A/N: Wow it's been way too long. I've had awful writer's block. So bad that I had to force out that last chapter, but I think I'm back now and good to go. Sorry about it, guys!
Also, no Ian in this chapter, sorry. This one is the building block for future major Mickey/Ian stuff. It's a necessary evil for the plot and Mickey's character development.
Okay, so enjoy!
Chapter Twelve: Fucked
Since that night under the El, Mickey's sleep schedule had been insane. He had been a creature of the night. From noon until eleven o'clock at night, Mickey slept. His body thought it was sick, probably. He read once that sleeping too much will get a person in the habit, thus making him or her sleep more. And it had to be true, since Mickey was sleeping eleven hour days and staying up literally all night. Usually he only required about five hours of sleep. So today, instead of getting drunk and high in his hotel room while watching television, Mickey decided to actually get up and go out. Hopefully to stay awake. It was one in the afternoon, and by now he was usually passed out.
As he walked out of his hotel, squinting away from the sunlight, Mickey wondered why he was really such a recluse these last few days. Keeping a low profile was one thing, but disappearing entirely to himself was another. Still. Mickey couldn't afford to get caught. Fuck. If he did, he would sever the rest of his life behind bars. Or maybe be given the death penalty, given that two of Mickey's murders where in states that elected to allow it.
He sighed heavily and sucked on his cigarette. Today was warm enough to wear a tank-top and shorts. Mickey finished off his smoke, and flicked it aside as he trotted across the street to get a breakfast that wasn't stale pizza and Vodka.
Rex was under investigation. Therefore, Mickey was constantly on edge, ready to bolt southward. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone snooped deep enough into Rex to sniff out who the mechanic was working with. As of now, the police knew that Rex and one other were working as hitmen in the Detroit and Chicago areas. They knew, but only just. There was no solid evidence to really tape Rex down. Because when the undercover bitch went to Rex, Rex spoke in code, as was regulation. But still, the fuckers knew and it was only a matter of time before one of the detectives did his job right. And Rex was fucked. Already he was a dead man. Thus, so was Mickey, if he wasn't careful. He couldn't work and felt like a dog in hiding. Fucked. Fucked. Fucked.
Fucked worse is for some reason Rex talked.
Sitting in the cafe, drinking his cup of coffee, brought from home, Mickey winced at the knots in his gut. He leaned forward on the table, sighing heavily.
Fucked. So fucking fucked.
Rex claimed he had no idea anyone had been looking into him. However, he did say that he now had a nice idea of what might have happened. Fucking Alice. Who was six feet under now, kid in tow. Alice had likely gone to the police right before biting it, and when she'd disappeared, the cops came snooping because they knew because she'd told.
So fucked.
Fucked so bad if she'd already ratted mickey out and the police were just biding time. As of now, it wasn't clear.
Mickey's last call to Rex had been from a payphone right across the street from the shop in Detroit. After the police had left. That was two weeks ago. It was Spring now, and Mickey had only a grand left from his last hit. He needed a way to earn dough fast. Too bad he only knew one trade. And no way was Mickey about to go looking for his own hits. That's how hitmen got caught. He knew because that's how his uncle ended up behind bars when Mickey had been eleven. No. Mickey needed to find a new right arm. Fast. But he certainly couldn't go looking for a partner until the smoke blew over. Which would be who knew when.
So fucked. Mickey was screwed bad this time. Though, to be honest, Mickey had been waiting for this time to come. He had been a hitman for six years without so much as a hicup. But everyone's luck runs out at some point. Mickey just hoped this would blow over fast, and that he would remain under the radar.
He took a sip of his coffee, eying the back of the pimp's head. Rodney and Shatera had waltzed in a few minutes after Mickey. Shatera's bruises were finally clearing up. Rodney seemed in a decent mood.
Mickey glugged half of his cold coffee at once. Doing so gave him a chill. Gooseflesh popped across his bare arms and exposed calves. He shook it off and sat his coffee aside for now. Thinking. Trying his damnedest to come up with a way to get money. All he knew was hits, theft, and drug running. None of which he needed to be involved in until the case against Rex grew cold. So deep in thought was Mickey that he nearly missed out on the eye opening conversation going on between Rodney and Shatera.
"Fairy boy got what was coming to him. Stepping on my toes isn't what a motherfucker ought to be practicing, especially when he's barely out of diapers and still suckling off his mother's tit," Rodney said through a full mouth. He swallowed his food, the went on to scoff harshly, "Let this be a lesson to him."
There was a pause, then finally Shatera piped up, voice hushed and timid, unlike her usual tone, "That ain't fair, Rodney," she almost whispered. "And you know Ian ain't got no mama to mooch off of. Monica don't do Ian anything but heartache. All she does is spend his money on crack. He done been taking care of himself since his daddy disappeared." She sucked in a deep breathe, let it out, then said, as if knowing she was screwed for saying it even before hand, "He didn't deserve a hospital bed for being gay, not for nothing. He's a good kid, and you done him wrong. He has it hard, trying to live and pay his sister's hospital bills. Now he'll have his own to add on."
Mickey knitted his brow, chewed his bottom lip and tried not to react beyond silent awe. He turned his face, eyes downcast to the windowsill. No way had he misunderstood the context of the conversation. Rodney had used Ian's sexuality as an excuse to beat the kid bad enough for hospitalization.
Mickey had been wondering where Ian fucked off to this past week.
Beat for being a fag. A fag. Not that Mickey hadn't suspected Ian was gay. He'd gotten that vibe the night Ian invited Mickey to fix that gun. Although Mickey had wondered then if he was only paranoid. Apparently not.
Gay. The word brought a heaviness to Mickey's chest. A personal conflict that he refused to acknowledge. Quickly he squashed the pain, only to be met with a foreign, bitter bile in his throat and stomach. A building aggravation and need to lash out in some way or another.
"Shut the fuck up, bitch. I didn't say you could flap your herpes ridden cock sucker!" Rodney growled through another full mouth. "Eat your god damned pancake and get back out there!" he bellowed, food probably flying from his mouth as he pointed toward the door violently. "And quit looking so sad just because you're thinking about Monica Gallagher and her unfortunate kid," he said, calmer as he swallowed, "you'll scare off the business with that puss face." He slammed down his silverware and stood up quickly, storming out in a huff.
Mickey kept his eyes on his cup of coffee. Could tell, though, that Shatera's eyes were on him. After a minutes, she spoke, and Mickey wanted to rip her tongue out. "You're like, his friend or something?" Shatera asked, inflection in her accusing words. Silent quotations around the word friend. She'd said hardly anything, hadn't actually come out and accused Mickey of sucking Ian's dick, but had done enough damage with just the inflection.
Mickey bit down on the inside of his cheek and tasted the blood. It calmed him very little. "No," he rumbled, glaring holes through his Styrofoam cup. Shatera's stare felt as though it burned his skin.
"Oh," Shatera said, thoughtful. She waited a few minutes before she went on. Fooling Mickey into believing the torment was over.
His stomach felt sour.
"Kind of thought you was," she eventually pressed, "you being here a lot and all. I seen you two under the El shooting at that mattress. Plus that night you staid here," Shatera trailed.
"You're here all the god damned time too," Mickey hissed.
Unfazed, Shatera said, "Yeah cause I work around here and it be fucking cold out sometimes. Plus a girl's got to eat. You don't eat, White-Bread?"
"Of course I fucking eat."
Another long paused passed between them, and then Shatera's thoughtful, "So you ain't his friend then?"
Confused and pissed, Mickey widened his eyes and took slow, deep breathes, still glaring at his coffee. He considered taking a drink, then leaving, but opted against it just as Shatera informed him that she and Rodney were Ian's neighbors. "And I care?" Mickey snarled, fists turning numb under the table
Shatera was quite for an extremely long amount of time. Mickey heart raced and he finally grabbed his coffee, beginning to drink, ready to leave once he finished it. Fucking hell. He wasn't sure why he was even sitting in here today.
"You like apples?" Shatera suddenly asked, just as Mickey put his lips to his cup.
"The fuck?" Mickey spat, putting his cup down and finally looking up, into Shatera's big, curious eyes.
She picked at her food. A single pancake that she couldn't possible have taken more than two bites from. Sliced, baked apples were placed atop the pancake sloppily. "They always put apples in this mix," Shatera commented, poking at the fruit. He lip was freshly busted and Mickey hadn't noticed until now. "Tastes like shit," she sighed.
Knitting his brow, Mickey felt his bubbling rage subside a little. "Yeah well, most of their food tastes like shit," he said, rude still.
Shatera shrugged. Her shoulders were bony beneath the zebra printed tube-top and jean vest. She held Mickey's gaze, saying, "The coffee's all right."
Mickey huffed out a scoff. "Not really," he said, honest. The coffee here was shit. He'd made better coffee with powdered baby formula, and yes, at one point that had been a last resort.
"Know who has good coffee?" Shatera said rhetorically. She smiled brightly, pointing to Mickey's cup, the added, "The bar down the block. You been ever?"
That pain in Mickey's chest returned with a vengeance. Panic began creeping up on him. Mickey suddenly felt a need to prove his own sexuality to himself. Shaking his head and looking Shatera over, Mickey knew he wasn't attracted to the whore. But he could fuck her, and clearly that where she was going with this entire conversation.
"You wanna?" Shatera asked Mickey, in regards to the coffee at the bar.
A smirk played across Mickey's lips, and he ignored the sour gut weighing him down. "I thought he put you back on street duty?" he asked, unclenching his fists and propping his elbows on the table.
"Rodney don't pay attention half the time." She said, playing with her food and staring down at her plate meekly. "Not on days like this."
Decision final, Mickey stood up and walked the few steps over to Shatera's table, standing beside of her, arms crossed. She looked up at him. Silent. And finally she stood. She straightened out her red skirt, slipped on her flip-flops that she had taken off beneath the table, and met Mickey's stare with unabashed knowing. This wasn't about coffee. They left together without a word.
Later, around three in the afternoon, Mickey sat against the headboard of his hotel bed, a cigarette dangling between his lips as he lit up. The white bed-sheet fell loosely around his bare hips. He had one knee raised, and after he lit his cigarette and took a drag, Mickey laid his arm straight across his knee. He pointed at Shatera as she sat on the foot of his bed, back to him, pulling her top on. She watched him in the blacked-out television screen. He blew the smoke out, ready to speak, when Shatera cut him off. Her voice was hesitant. "You don't got to pay," she said. As if she thought she'd read his mind. She hadn't. Not entirely. Mickey wasn't going to tell her where to find money, if fact, he had been about to tell the bitch not to be expecting any. And so he told her as much. When he'd finished, Shatera pivited on the bed, one arm propping her up as she slipped on a single flip-flop. She frowned for a second, then sighed and gave a small grin. "That's nice of you," she said. Mickey could tell she meant it, and was confused. Was about to ask the whore to elaborate, but didn't get the chance, when she said, "Treating me like a person and not what I am, I mean."
"Oh yeah?" Mickey said, taking a drag, blowing the smoke to the ceiling, and looking down at her, his chin tilted. Feigning half interest. Even though he was honestly intrigued with the woman, for once.
"Cause I know you know what I do," Shatera said, slowly standing up and walking over to her other shoe. As she put it on, she continued saying, "You got to hear what Rodney and I talk about. You was there that night with Ian at the cafe. And you got eyes. Mickey, you ain't stupid."
No, he certainly wasn't stupid. Before Mickey had dropped out of high school to take up his uncle's profession, Mickey had been told by the counselor just why Mickey needed to actually stay awake in class and stop bullying everyone before he was kicked out. Because apparently he was smart or some shit. Just didn't give enough of a rat's ass to put in even the slightest amount of effort to school work. But his background would never have allowed for such activity. And yes, he had known Shatera was a whore. Duh. Everyone in that cafe knew what the bitch did for a living. It was obvious to even the nutty homeless man. Hell, Mickey had been tempted to double wrap. He took another drag. Looked her over. "I think you mean what he talks about," Mickey finally said casually, hoping to skip the conversation of prostitution all together. "You never talk, except for today."
Shatera gave a laugh and ran a hand over her braids. "Yeah, he's gonna be pissed later," she said, still laughing. Mickey could tell she was scared, but only a little. She was probably used to Rodney beating the hell out of her.
Mickey saw Shatera out after that, once he had stood up and slipped on his boxers. After she was gone, Mickey found it increasingly hard to keep himself away. He'd been awake for more than twenty-four hours now. So he gave in and crawled into his bed, closed his eyes, and attempted to let sleep have him. Yet for as exhausted as Mickey was, he couldn't sleep. His mind raced through thoughts of Shatera and that crack house. Rodney. The whole neighborhood just next door to his hotel. Ian. How it must be for the kid to grow up in such a place. To live there, practically alone at his age. Because Ian seemed so fucking normal. Unlike Mickey had been at that age. Mickey had seen so much to harden him, that by the time he'd reached sixteen, Mickey could have withstood the most violent prison. Ian still had that innocence in his doe eyes. Mickey had lost that after kindergarten for Christ's sake. His thoughts remained on Ian for a while. For someone who seemed so normal, it shocked Mickey just a little to know that Ian was a fag. But then, he guessed fags were sometimes hard to spot. And did being a fag really mean someone wasn't normal? His father had drilled that into Mickey's head at a young age. Just like he had drilled in the supposed fact that black people were Satan's spawn. Which just wasn't so. Mickey had fucked many a black women. Sex was just sex. So long as the Ian didn't go around waving a flag with a limp wrist and a woman's lisp, Mickey supposed it was normal as being straight. For someone people. Hell at least Ian probably got something out of sex. Got some enjoyment. Groaning in frustration, Mickey flipped over in bed and buried his face into the cold side of his pillow. Jesus. Mickey hadn't gotten enjoyment out of sex since the first time he fucked a girl up the ass. He froze mid thought, stomach sinking. Squeezed his eyes tightly together, growling into the pillow. Wondering just what the hell that said about him. No way was he a fag. Perhaps he was simply asexual.
