Page 32 of For Life

Once those thoughts had percolated, and I’d righted myself awkwardly, I curled up in the corner. Being misgendered hurt worse than the blows. Being called a stupid boy and sissy girl was not the same as being non binary. Some non binary people still used gendered terms, and I did too. It was hard to train out of me. Dude didn’t bother me, because every Californian could be dude, but guy and sissy did. It was individual. Though I shouldn’t have expected my kidnappers to respect my pronouns.

It felt like I was back in high school. I was on the wrestling team, naked guys around me all day, and I didn’t fit into their hyper-masculine norms. When they caught me stealing glances I had my underwear torn off me while still in them. If I cried or expressed any opinion outside of “boys will be boys” I got called gay like it was a synonym for sensitive or stupid. My own family told me to toughen up and stop acting like a girl. I found that insulting to myself and girls in general.

My mind spiraled in my dingy corner as time slipped by. At some point the smell of plastic burning jarred me enough to notice the men were arguing in the kitchen. They’d tried to make something frozen in the microwave and were arguing about whether it should go in the oven after the edges burnt and it was still cold in the middle.

Sensing an opportunity, I stood and stretched my sore limbs, yawning loud enough to catch their attention.

“We could just give the crappy one to the boy and order something.”

The guy chuckled at this to the other in a stage whisper, clearly meant to shame me. This goon looked different than the other two, darker and where the others could be brothers. I realized that I’d started calling them goons after what Jefferson called the Russian mafiosos who went after my friends. Goon two, who was holding their monstrosity, cringed in my direction.

“No, we aren’t allowed to order delivery.”

“Or, you could let me cook,” I suggested, knowing I’d be ignored. The third guy joined them and he wasn’t happy they were talking to me.

“Shut up, no talking unless it’s to tell us why an unknownItalianis up in mob business.”

That guy, the one who’d told me to shut up, and hit me hardest, I’d name goon three. They may not want me to talk except to answer questions, but I had an ace up my sleeve.

“I’m a professional chef. And baker…” I paused for dramatic effect, “I specialize inItaliancooking.”

They were pretending to be Italian, if my guess was correct, so they might bite on that alone. Plus, who doesn't love Italian food?

Goon three sucked his teeth and considered my words. “What’s in it for you?”

“Stop beating on me and let me use a real toilet,” my answer came so fast, I was glad I thought of it, “and I’ll make you something delicious out of anything.”

They were quiet for seconds that stretched, and then they turned to each other and did some random widened eyes and head nods that looked like a silent argument. Finally, goon one threw his hands up and faced me.

“I don’t care what these two say, I want food I can eat.”

Goon two came toward my cage with a key from his pocket, “But we’re watching you the whole time and not letting you use a real knife.”

Goon three crossed his thick arms and glared at me as my hands were untied.

“Make it good.”

Nodding, I swallowed hard as I rubbed my wrists. I would make the best meal I could with whatever they had.

My life depended on it.

Chapter twenty-one

MAXX

BACKINTHECITYthat night, I was avoiding my captain. The quickest way to search for Ant was to use police resources. Sitting hunched at my desk, I used the notes my friend gave me to look for known locations of property owned by crime families in the bay. There were a lot of them.

Some I could rule out, but I kept hitting dead-ends. Many were only distantly related to people who were merely acquaintances. I got the locations from the database, and then ruled them out, one by one. Most came from texting addresses to Felix and Roman, who would report if they didn’t list a basement or other space where a person could be stashed. I grabbed my coffee cup to keep from yelling in frustration, and found it empty.

“Wu?”

The bark came from behind me. Without turning, I knew it was my boss. Biting the bullet, I stood and faced him. His brows were furrowed with a mix of confusion and concern, and my guilt came back.

“Hey, Captain.”

“How’s your mom?”

“She’s at home now,” it was almost certain to be true, so I wasn’t lying, “so I came in to work on the shooting case.”