Sicarii 2 Read online

  SICARII

  Part II

  Adrienne Wilder

  Contents

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  Sicarii

  Book II

  Copyright 2020 Adrienne Wilder

  Cover art by Adrienne Wilder

  The following is a work of fiction and not based on anyone living or dead. All people, the town, the events are works from the writer’s imagination.

  Please don’t distribute all or in part, by any means without written permission from the writer. Please do not upload or give away when purchased as an e-book.

  This is my livelihood, and without it, I can’t afford to write. I know some people don’t think this is a job because I do enjoy telling these stories, but it doesn’t change the fact I spend hundreds, sometimes thousands of hours putting these books together. In many cases, they can take years to complete.

  Piracy isn’t harmless. Piracy is a crime. Piracy hurts writers.

  Created with Vellum

  Sicarii plural form of Sicarius: Latin for dagger-men

  For the sake of simplicity, and since this is fiction, Sicarii will be used as both singular and plural.

  1

  Whoever invented dodgeball had to be sick in the head.

  Sam guarded himself against a blatant face shot. The coach blew his whistle, and Sam stumbled into a skinny kid, who shoved him away.

  “Get the fuck off me.”

  Sam landed on his ass, and the coach blew the whistle again. This time one short burst. A clear, Vacate the ninth circle of hell.

  Sam wasn’t gonna complain. He walked over and took up a spot on the B team bench. The guy from A team sat on the other side of the circle, sneering at him.

  It was only ten-thirty, and Sam already had a target on his forehead, but he’d expected it. He just wasn’t sure how he was gonna survive. Moving boxes wouldn’t keep him from getting beat to a pulp.

  Coach Bennet called time, and the class broke apart. The guy from A team followed his classmates into the locker room, but not before tossing Sam one more nasty glare.

  Yeah. Today was probably a good day to be late to Calculus. Naked, plus locker room times hostiles, equaled a surefire way to wind up in traction.

  “Waters.” Coach Bennet jerked his thumb over his shoulders. “Hit the showers.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Problem?”

  Was he kidding? Or maybe he was just really good friends with Mr. Freeman and wanted to see Sam with his face kicked in. Not a bright and shiny thought.

  “I, uh…” He glanced back at the showers. The freshmen filed into the gym.

  “Well?” Bennet stopped by the bench and folded his arms. How did a guy shorter than Sam seem like he was six feet tall?

  “I’d rather wait until…” The minotaurs leave the labyrinth. Voices carried out from the showers, along with a lot of laughter.

  “You know if you have a problem with someone, you need to say something.” Bennet sat down next to Sam. “Heard about the fight.”

  Who hadn’t?

  “You did the right thing by standing up for yourself.”

  “Then why did I get suspended?” It was out before Sam could stop it. “Sorry…I…” What? He meant what he’d said.

  “Life isn’t fair.” Bennet gave Sam a sad smile. “I don’t agree with you getting suspended. Especially when the other boys didn’t. But I do think you should have come to one of the faculty first.”

  Another burst of laughter came from the locker room. Shouts. Hoots. A few dirty words. Bennet turned in the direction of the locker room. “Watch the toilet mouth, boys, or you’ll be doing laps for an hour tomorrow.”

  Sam was pretty sure someone yelled a “make me,” but it was lost to the clash of locker doors slamming shut.

  Students began to filter out.

  “You want to talk about it?” Bennet said.

  Sam shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” The sooner he made space between him and Coach Bennet, the better. The last thing Sam needed was for his classmates to get the impression he’d ratted on any of them.

  Because no matter what good intentions the man had by suggesting Sam talk to the teachers, it would only end in disaster.

  A bigger disaster.

  Sam waited for three other kids to clear the door, then went inside. Some shouts and laughs drifted in from the shower room. Normally Sam washed before he went back to class. But with the way the morning had started out, he was pretty sure bad BO would be the least of his problems.

  Two more guys left the locker room, and a straggler followed. Sam remained behind his locker door until they were out of sight, then took out his clothes.

  The showers died off. A handful of students from the freshman class evacuated. They exchanged shoulder punches on the way into the gym.

  Sam slapped on some deodorant, changed clothes. First bell rang while he packed his gym clothes in his bag. He still had five minutes before the second bell. Plenty of time to make it to math class. Sam shouldered his backpack.

  A butchered whimper escaped the hiss of water from the remaining shower.

  Sam stopped. Water spray, a drain gurgled, a faucet dripped with a metallic plop. He was probably hearing things. Sam started to turn. The next sob was faint but clear.

  Sam leaned far enough to see around the hall leading into the gym. No teachers, no students. He set his backpack on the bench.

  Another small sound broke through the fall of water.

  Sam’s shoes squeaked against the wet tiles. Heated air clung to his skin. Steam billowed from over the stonewalls of the shower cubby at the end of the room.

  Sam stopped at the edge of the stall. A half an inch gap between the curtain and partition gave him a clear view of the ninth-grader sitting on the floor, under the spray of water with a dozen or more short cardboard tubes. Wet toilet paper covered his skin, made blobs in his hair, stuck to the walls. His shirt and shorts lay in a puddle of water, leaving him in his underwear. The garment had been stretched out until it hung off his hips where it wasn’t crammed in his ass crack.

  When he raised his head, blood poured from his nose. An ugly bruise already made his right eye swell. Slowly he got to his feet, peeled his briefs free and stepped out of them, then gathered up the rest of his clothes.

  When he turned, his dark eyes met Sam’s, and he froze.

  “Are you okay?”

  The boy hugged his laundry to his waist. His right nipple was so crimson it looked as if it might bleed. An ugly double welt marred the opposite pectoral. His other nipple had been spared a titty-twister, but it was still gonna bruise like hell.

  “Hang on, I’ll go get Coach Bennet.”

  “No.” His voice cracked. “I’m fine. I just…” His hand shook as he picked the sloppy bits of paper from his skin. He leaned into the spray, and the pelting water swept away the rest of it.

  “Do you have a towel?” Sam said.

  “I think they threw it in the toilet with the rest of my stuff.”

  Sam glanced back in the direction of the urinals. A trail of notebook paper led to the toilet stalls. A shirt lay next to an English book.

  “Hang on, I’ll get mine.”

  Sam went to his backpack on the bench. He opened the plastic bag with his towel. The scent of dryer sheets perfumed the air. He carried it back to the other boy. The water turned off, and he stepped out of the shower stall.

  “Here.” Sam averted his gaze. “Sorry, it smells like a rose g
arden. My mom has this thing about flowers and…”

  “I don’t want to get blood on it.”

  “It’s okay, I can get another. My mom won’t care.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  The boy took the towel.

  “I think you’re right about your stuff, they…”

  The boy was a hand taller than Sam, but narrower across the shoulders, his skin rich tan, his hair black, and his eyes blacker. Sam’s cheeks went hot, and he turned away.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…are you sure you don’t want me to go get Coach Bennet? Your nose is bleeding pretty bad.”

  “Only if you’ll tell him I slipped and fell. The last thing I need is for them to call my mom. I’ve only been here for a month. I’m running out of schools to go to.” The boy walked past Sam. He stopped by the wall separating the bathroom stalls from the showers. His shoulders fell. “My drawings.”

  Sam walked over. Large pieces of paper bleeding smears of black ink had been stomped together with the piles of soiled clothes.

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems.” Just a few steps closer proved it was worse. The boy started to follow, but Sam ushered him back. “Never mind.” Cause someone had used the sketchpad as toilet paper. “I think I have an extra pair of sweats. They need to be washed, but—”

  The second bell rang.

  “You better go to class before you get into trouble.” The boy sat on the bench where Sam pointed.

  “Not going to matter now.” Sam dug his sweatpants out of his bookbag. They’d been in his locker for days while he’d been suspended. He sniffed them. Ripe, but it was better than…

  The boy set the pile of wet clothes beside him. Water dripped off the edge of the bench. A puddle spread on the floor underneath.

  “Here.” Sam held out his sweatpants. “I don’t have any extra underwear. But I have a shirt.” It matched the sweats.

  The boy took both. “Thanks.” He sat there, hugging the wad of material.

  “You sure you don’t want me to…?”

  The boy’s dark gaze hit Sam hard. He nodded, then he shook his head. Sam sat on the opposite side of the pile of wet clothes. Slowly the boy got dressed.

  “I got suspended for fighting.” Sam had no idea why he told him. “Accidentally punched a teacher instead of the asshole who hit me.”

  “Yeah, I know.” There was a rustle of fabric.

  “You know?”

  “Saw it on Instagram.”

  Great. Thanks to social media, the whole world probably knew.

  “At least it’s only a video of you hitting a teacher.” The boy stared in the direction of the shower.

  “Holy shit, they didn’t.” Sam hadn’t even considered the idea that someone might film what they did to…and if they had? Sam cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, Roshan.”

  “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  Roshan shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

  “Why?”

  Roshan laughed. “Because it happens a lot?” He shook his head. “Sorry, this is the third school I’ve changed to this year.”

  “But the school year’s not even half—” Sam didn’t have to say it. The sadness in Roshan’s eyes said he knew. He knew, and he wished he didn’t.

  “Thanks for the clothes. I’ll give them back to you tomorrow after I wash them.”

  “What are you going to do?” No books, no socks, not even any shoes, he couldn’t go to class. Even if Sam’s clothes kept him from being naked, with six inches too short in the legs and arms, the clothes obviously weren’t his.

  “I’ll call my uncle. He’ll come pick me up. I can go home and change, be back by lunch. He won’t tell my mom.” Roshan smiled. “You better hurry up before you’re really late for class.”

  Probably. Maybe. And did it matter? “You sure you don’t want me to stick around?”

  “Nah.”

  Sam picked up his backpack. Roshan stared in the direction of the stalls.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  Roshan nodded, but he didn’t look at Sam.

  Even though Sam didn’t want to, he left and headed to his next class.

  “Hey, mister, you need some help?” The kid was young. Or maybe Marcel was just that old. Either way, he didn’t seem the type to work in a nursery. His name tag read Julian. “That’s a lot of bags, and they’re gonna be heavy.” His approach stuttered, and his gaze ran the length of Marcel’s arm to his face.

  “You do not need to be afraid. It is only scars.”

  Julian jerked his chin up. “Uh, sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry about.”

  “Do you need help?” Was he aware of how he still stared? Probably not. Like the cashier at the store, it didn’t matter how many times Marcel made his way through the line, she’d lean away as if he were contagious.

  A mother and child passed. The little girl pointed. Her mother turned down an aisle, dragging her daughter with her.

  Marcel snorted.

  “Here, let me get that.” Julian took the cart and pushed it. “Which car is yours?”

  Marcel leaned on his cane, letting it take his weight. “The old one.”

  “Old one.”

  “Yes, it is dark green. Has shiny wheels. Next to the tree, I think. I might be wrong. My memory is not what it used to be.”

  The kid smiled, but it quickly wilted. A bruise stamped his jaw, and an old scar drew a line over his left eye. He pushed the cart, muscles cutting subtle valleys in his thin arms. The soles of his tennis shoes flapped as he walked.

  “You sure you can manage. Like you said. It is heavy.”

  “Yeah, I mean, yes, sir. I’ve got it. Move these all day.” The wheels rattled over the asphalt. Distance between Marcel and Julian expanded. The kid glanced back and stopped. “Sorry, didn’t mean to run off.”

  “You did not run far.” Marcel let his exhale wheeze.

  “Which car?”

  Marcel pointed with his cane. “Green one, shiny wheels. See, next to tree. I did remember.”

  The awe and surprise turned Julian’s simple features beautiful. “Holy shit.” He slapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell my boss?”

  Marcel turned his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said, my hearing is no good in this ear.”

  Julian slowly dropped his hand. “Your car.”

  “Yes. My car.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It gets me around.”

  “Gets you around?”

  “Yes, you know. One place to the other. Did I say it wrong?”

  “No, no… It’s just…” Julian turned back to the car. “I’ve never seen a GTO in real life. I mean pictures, sure. But…” His shoulders rose and fell. “Wow.”

  Marcel took out his keys and opened the trunk.

  “Aren’t you worried you’ll mess it up? These bags of fertilizer and dirt tend to leak.”

  “I put down plastic. It will catch the dirt.”

  The kid gave Marcel an unsure look. There was another scar over his lip. And a bruise near his collar. He lifted the bags and laid them in the trunk with extreme care. Every time he released the bags, his hands lingered on the edge of the boot, fingers snatching quick caresses. Julian’s gaze softened, and a small smile tugged at his lips. He turned to retrieve another bag, but his attention was slow to pull away.

  “You like old cars?”

  The kid took the empty cart. “Yeah. I hope to get an Impala one day. Restore it, you know?”

  Marcel closed the trunk. “Yes. Rebuilding what is broken is always good.”

  “Did you rebuild this one?”

  “Yes. I rebuild it. But I was younger.”

  “How much is it worth.” The kid winced. “Sorry that’s none of my—”

  “It is worth what I decide. Like people. They decide what they are worth.
And if they deserve better.”

  The guy dropped his gaze for a moment and rubbed his neck. Then he returned to staring at the car.

  “It’s really beautiful.” But the awe was gone from his tone, and his eyes were dark.

  “Yes. It is beautiful. But it is still just a car. All metal makes lots of noise when you turn it on.”

  The grin Julian wore was fleeting.

  “One day, you can have car like mine.” Marcel hobbled to the driver’s door. “Work hard. School is important. Education is good.”

  “The best I’ll ever do is trade school.” Again, he winced.

  “Trade school is as good as Harvard. Maybe better. Teaches you to work with your hands. More people need carpenters or plumbers than they do accountants.”

  Julian opened and closed his fingers. There were calluses on his thumb. Clay under his nails.

  “Who knows, one day you might sculpt beautiful figures to put in front of important buildings. Then you can buy car.”

  Julian blinked a couple of times. “Uh…”

  Marcel took out his wallet and pulled a ten from the flap. “Here, for helping old man.”

  “It’s okay, really.”

  “No. Please. You will hurt my feelings.”

  Julian took the money with a trembling hand.

  Marcel opened the car door. Julian watched him a moment, then began pushing the cart. He was only a few paces away when Marcel said his name.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are worth more than the person who hurts you.”

  Julian froze for a few heartbeats, then pushed the cart faster in the direction of the store. When he got it back on the sidewalk, he glanced back, standing straighter.

  Good. Maybe he would change his fate now. Marcel got in the car.

  The sun was gone by the time he pulled into the subdivision. Most of the people were home, and their windows cast warm yellow patches on shadowed lawns. Minivans, family cars, a few bicycles abandoned in the grass. Even if Marcel didn’t know every make and model, the Cadillac would have stuck out. It sat in the shadows between two streetlamps. It might have been dark gray or blue.