A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) Read Free Page B

school and quit drinking, or get out. I couch surfed for a while—after all, I had plenty of friends. But parents of sixteen year olds become curious—too curious—when a sleepover turns into an extended stay.
    I found occasional work in the fall—landscaping, day labor. Show up at the 7-11 in the morning and stand in line with the illegal immigrants and other homeless looking for a day’s backbreaking labor for 25 bucks. Then I’d go hang out with the guys and smoke pot.
    I met Spot the weekend before Thanksgiving. I was standing with a couple of guys behind the dumpster in the back of the Masquerade having a smoke when I heard a short, muffled scream. I got up and walked down the alley, my friends trailing behind me. In the dark I could barely make out what was happening—a big guy, maybe six feet, and built, was shaking a girl who stood maybe five-feet two and probably weighed 95 pounds. Her head was flopping back and forth as he shook her hard, using his massive strength to shake her like a rag doll.
    “Stop!” she squeaked. He pulled his fist way back, about to slug her.
    He didn’t get to throw the punch: Snatching up a loose brick, I lunged forward and hit him in the back of the head. He went down, and the alley fell silent.
    “Mother fuck,” one of the guys said. “That’s Lonnie Wallace. Dylan, get the fuck out of here before he wakes up. I’m out.”
    “Who is he?” I asked
    “Dealer. Dangerous man. Really dangerous. I’m gone.”
    I shrugged, then looked at the girl. “You okay?” I asked.
    She looked at me, a little dazed. “Yeah,” she whispered.
    I had my doubts. But I didn’t have anywhere safe to take her. “You got any place to go? Someone we can call?”
    She shook her head.
    I sighed. Then I said, “Let’s take a walk. Get away from here. I’m Dylan.”
    “Spot,” she said.
    Weird. Whatever. Lot of people used street names. I grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s go. I don’t want to be here when he wakes up.”
    “He’s got a gun,” she said.
    Shit.
    That changed things, didn’t it? I crouched down and touched the guy’s shoulder. He wasn’t moving. I hoped he wasn’t dead. I leaned close enough to see and hear that he was breathing. I rolled him over and, sure enough, a pistol was stuffed in his waistband. Automatic, I guess—I didn’t know much about guns other than what I’d seen on television and the one or two times when I was a little kid that my dad took me hunting. But we didn’t hunt with automatic pistols.
    Dad had taught me basic weapons safety. I slid the pistol out of Asshole’s waistband. It took a minute trying to figure out how to eject the magazine, then I found the button and ejected the magazine, then pulled the slide back. The chambered bullet went flying.
    “Come on,” I said. I left the ammo on the ground and threw the pistol in the dumpster. Just to slow him down, if he ever woke up. Then I grabbed her hand and we ran.
    A month later on Christmas Eve, I ran into Spot downtown, not long after the trains stopped running for the night. It was raining and cold, and my jacket did little to keep me dry. I was looking for a good sheltered spot to sleep when I ran into her. We walked together and finally huddled under the bridge under I-20. I’d slept there before, and knew the dozen or so semi-permanent residents who kept tents, clotheslines, mattresses and personal items stored there.
    When we got there that night, a blazing fire was going, and two families were huddled around the fire.
    “It looks warm,” she said.
    “Come on, then,” I replied, and pulled her over to the fire. I could feel the heat against my skin, and the heat of Spot as she leaned against me.
    Sometimes I wanted to track down her asshole father and punch him until he couldn’t see. I was just as homeless as Spot was, but I was homeless because of something I did —not because of who I was . She, on the other hand, was a good kid with bad parents. They had kicked her