Lay Me Down

25. Reason not to be that asshole.

{Cary}

Cary grabbed Jon's bike off the driveway and tore off down the alley, standing up on the pedals to get the hell out as fast as his legs could push. This late in the day the back lanes were clear of traffic. Fenced backyards and trash cans flashed by, the setting sun slanting through the tree leaves and a breeze lifting the shirt off his back.

Since when did it matter so much if Jon was his friend or not? Just a couple weeks ago, he'd practically thrown their friendship back in Jon's face. If he'd been smart, he'd have remembered you can't need anyone.

He had never been smart.

He'd given his knife away. He'd given his life away. It wasn't up to him anymore.

There was a river that split the city north and south with offshoots meandering through most neighbourhoods, creating a network of walking and biking paths removed from vehicle traffic. Cary cut through back lanes and school fields until he came to a series of trails that took him into the ravine behind Strathcona Avenue. He could breathe out here. Sometimes the Whites' house was just too small and crowded, and he needed a place to be and think his own thoughts.

There was a spot he hadn't shown Jon yet a few minutes walk back in the bush. It was a little clearing with a bluff looking over a curve of the river. He hid the bike in the bush just off the main trail and walked in, ducking under branches and pushing bushes aside.

Someone had been here recently—the weeds and brush were cut down short, and there was a shelter woven out of branches between two of the sturdier tree trunks. Cary hesitated on the edge of the clearing, spreading his hand over his empty pocket. If it was a kid he might not need his knife—down here he had a rep, and kids kept clear. If it was a grown-up, he might have something to worry about ...

He crossed the space quickly and turned onto a narrow path that ran along the edge of the bluff. He was hunkered in the soft sand, squinting in the lowering sun and having a smoke when the sound of branches cracking some distance behind him told him the camper was returning. The hair prickled on the back of his neck, and he stubbed the cigarette in the sand and pocketed the butt. He listened to the person breathing and moving around the clearing, his hands set on either side of his legs. Was he even allowed to fight since he'd told Split-lip he could have his life?

His mouth twisted, remembering Jon swinging for him and the drop when he realized he could not—must not—hurt him back. He didn't know if he could do that twice in one day.

He pushed to his feet and came out with his hands open.

The youth startled back, putting up his meaty fists. "Jesus fucking Christ!" He flattened his hands on his chest and bent over, breathing hard. "Give me some warning next time, bro. I about had a heart attack."

Cary made a dry noise. "That was my warning."

Mike Joseph straightened, rubbing a hand over the barcode tattooed on his neck. "You're a scary dude, Care—you know that?"

Cary put his hands in his pockets, looking aside. "You crashing here?"

Mike slung a backpack off his shoulder and pulled out a big bottle of water and a bed roll. "Been for a while now. Pull up a stone if you want. I'm just having jerky for supper, but there's enough."

Cary lowered himself onto the ground and watched the big youth move stones back into a circle and lay a small fire of dry sticks and branches.

"I'll put it out in a minute," Mike said. "I gotta boil water for coffee."