The Trouble with Loving a Milkovich Part 2

Secrets, Secrets

"I'm hoooooooome, mother fuckers!" Mickey swings open the front door. "Wheres my fucking banner?" He points at the one we hung up when Terry got out, which lay, crumpled on the floor. Hearing this, Terry looks up from the couch hes laying on. "If we threw a party for everytime you got outta fucking jail, we'd go fucking broke!" He turns his attention back to the television screen. Iggy walks in from the kitchen, and deadpans, "We're already fucking broke!" Mickey and I laugh loudly at this, but Terry isn't amused. "I can't carry this entire fucking family on my back!" He spits on the floor. An irritation erupts in me, out of seemingly nowhere. I hear the words long before I'm cognizant of the fact that is in fact me whos saying them.
"Well then it's a good thing you aren't, huh, Terry?"
A nervous energy fills the room. After a pregnant pause, Terry turns to me. "You look here, you little shit," he starts, but before he finishes, I cut across with a ferocity I forgot I was capable of. "Dont shit where you eat, Terry," I growl, my words loaded. Terry glares at me as if hed love nothing more than to jump cross the room and punch me in the face. Mickey and Iggy exchange a glance of confusion before Mickey mutters about having some shit to do. He leaves and Terry gets up as well. "I'm going for a drink," he spits. Once he leaves the room, Iggy looks to me. "What was that all about?" Embarrassed by the fact that I lost my cool, I just wave my hand. "Its nothing, Iggy. Actually, I got some business to handle too."

In the bedroom, I change into a pair of ripped jean shorts, a baggy Marilyn Manson shirt that's cut off so that it skims the tops of my shorts, and my trusted black high tops. Tucking my baggies of dope into my shoes, I grab my bag and head out.
Nobody in the family knows that I "sell" Terry meth.
I use the term "sell" very fucking loosely...
The heat coupled with the humidity makes it hard to breathe. The sun beats down on me and I feel beads of sweat forming on the small of my back and above my lip. The liquor store that my husband works at is several blocks from our house, near the baseball diamond. The grass crunches beneath feet as I cut across the field. Darkness descends as the sun starts to set and the glow from the liquor store beckons me.
Maybe it's the fact that my husband stands behind the counter; maybe its the fact that my second cousin owns the place; or maybe it's the fact that my mother is a raging alcoholic; whatever the reason, I get a sense of home as I step into the store. Collin looks up from the magazine hes reading behind the counter. "Babe! What's up?"
Leaning over the glass, I plant a kiss on his cheek. "Not much. Came down to do a drop," I lift my drug filled backpack, "and to do a few teeners and dimes." I lift my shoes up onto the counter. Nodding, Collin looks over toward the whiskey. "There's an empty Crown Royal box, waiting. Ronnie should be here in 15 minutes or so, so fill it up now." Giving his hand a squeeze, I turn towards the shelves and find the Crown Royal box he mentioned. Taking it off the shelf, I lean down, open my bag, and place the ziploc bag filled with meth shards into the box. "Back on the shelf you go," I mutter.
I spend a few hours at the desk with Collin, selling the baggies from my shoes to the drunken customers that funnel thru. In between sales, Collin and I catch up. I tell him about the argument that took place between his father and I. "What was that all about?" his question is loaded. Collin's not a dumb man. Since I started giving his dad a rock here and there, he's looked at me just slightly differently. Blushing, I look down at the magazine he was reading. "Just PMSing, I guess?" I try to shrug it off, but Collin continues to stare. "What?" My fingers search the wicker basket filled with dollar bottles of booze and I open a vodka. "So you're about to get your period?" he reaches for the vodka, but I pull it away, gulping the shot down as quickly as I can. Wiping my mouth, I assure him, "Yes, BABE!" In spite of his suspicion, he laughs and grabs himself a shot bottle of whiskey. "Well, here's to hoping," he raises his bottle and chugs.

It's totally dark when I leave the liquor store. Collin stays to shut it down, which means he won't be home for a few hours. The sprinklers are on on the baseball field, so I walk the perimeter of the fence instead of cutting across. A voice rings put across the diamond; always vigilant, my body reacts as tho under attack. Adrenaline course thru my veins and I whip my backpack across my body, reaching in to pull out my pistol. The voices, distorted by the sound of the pelting water, come closer. Slowly, cautiously, I stalk the final few feet of the fence; just where it ends, I see the silhouettes of two guys. Their voices sound joyful; I even hear a laugh. Still, my body is ready for war. Gun loaded, finger on the trigger, I aim the pistol at the entrance of the gate. Out of the shadows, the two men come, and as they exit the field, they see me.
"HOLY SHIT!" one yells, his hands in the air.
"Fucking Jagger?!" The other says. Squinting, I make out their features. "Mickey?! Ian?!" Furious, I drop my gun to the ground. "What the fuck, you two?! I almost killed you!" Switching the safety on, I shove the gun down the front of my pants and shove Ian before punching Mickey in the shoulder. "Look, Jagger," Mickey starts, his voice tight with fear. Before he can even start, I wave my hand, dismissing whatever it was he was gonna say. "Don't, Mickey. I don't give a shit what your excuse is. Don't fucking sneak up on me in the dark." Moonlight illuminates the gratitude that crosses his features before his stoic mask comes back up. Pulling out his pack, he offers me a cigarette. "Can't believe Collin has you walking home alone to begin with," he cracks, glancing nervously at Ian. Throughout this entire exchange, Ian has worn a look of horror. Handing him the extra smoke I pull outta the pack, I tell him "Relax, kid. I'm not gonna shoot." He grabs the smoke, his features cautious, suspicious. "We've all got our secrets. See you at home, Mick." And with that, I'm off, my hand still resting on my gun.