

"That's right." The large boy cracks his neck and motions for his friends to surround us. I'm leaning hard on my cane. My leg hurts.

He laughs, cracking his knuckles. "You got a pretty big mouth for being a cripple outnumbered seven to one." He's right – I am too outnumbered to fight and win this without using my powers. What to do, what to do . . . Ah, yes: bait him.

"Fight me by yourself, then," I say, smirking. "That is, if you feel man enough." The children around us make an "ooooing" sound, which strikes me as a bit odd. Some even laugh before being shushed by people whom I assume are their friends. I can sense that Cora's son is looking up at me, but I don't look down to see his expression. I assume it's something along the lines of shock or surprise.

The large boy crosses his arms, laughing. "I'm more a man than you'll ever be, cripple." His friends snicker. When this boy dies, I'll be sure to put him in a very special part of Tartarus.

"Is that so?"

He frowns. "Yeah, motherfucker, it is."

I shrug. "Prove it." His friends urge him on, saying, "Teach this asshole a lesson, Dave," and "Don't let this cripple disrespect you, Dave," and "Kick his ass, Dave." That should do it.

The boy steps forward, rolling his large shoulders. They make a cracking sound as he does so. The crowd is completely surrounding us now. My leg throbs, and I groan in annoyance. "Let's hurry up and get this over with."

"You're in for a world of hurt, cripple," he says. His feet start walking towards me faster until he's running, and he takes a swing at me. I dodge it easily and sidestep him, lightly hitting the back of his knees with the bottom of my cane and knocking him off balance. The crowd around us gasps.

The boy turns around and tries to throw another punch, and I smack his hand away with my cane. "Too slow," I say, smiling at him. "How is this guy so fast?" the crowd asks, "Who is this guy?"

He growls at me, trying to knee me in my groin and missing. "I'll get you, you fucking cripple!"

I step back and lift out my arms to my sides. "Come and get me, then." He rushes up to me, and just as he is about to hit me, I duck and punch his side, hard.

Hard, but not hard enough to kill; it's a punch for a weak human.

He falls down with his chest on the ground, coughing and sputtering.

"You're not a man," I say, lightly kicking his side with the toe of my shoe. "You're just a boy playing at being a man." I turn my head. "Anyone else?" I ask. My voice is loud and strong.

There are whispers around me; the voices are small and quiet in their confusion. "What just happened?" they ask, "Who the hell is this guy?" Looking over the top of the crowd, I see a girl running over with an older man.

"What the hell is going on here?" the older man asks, pushing through the crowd of youngsters. He spots the large boy, holding his stomach in pain on the ground and then he looks up at me. He has dark skin and short, dark brown hair. He does not look happy, and the wrinkles on his face tell me that he is old. He is unhealthy; near death.

"Who the hell are you? Did you do this?" I lean hard on my cane.

"This boy," I say, pointing at Cora's son, "was being attacked by that boy." I point towards the large blond boy lying on the ground. "I simply intervened," I say, shrugging.

The man turns towards the girl. She is very pretty. "Viola, is this true? Did Mr. Cousins attack Mr. Wells?"

"Yes, Mr. Reyes! Dave knocked Jim down and just kept kicking and kicking and kicking and oh my God –" She starts to cry.

"It's alright," he says. He turns to me. "I'm afraid I'll have to call the police, Mister . . . ?"

"Underwood," I tell him. I frown. "I don't have time for that."

The man looks at me, surprised. "Excuse me?"

I start limping towards Cora's boy, and he looks up at me; his green eyes seem confused.

"Are you hurt?" I ask him, and he pats his stomach, groin and chest, checking for soreness. He shakes his head.

I nod. "Get up," I tell him. He does, dusting off his pants and jacket.

"Excuse me sir, you can't just leave!" I hear the man walking up to me from behind. I groan in frustration.

"I'm a busy man, Mr. Reyes," I say, turning towards him.

The man holds up his hands, passively. "I'm sure you are, Mr. Underwood, but – "

"My leg hurts," I say, patting my thigh, "you wouldn't want to put a cripple like me through more pain, would you?"

"Of course not, sir, but –"

I place my hand on the man's shoulder, patting it and giving it a hard squeeze. "Call the police, and I'll press charges against our young friend here," I say, nodding towards boy on the ground. I smile at the man, clasping his shoulder more tightly. "Do you understand?" The man nods, flustered. I grin. "Good."

I turn towards Cora's son. "We're leaving," I say, limping past him and pulling out my keys.

"What makes you think I'll go with you, asshole?" he says. "I don't fucking know you."

"Mr. Wells, watch your language!" the principal yells.

"Sorry, Reyes."

I clench my jaw in frustration and turn towards the boy, narrowing my eyes. "Buck is waiting for you at home," I say, gritting my teeth. "Now follow me."

The principal walks up to me again. "Sir, I can't let you just take this boy. I don't know you, you've just hurt one of my students, and –"

"Relax, Reyes . . . My mom knows this guy," the boy says, picking up his book bag walking up towards me. My leg really is starting to bother me.

"But –"

"It was nice to meet you, Mr. Reyes," I say, turning my back towards him.

"Wait–"

"I'm very glad I won't have to press any charges," I say, jingling my keys.

" . . . "

I hear the boy's footsteps close behind me now, and the crowd opens up a path for us. The children whisper as we walk through, and I think I hear one say, "Dude, that guy is badass." I smile.

Soon, we reach my car, and Cora's son stops in his tracks. I open my door. The boy is still standing there.

"Look at the guy's fucking car!"

"Is that a Ferrari?!"

"Oh my God, it is a Ferrari!"

"Who is this guy?!"

Mortals. I roll my eyes. "Quit your gawking and get in." My throbbing leg is making me irritable. I sigh, taking in a deep breath. Be patient, be still.

He nods his head stiffly and opens the door, stepping into the car. I shake my head. This is going to be a long drive.

JIM

'Buck is waiting for you at home.' It's a code my mom and I use. Means she's working. Means I'm supposed to trust someone.

This fucker knows it.

This crippled fucker.

I lean back against the leather seat of his expensive-ass car, crossing my arms. How does my mom know this guy?

Oh.

Shit.

This is guy the doctors told me about – the guy who brought me into the hospital; the guy who's paying for my hospital bills.

This guy, with the fucking cane.

This guy, with the fucking cane who almost killed me.

This guy who . . . saved me.

I feel that dark sense of power I felt before pulsing from the guy and I shake my head. There's somethin' with this guy. Somethin' ain't normal about him.

"I shoulda fuckin' killed you," I say, not really thinkin' about it. It's a stupid thing to say, but it just sort of falls from my mouth.

I do shit like that, sometimes.

The guy just fucking busts out laughing.

"None of this would have happened if I just fucking killed you," I say, looking out the window. "No hospital, no asskicking by Dave – none of this at all."

The guy just nods and nods as I talk. I can't tell if he's angry or amused. Probably both. We come to a red light. There's a long silence, and then the guy talks.

"You're no killer, boy," he says, flicking his icy-blue eyes towards me. "Even if you were, you wouldn't be able to kill me." He smirks.

"You don't know a damn thing about me, asshole," I say, picking at a hole in my jacket and looking out the window. In the reflection of the window, I can see a Yankees baseball cap sitting on his dashboard. Didn't he have a Red Sox cap? What the hell?

The guy shrugs, turning the car down another street. "I know that you're not a killer," he says, calmly.

"Whatever," I say, staring out of the window. We sit in silence, and then my stomach growls.

You know when things are totally, eerily quiet, and then there's a loud crashing sound that just scares the shit out of you? That's what this is like. The growl is loud, really fucking loud, and my stomach actually kind of hurts. I haven't eaten since my breakfast this morning. I forgot my lunch.

"Hungry?" the guy asks, not looking at me. I wanna say no; I wanna tell him to go fuck himself, but then my stomach growls again, and I can't hide it.

"Yeah," I say.

The guy nods, and he turns. "I'll stop at the next restaurant." My stomach growls again, and I can see the guy smiling. Shit, this is fucking embarrassing.

"Cool," I say, leaning my head against the back of my seat.

The next restaurant turns out to be this fifties-styled diner called Austin's, and as we walk through the door, the smell of burgers and milkshakes and fries makes my mouth water. We sit down at a booth seat, and a big, chubby waitress takes our order.

The guy doesn't order much; just a sandwich and a soda . . . but me, oh me –

I order a shit-ton. Chicken tenders, fries, and a huge milkshake. Hey, I'm hungry, and the guy's paying; it's not like I'm making him short on cash.

We sit in more silence as we wait for our food to be brought out, and I notice the guy stick his leg a little out of the booth and starts rubbing it. The lady brings us glasses of water and I take a sip. The guy looks like his leg is really bothering him.

And hey, I'm a curious dude, you know, so I ask him:

"What's up with your leg?" Rude? Yeah. Do I care? Hell no.

The guy snaps his head towards me, and for a second it looks like he's just now registering the fact that I'm there.

"It's an old injury," he says. His voice makes it sound like he doesn't want to talk about it anymore, but fuck it; I'm going to make him.

"From what?" I ask, taking a sip from my water.

The guy gets this exasperated look on his face and he groans. "From a fight."

The lady brings us our food, and I start in on my fries. They're fresh and hot and fucking fantastic. Awesome.

The guy seems to relax and he starts to eat, taking a small bite from his sandwich. Huh. Must not be very hungry.

I take another fry and dip it into my ketchup. "A fight with who?"

The guy glares at me. He looks really annoyed. I smirk at him.

"You're not going to drop this, are you?" His voice is scary as hell.

Still, it's not as scary as my mom when she says my whole my name: "James Pleiades Wells, get over here now!" That shit is fucking scary. This guy is scary . . . but he ain't mom-scary.

"Nope," I say, grinning as I eat another fry.

The guy leans back in his seat, scratching his beard. I want a beard like that; it looks cool. Tough.

"It was a fight with my brother," he says, putting his arms up on the back of the booth. He points his right index and middle finger to the jagged thing that runs down across his face. "That's where I got this."

"The fuck were you guys tryin' to do? Kill each other?"

"Yes."

Damn. That–

Wow. That must have been some fucking fight to leave scars like that . . .

" . . . You must hate your brother," I say, awkwardly, taking a sip from my chocolate milkshake. It's really good.

The guy smiles a little bit and leans back. "I did hate him. For a long time. I was . . . very angry."

"What'd you do?"

The guy rubs his leg a little bit again and looks up at the ceiling, smiling. "Staying angry doesn't solve anything." The guy looks back down at me, right into my eyes. "I got over it."

We don't talk the rest of the time at the restaurant; we just eat, and the guy constantly checks his phone and texts people. I guess it's some pretty important shit, 'coz his brow is all furrowed and his face is all concentrated. Pretty soon we're done eating, and the guy asks for the check, pays, leaves a tip, and we head out the door.

"Hey man . . . thanks for the food," I say, following the guy back to his car. "It was really good."

The guy looks back me and smirks. "You're welcome, Jimbo." Not sure I like that nickname . . . but you fed me, so I'll let ya get away with it this time, man.

We get into the car, and the sun starts to set. "Can you turn on the radio?" I ask. The silence is killing me. He does, and the music that comes out is the fruity stuff my mom listens to. I groan. "Ugggghhh, not that shit; put on 98.3." The guy grunts, but he does it.

Too alarming now to talk about/Take your pictures down and shake it out/Truth or consequence, say it aloud/ Use that evidence, race it around

"Cool, it's the Foo Fighters," I say, grinning at the guy. He shrugs. Whatever, man. I like them. I pick at the hole in my jacket.

There goes my hero/Watch him as he goes/There goes my hero/He's ordinary

"I'll never understand peoples' obsession with heroes," the guy says, mostly to himself. "They're not very pleasant." We turn onto my street and I see our crappy apartment complex coming up.

Don't the best of them bleed it out/While the rest of them peter out/Truth or consequence, say it aloud/ Use that evidence, race it around

"Here we are," he says, parking the car.

There goes my hero/Watch him as he goes/There goes my hero/He's ordinary

He turns off the engine.

"Yeah, here we are." I step out of the car, and I see my mom opening the front door. The guy waves at her, and she waves back, a little awkwardly. She walks over to us and gives me a hug.

"Mooooom," I say, complaining.

She laughs. "Oooh, am I embarrassing my big man now?" Yeah, Mom. She kisses my cheek, and I wipe it off. She rolls her eyes. "Alright, grounded boy – go to your room. You forgot your lunch, so there's leftover spaghetti, if you want any." Not hungry right now . . . but I love spaghetti. Maybe I'll have some later.

"Cool Mom, thanks," I say. I look at the guy in the car and give him a thumbs up. "Thanks for the ride, man." Thanks for not killing me, too. Or telling my mom I tried to kill you.

Thanks for all that.

You damn weirdo.

I head to the front door, and I hear him yell, "Stay out of trouble, Jim Wells!"

I wave my hand as I walk into the house.

My mom is still out there talking to the guy as I go into my room and fall face-first into my bed. I'll call Alex later on tonight. Wake up at 2:00am, call him at 2:10am. I can do that.

I can do that.