Warning: Excessive cursing typical of Ashton Greymoore.
Of course Ashton grabbed the delivery when it showed on his app. The tip was posted at $30. So what if it had two different stores to pick up from? The really fancy fuckers would have him stop at four or five places if it meant they didn't have to leave the house. Like Milo always said, $20 is $20.
This was thirty. For a food delivery. Fuck yeah, they'd take that.
They finished a now-cold espresso and fastened their helmet back on. Then they clicked on a music app for some dubstep. Tucking their phone into a zippered pocket and securing it, they revved their salvaged Indian and took off.
It was kind of funny, actually. Ashton used to hate this fucking music. But now, left earbud in while the right was tucked into the throat of his leather jacket, the steady drum of bass notes kept him present, grounded. Reminded them to look left every so often to compensate for their impaired vision. They weaved through the traffic with practiced ease as the thrumming beats kept him focused on a paycheck.
First stop, Prize Box Bakes. The box would be safest on the bottom of the insulated pack they used on such deliveries, and people apparently preferred their dinners intact. At least, they tipped better when it was, and he wanted every dime of that thirty. They didn't recognize the name, so Calloway might still stiff them, but better to avoid giving reason for it. Best get insurance pictures, just in case.
Focus.
He pulled up to the bakery and parked quickly. They slid off the bike and strolled inside. They leaned against the counter before quickly straightening back up. Fuck. No more deliveries after this one. Too sore.
"Hey, there," a girl behind the counter called. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, picking up a delivery for Calloway?"
"Sure thing!"
She turned around to a shelf of boxes, located a ticket on one, and pulled it down.
"Can you open it?" Ashton asked. "Just want to be able to prove I didn't smash it, is all."
"No problem, bro."
She opened the blue box to reveal the weirdest pie Ashton had ever seen.
"Is that fucking bacon?" they asked, laughing as they pulled out their phone for a picture.
"Yep! Not my favorite, but it's popular."
They chuckled throatilly. They were about to put their phone away, too, when an incoming text pinged.
That Bitch
Mr. Greymoore. You have failed once again…
Then another.
The courts have been patient and accomm…
And another.
I have left a package with Ms. Krook. See…
That. Fucking. Bitch.
"Are you okay?"
Ashton waved away the clerk, saying, "Not your problem. Just… shit I gotta deal with later."
And they did so despise dealing with their probation officer. Leave it to Hexum to make a fuss when their next check-in was coming up soon anyway and misgender his roommate.
Whatever. Fuck. Delivery. Ashton picked up the pie box and turned around to leave.
"Drive safe!" the girl called.
Ashton snorted but nodded. Please. They were safer driving than standing still anymore, even on his half-scrap bike. Yeah, sure, the thing looked like a junker, but it was theirs. They placed the box in their pack, moving a piece of foam about the same size to a side bag. Music on, phone in pocket. He double-checked the traffic with their good eye before merging.
The next stop wasn't far, but the question of what the fuck Hexum wanted kept distracting them. They cursed when they realized their turn was behind him and would need to circle the block. And in 4 PM traffic, no less. Fuck. What was he doing again?
They pulled into Emilio's and parked. Why were they at Emilio's? They rubbed their good eye and tried to think over the pounding in his ear. Dubstep. That meant work. Were they working? He patted his chest and found their phone.
Calloway. Right. Pie and pizza. Thirty dollar tip. Probably the least disgusting thing they'd ever done for $30. Fucking piece of shit brain…
Could be worse. You could be dead.
Ashton snorted at Milo's voice in his head as they slunk towards the restaurant. They were right. After all, it wasn't so much that Ashton's memory was gone; they could totally remember things. Like their drug screening on Monday. No way would they forget that again. It was more that his memory was often… mistaken. Like someone had ripped every page out of their schedule, erased the dates, and thrown them into a pile for him to sort out. Anni had a gig the 19th. Who knew when the fuck that was? Ashton didn't. He was pretty sure it was the eleventh at the moment.
"...get you today, Sir?"
Ashton shook their head. Focus. A man in a dumb red hat watched them shove a thumb into the crease between their bad eye and nose.
"Fuck. Right, uh, Calloway. Order for Calloway," they rumbled.
The man stared for another second - one second too long for Ashton's liking - then turned to poke his head into the kitchen and called back in some foreign language. They couldn't place it, nor did they care at that point. Probably asking for the order, though. Confirmation came quickly when someone handed him a box and a paper bag. He passed these off to Ashton.
Ashton opened the bag to see the single most pathetic-looking salad they'd ever laid eyes on. They checked the order on their phone again to make sure it was right.
Side salad, no cheese, no dressing, no croutons.
They sighed and made sure the chicken pesto was underneath. It was. Fuck, diets suck. They still got pissed thinking about their own flavorless, low-salt menu. And they still ended up with an expensive as fuck pacemaker. What was the fucking point?
He half-heartedly thanked the boy and carried the food out to his bike. Securing the food in their bag just like the pie, they checked the address one more time. One of the townhouses at the edge of the Aerie district, right next to the Lucent district. Well, that explained the tip, kind of. Rich people showing off their money. Fuck it. It benefited them. And, if they were on the outskirts, they weren't real money. His guess? College kid with daddy's card and no idea what to do with it.
Must be real fucking nice.
Whatever. They turned their music up higher to make sure they didn't space out again and started their bike. Focus, they reminded himself. Thirty dollars would get his meds for the month with enough left over to get more of that awesome lotion Anni had shown them. The good stuff that smelled like sea salt and sandalwood and moss- Focus. Fuck. Working. Calloway, 878 Bell Avenue. Where was he? 546. Okay, a few more blocks to go. Then they could go home, shower and soak their arm, and maybe convince Milo to pound them into the mattress, if they were in the mood. Now that was a good way to end a long day.
They again felt bad for the sucker ending theirs with the sorry-ass salad he was about to hand over.
They pulled up in front of 878, double-checked the address, confirmed arrival, and got off their bike. Left the motor on this time. They weren't going inside. Pizza, pie, and pesto in his good arm, they shut the travel box's lid with their left. Then they headed towards the little blue house. It still had a moving van in the drive. Lights on inside. Plants in cheap plastic containers along the steps. New blood. Ashton hadn't even gotten to the door when it opened.
A very tall woman, a good three or four inches taller than him, stood in the door frame, smiling. Long curls of dirty blonde hair framed a long, soft face. Lots of lace and ribbons on her, like a doll at a tea party. Gorgeous.
Okay, someone was going to need to take care of him later, Ashton realized as he approached.
"Calloway?" he asked.
"That's me," she preened. "You got here fast!"
"That happens when you tip well."
"Oh, good. I was worried it was too small."
"How much did you give them, Fearne?" asked a strong but small voice at her elbow.
Calloway shrugged, saying, "Only thirty."
The girl, Fearne Calloway, turned inside with the food, revealing a much shorter man shaking his head at her. He met Ashton's eye through the visor.
"Thanks," he said.
"Like I said. Keep tipping like that, and you'll get the best every time."
"We don't eat out that often…"
"Yeah, neither do I. Probably for different reasons, though."
"Picky diet."
"Never mind, then. Same reason." Ashton chuckled as he turned around. "Enjoy your food."
"You as w- um, I mean, Thanks."
Ashton pulled into the garage across from their apartment nearly an hour later. They locked up the bike (hey, even junk was worth the parts) and headed towards the building. Finally, they pulled their helmet off and shook out plum-colored hair. It wasn't super long and didn't really fluff like it did before, instead falling limply to the right to show the scar on the left.
Why was it always his left? Fuck.
If he were looking to impress, they would comb it the other way, covering the jagged line above their ear with their locks. But this side of town, better to flaunt it. It made them look badass, made people think twice before fucking with them. Not that the studded leather jacket, belt chains, and combat boots didn't say the same, but… something about the wound was more visceral, more convincing. It reminded people he'd come back from the dead before.
Okay, maybe not literally and certainly not without issues, but Ashton had always had issues.
They lingered outside a moment, dry hot air in his lungs before sighing. They unzipped their jacket and pulled up the mask that had been hiding under it. At least it had a band they liked on it. Just one elevator ride, and they could take it off. Thank fuck, because their head was fucking pounding.
After a minute of fumbling with their keys, the apartment door opened from the other side.
"Thanks, Milo," they sighed, shuffling weakly inside and tugging off their mask.
"No problem," their roommate said, pushing their glasses up their nose. "Looks like you had a ringer of a day."
"Fuck, that's a way to put it."
"Probably a bad time to tell you, but-"
"Miss Hexum was by. She texted me. Sorry."
"Hey, it's as much my fault as yours," Milo said with a soft growl, "but if she calls me 'miss' one more time-."
"All you gotta do is say the word, Milo."
They sighed and said, "You've done enough for me, Ashton. Go shower off. I'll get your meds for you."
"Thanks. Steroids today. Then we'll talk about Hexum."
Washing and redressing didn't take too much time, but the fucking effort… By the time they stumbled out of the bathroom, they were ready to skip dinner and go straight to bed to try sleeping it all off. Instead, Milo waved down the hall to him, summoning him to the threadbare couch in the common room. They sat down, let Milo hand them a few pills and a glass of water, and swallowed both quickly.
"Your arm that bad today," asked Milo quietly, "or your head?"
"Shit. Both." Ashton handed the glass back and laid down, shutting his eyes. "Mostly my arm, I guess."
"Need the lights off?"
"Nah."
"Massage?" Milo asked, voice farther away.
"For the arm? Fuck yes. Might be up for more. Are you in boy mode?"
"Sorry, man, not vibing today. You'll have to call one of your hookups for that."
Ashton sighed and pouted. Most of his contacts bottomed. They needed a top. It was about the only way to make it stop, now that their preferred forms of pain management had been taken away.
"Maybe Tanner's in town," they muttered.
"I don't like how rough he is with you," Milo replied, suddenly next to them again.
They held out a fresh glass, this time filled with some milkshake-looking concoction. Ashton grimaced. Still, easier to drink a shitty smoothie than try to cook and eat real food right now. Milo shrugged and set the glass down nearby then pulled their chair next to the couch, a bottle of lotion in hand.
"You need to eat, big guy," they said gently, squirting lotion onto their hands. "So. What's Hexum's deal today?"
Ashton cursed under his breath and dug their phone out of their pajama pocket. Then they finally opened the messages from earlier.
That Bitch
Mr. Greymoore. You have failed once again to report for your appointed toxicology screening. This is your third infraction. I have scheduled a review of your case with the courts for Monday, August 22, at 9:40 AM. We will discuss how to proceed at that time.
The courts have been patient and accommodating with you due to your injuries, but that does not mean that you will not be held accountable for your failures. We have already made allowances for your continued residence with Krook and Aughta as personal and moral support.
I have left a package with Ms. Krook. See to it that you read this one and understand what exactly is on the line for you Monday. Your presence is mandatory, and failure to appear will result in your arrest.
"What the fuck?"
"What's wrong?" Milo asked, firmly rubbing Ashton's left forearm.
Ashton clicked on his phone screen. Thursday, August 18. Their hand shook, and they sat up suddenly, a spike of pain shattering their skull.
"Fuck! Drug test. Monday. Missed it."
"Again?"
Ashton nodded, thankful Milo sounded more worried than upset.
"Okay, okay. So," they muttered, easing Ashton back onto the lumpy couch, "what do you need to do? How do we fix it?"
"We don't, Milo. There's nothing to fucking fix. I show up at court on Monday, or I get arrested. That's it."
"Okay. Open your calendar. Set an alarm now, before you forget."
Ashton grit their teeth, but obeyed with a nod. 7:30 AM. That would give him enough time to dress, eat, and get to the review. Then they changed it to 7:15, just in case.
"Do you think your shrink would put in a good word for you?"
Ashton sighed again. "I mean, I can ask. They sure as shit know how hard I've been working. Fuck, it wasn't actually that bad a day, either. Just a painful one. I got a fucking $30 tip today."
"That's fucking cool!"
"Yeah! And now I just want to go to sleep and forget today ever even happened. Fuck. I'm calling Tanner."
"Hey," Milo said, covering the phone screen with their hand, "call Foster first. Then you can do whatever masochistic bullshit you want."
Ashton groaned, "Fiiiine. Fuck. It's after business hours."
"They said you can-."
"Call any time, I know. You're such a shit," Ashton hissed, pressing the phone to their good side.
The other end picked up on the third ring.
"Smiley day, Mx. Greymoore. How have you been?"
"Uh, better. I've been fucking better." Ashton pinched the bridge of their nose, his left hand rough against the smoother skin of their face. "You know how I'm on probation and all that shit?"
"I sure do."
"I… might have fucked up. And I need to talk about it right away tomorrow. If I can."
"Oh, uh, my Fridays are pretty full, Ashton. Let me see here real quick…" A crackling of shuffled paper popped over the line. "If you don't mind my eating lunch, I can squeeze you in here at one. I'm afraid that's-."
"That's fine. I'll work around it. Flexible hours, delivery," Ashton said, sighing in relief for once. "I really can't thank you enough. For everything, Foster. I mean it. I can even bring lunch, if you want."
"Oh, that's really not necessary. I can pay for myself."
"I said I'd bring it, not pay for it."
Foster chuckled over the phone and relented. "I'll let you know when I order it, then. Remember to let your friends take care of you, okay?"
"I'm trying," laughed Ashton. "Thanks. Uh, see you tomorrow, then."
"Buh-bye!"
Ashton hung up, shaking their head in amusement. They relaxed a smidge and smiled at Milo.
"That guy is great."
"They're one of the few you say 'thanks' to genuinely," Milo noted.
"Now can I get my ass pounded?"
Milo rolled their eyes and stood up.
"You can call him, but you have to drink your shake before he gets here. And remember protocol."
"Yep, disinfectant, condoms, whole nine yards. I know. Hey, Tanner. You in Jrusar?"