Sheryl Nantus - Battle Scars

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He wasn’t catching what she was pitching, intentionally or unintentionally.

Good for both of them.

Bran took my hand. “Thanks, Angie. We’ll be in touch.”

She waved as he turned away and led me down the street, maneuvering between clumps of tourists, street kids and locals trying to figure out what to make of the first two groups.

Bran’s grip was so tight I feared for my circulation. I tugged lightly and was rewarded with an even more restraining clutch.

I wasn’t breaking free without a fight.

“Here.” He pushed us toward a coffee shop.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Yes you are. Don’t think I didn’t see what was going on.” He held the door open for me, practically pushing me through.

“What?” I stuffed my hands in my pockets, ignoring my aching fingers. This wasn’t the place to throw a tantrum, no matter how tempting it was.

Bran ordered two coffees and turned back to me. “You were greener than green can get.”

“Me?”

The squeak in my voice gave me away.

The barista interrupted, sliding the two drinks onto the marble counter. I took the first cardboard cup and headed for a window table. Bran followed after snagging a handful of sugar packets and stir sticks.

He emptied one sugar into his black coffee and dumped the rest in one pocket.

“For later.”

I didn’t question his money-saving techniques. Instead I stirred my drink and stuck the hot plastic into my mouth.

It gave me a reason to grind my teeth together.

“Don’t.” This time it was more of a warning than a request. “Don’t do this, Rebecca.”

The fact that he used my full name made it worse.

I chewed on the black toothpick.

“You want to find these kids, right? Well, we’re going to have to deal with Angie at some point. It’s better than nothing.”

I chomped down on the stir stick. “She tried to mount you right in front of me.” My voice rose enough to draw the attention of the other customers. “In front of me.”

“Angie—” He licked his lips. “Angie’s a handful and a half. She crushed on me the first day I met the gang and propositioned me that night.”

The edges of the plastic stick grated against the inside of my cheek. “And?”

He glared at me. “What sort of guy do you think I am? I said no. She was barely sixteen, if that.”

I returned the glare with interest. “If I recall correctly you were supposed to be a bit of a horn dog before we met.”

Bran snorted. “There’s a difference between dating a grown woman and grabbing jailbait.” He leaned in, trying to ignore the questioning looks from the spectators. “I told her to knock it off. I’m not a crib robber and I sure as hell was never into taking advantage of any women, no matter her age.”

“She’s older now.”

His shoulders slumped. “And just as annoying. You don’t think I knew she was copping a feel? Damned girl practically had her hands down my pants.”

“I noticed.” I pulled the chewed stick out and sipped the drink.

“Don’t be hating.” He reached out and tapped the edge of my nose. “I’m yours and you know that.”

“Don’t mean I gave up the right to be pissed and think about scratching her eyes out.”

“As long as you remember whose bed I’m headed for every night.” Bran picked up my hand and pressed my palm to his lips. “Only yours.”

The soft kiss earned not just a sigh from me but from an assortment of female observers. Bran ignored them and winked at me, sending my pulse soaring again.

I retrieved my hand and focused on finishing the coffee, fighting down the urge to drag him into the washroom for a quickie. “You really slept in a tree?”

He winced. “Bad memories of back spasms.” He reached around to the small of his back with a pained expression. “Let’s say it was a learning experience and I did it the one time.” One eyebrow arched upward. “Just sleeping in the tree.” He leaned in. “But I am open to experimenting with different positions if you’re game later on.”

I pressed my lips together, tamping down my desire. “Later. Right now we’ve got to find these two before they get into trouble.” I paused, my mind running over the possibilities. “More trouble, that is.”

“Be able to cover more ground if we split up,” Bran said.

I choked on the mouthful of coffee I’d just taken. “What?”

He held up a hand. “Don’t get all upset. I’m not going to run off with Angie and drop you a postcard from Sault St. Marie.”

I glared at him.

“Or anyplace else,” he added. “I think it’d be a better use of our resources for us to split up. You take the streets and I’ll take the parks, the green patches these kids set up in for the night.”

“It’s not dark yet.”

“No,” Bran admitted. “So we’re not going to split up right now. But it’ll be dark in a few hours. I think our best plan of attack is for me to hit the old places I knew, see if the kids are still using them. You keep working the street, that’s your strong point.”

“And if you run into Angie? I figure she’ll be out and about doing good deeds now that she knows you’re on the streets. Waiting to ambush you if and when you show in her sights.”

Bran frowned. “I thought you trusted me.”

I took a sip of scalding coffee before answering. “I do. I don’t trust her.”

I’d hoped it would be as simple as heading for the prime performance spots and tagging the two kids as they asked for cash—twice the fool me. In the next three hours we wandered halfway up Yonge Street, down and across both Queen and King Street and through alleyways that ruined a good pair of running shoes.

There were plenty of performers banging on drums, strumming guitars, offering fast charcoal sketches and a handful playing human robots. One slender girl danced freestyle to her boyfriend’s drumming on a set of bongos, waving her see-through silk scarves back and forth. It garnered a few dollars as I watched, mostly from leering businessmen pausing for a break and pretending to like the music.

I couldn’t begin to imagine what living like this would be like. I’d gone through my rebellious teenage phase, thought about running away from my foster home and making my way on the street with the usual romantic viewpoint of street life. I’d never followed through with it due to a kind and loving set of surrogate parents keeping me on the straight and narrow despite myself.

Bran squeezed my hand. “I can guess what you’re thinking.” He lowered his voice. “These young men and women are looking for what we all want—a better life.”

“This is a better life?”

“For some of them, yes.” He glanced at the girl who now was busy hawking the same scarves she’d been dancing with. “Sexual abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse from their parents, from their family and friends, from their community. This is the only place they can be accepted fully for who and what they are. Gay, straight, transgendered—there’s a lot of ways to be pushed into this world.”

“Until they get victimized again by drug dealers, pimps and general criminals.” I wasn’t in a mood to sing the praises of independent living.

He nodded. “For the most part, yep. Some make it, like Angie, and move on into a good life as an adult but a lot don’t.”

He sighed and dug in his pocket for a dollar coin. “It’s not the best option.” He flipped the coin into the open bucket, earning a wide smile from the young man working the drums and a wink and grin from his girlfriend. “But for some it’s all they have.”

“What was Angie’s story?”