Page 5 of All the Things We Buried

FOUR

DORIAN

T here are parts of life that come without reason. No buildup. No explanation. They just happen. And this, this happened to me.

The mechanic who picked me up that night was the cop’s brother.

I didn’t know it then, but they had been planning a bank heist in Salem.

What they needed wasn’t a genius or a shooter.

They needed someone fast, someone desperate, someone invisible enough to run two blocks with a bag full of stolen cash, because the getaway car couldn’t stop near the bank. It was just too risky.

Risk of my own life for a warm bed and a warm meal, and in the head space that had nothing, it was enough. They didn’t just feed me. They built me. Or thought they did.

In a few short months, that scared little boy who hid from cops became someone else. Now I understand what that saying means: If your family won’t raise you, the streets will. And they did. They raised me their way. I became one of them. Feral kid thirsty for love.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Even if I knew I couldn’t fully trust them, I still wanted to. I missed the feeling.

They had been planning the job long before I ever showed up. I was just the missing piece; no one would suspect that fit.

The plan was simple. The mechanic and I go in with masks and guns, hold the lobby.

The cop would already be inside, on duty, and would guide us toward the vault.

Once the money was in bags, it was my job to run.

Take the heat, lead the chase, make it look messy, and meanwhile, they play victims, hostages.

That way, they’re clean, and no one would suspect them.

I stared at myself in the mirror, holding the white ski mask in my hand.

I wore a gray jumpsuit that hung off my hips.

My body was covered in tattoos now, all places that were filled with scars.

Some tattoos were homemade, scratched into skin with guitar strings and motors.

Others were done in the back of the shop for shots of cheap whiskey.

I barely recognized myself anymore. But I liked who I saw.

Because the ghosts that used to visit me at night had gone quiet. They just watched me now.

A knock came sharp, then a soft voice followed it.

“You ready, handsome?”

It was Alice.

Her red hair was tied up in a messy bun, two loose strands falling over her cheeks. Her emerald green eyes were locked on mine. Her lips were pink. And she wore a tight black dress that clung to her own shadow. No bra. No panties. She liked being obvious.

I didn’t answer—just nodded.

I never really liked her. But I used her. She was easy on the eyes, and I hadn’t seen soft in a while. The trouble was, she was their niece. And if they found out I was sneaking into her bed after dark, I would be six feet under and still bleeding.

She stepped closer, her fingers trailing from my neck down to my bicep, her eyes full of hunger. Like she wanted to eat my soul first, but I didn’t want hers anymore.

She felt like a meal I had eaten too many times. The one you used to crave, until one day you woke up and the thought of it made you sick.

“Stop.” I grabbed her wrist and pushed it away. “I told you I’m done with this.”

She shrugged, stepping back. “You’re no fun anymore.”

I rolled my eyes, pulling the ski mask over my face. Then I turned and pinned her to the wall, just enough for her to feel the difference.

“Fun doesn’t cut it no more.”

She laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for a wife now. Little Dorian wants a family?” Her smirk deepened. “You’re too broken for that.”

Too broken.

Yeah.

I was.

Too broken to live a normal life, but not too broken to want it. That was the worst part. Being part of something, even if it was dark, made me start to crave the light. Even if I knew I would never hold it.

“Whatever,” I muttered, letting her go.

“You’re such an asshole, Dorian,” she hissed, punching me in the back as I walked off.

What is it with women?

They chase you, play their games, pull you in, and when you’re done, you’re the villain. Like I begged for this. Like, I made the first move. I didn’t want this. It was her idea. But suddenly I’m the problem?

Men get blamed for walking away, but no one ever asks why we had to in the first place.

I stepped out, leaving her behind. She slammed her fists into pillows as she fell onto the bed, screaming into the pillowcase.

Maybe I was the asshole, or maybe I was just tired of being what she needed.

What I needed was someone to love me for me, not who they imagined. Not who they could use. If that made me the bad guy, so be it.

The mechanic was already waiting by the car, window down, a smoke blurring his face as he held a cigarette in his hand.

“You ready?”

I nodded, pulled the gray jumpsuit up and zipped it to my chest, and sat down in the passenger seat without a word.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, a half-lit cigarette still dangling from the corner of his mouth. The whole car filled with smoke almost instantly, blending with the toxic stink of motor oil and metal.

Neither of us said a word.

I leaned my forehead against the window. Outside, the sky didn’t move at all, no clouds, just the color blue above my dark brown eyes.

I pulled the ski mask up onto my head. Letting it rest there, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I looked like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin.

The Mechanic cleared his throat.

“You know your part?”

I turned toward him slowly and nodded.

He wasn’t satisfied. “Say it.”

I hesitated. My throat felt dry, words felt stuck inside, but I had to repeat them.

“I run. Two blocks. Bag over my shoulder. Straight through to Midnight Salem Avenue. White van in the alley. Don’t stop for anything. If I get caught… we’re strangers. I never met you. Never met him.”

He nodded, eyes still on the windshield.

“Clear?” he asked again, sharper this time.

“Clear.”

He didn’t blink. He looked me dead in the eyes as he crushed the burning cigarette out on his skin, same spot as always, just beneath the anchor tattoo on his right hand.

The flesh there was already puckered and scarred over from old burns.

He didn’t even wince. He rolled down the window and flicked the cigarette butt out.

“Don’t try anything stupid,” he muttered.

Then, with one hand, he grabbed the edge of my ski mask and pulled it down until it covered my face up to the bridge of my nose. He gave my forehead a light clap, like a slap you give a kid when there’s something dumb left to say.

“I won’t,” I said, shrugging.

He studied me for a second, then he asked, “Can I give you some advice, kid?”

I nodded.

“Don’t trust anyone.” He let out a short, dry laugh. His crooked teeth flashed, yellow against the thick gray beard curling under his lips. His mustache twitched as he smiled without warmth. “Not even me.”

He tapped the side of his temple with one rough finger. “The only thing you can trust is your own mind. Even if it feeds you crazy shit. At least that shit is yours. ”

Then he shaped his hand into a gun, made a clicking sound with his tongue, and mimed firing twice.

“For the rest?” he said, smirking. “Two bullets to the head.”

I pulled the ski mask down the rest of the way, letting it stretch over my face. I kept my eyes low, shoulders hunched.

The less I asked, the less I knew. And the less I knew, the less I could be blamed for when it all went to hell.

Crooked as they both were, he wasn’t wrong. In the end, the only person I could trust was the one wearing this mask.

Me.