Damages, Damages

The Jacko-ganza put me in the mind of quote about damages from a story. It took me a while to realize it was from one of my own. Still looking for a home, which is maybe why I repressed it.

“I take the baby for how long?” Varya actually tilted away from the boy when I made my pitch, as if he might emit something harmful.

“An hour. Tops.” I leaned back against Houston’s car, trying to draw her in. “Houston and I take the child carrier to Valley Pawn, then find a connection. We come back to your place and split it three ways.”
“How I know you come back?”

“You’ve got the apartment. I’ll want some privacy. You know I can’t watch people shoot up, especially in the neck.” I glanced over at Houston. Smoking, not shooting, that was still one of my uncrossed lines.

“Your place is safe. We’ve had good times there.” I tried to hold her gaze, knowing that for her, the good times were about the eight ball. Aside from bringing the drugs, I’d had nothing to do with them. I would have liked to think there was a spark between Varya and me, but I knew better: that even without meth, damaged people do damaged, desperate things. The more damaged, the more desperate.

“Okay, Charlie, I watch baby.”

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