Free Poughkeepsie Begins (The Poughkeepsie Brotherhood #0.5) by Debra Anastasia Page B

louder. He wished he could sit closer. He stood. As the sun cleared a cloud, he watched the station fill with light. One spot under the stairs remained shaded. Maybe, maybe when he wasn’t so keyed up he could get there. If he watched the weather and made sure his timing was right, he could get to the shady spot and play this song.
    Blake put his hand against a birch tree. The sun-filled walk looked like a torture chamber to him. God, why did it have to be so hard? People didn’t know what they had, being able to walk freely wherever they wanted, not a care as to the placement of the clouds above.
    Maybe someday soon he’d be able to do it. But today was not that day. He curled the piano into his pocket and took the safest path back through the woods. The dense evergreens worked together to cloak him. By the time he was back to the house, the sun was low enough that he could skirt his way to the back door. The house was so quiet. Without the little kids, with no TV on, it was like a funeral parlor. Saturdays were never like this. Then Beckett slammed the front door, looking exhausted and bloodshot.
    “Hey.”
    “’Sup.”
    They walked to the fridge at the same time, Blake opening it and Beckett swearing. “We’re are fucking out of food.”
    Beckett’s hands were jittery. It was hard to see him like this—strung out and stressed. The quest for the girls’ field trip money had given him permission to go head-first into the business he’d been dancing around.
    “Listen, I’m getting picked up in a few minutes.” Beckett set his backpack on the floor, opened it, and pulled out a roll of bills secured with a thick rubber band. “I need you to hide this in the fucking woods. It’s for the girls. But peel off a little and go grocery shopping tonight, if you can. If you want to. Do we need anything else? You want new sneakers? What fucking size does Cole wear?”
    “I don’t know. Why do I have to hide it?” Blake filled a glass with tap water and drank while pocketing the money.
    “Trust me.” Beckett zipped up the pack and put it on his back.
    “Listen. We can get the money a different way—”
    Beckett shook his head. “I already made it. It’s in your hand. Some things, when you start them, you can’t have second thoughts. It’s like that now. I’m about to get a shake down and an ass kicking. It’s cool. I know what I’m getting into.” Beckett’s upper lip was coated with sweat. “Just keep it somewhere I can’t find it. And Rick can’t drink it. Okay? I got to get changed into some crappier clothes.”
    With that, Beckett bounded up the stairs. Blake slipped out the back door, lucky the sun had descended for the evening. He knew already which tree behind the house to tuck the money into. It had a knot covered by moss and held the one picture he had of his mom. Sometimes he went there to reminisce, sometimes to rage. It was complicated, but the spot on the tree was secure and dry. Before tucking the money away he counted it. Five hundred dollars.
    It was from drugs. Blake knew that was how this kind of money was made. And you didn’t hit the streets and not know how ruthless the dealers were. Five hundred missing was enough to be a serious offense. Blake separated out a hundred dollars and put it in his pocket. The remaining four hundred disappeared into the tree.
    Blake watched from the trees as a car took Beckett and his backpack away. He’d seen that flashy blue Mustang with the black stripe down the center before. Shaking his head, he headed downtown quickly—through yards, over fences, and through some wooded patches. He arrived and saw the blue car parked outside an abandoned warehouse. He quietly picked his path until he could see in a window. The lack of outside security lights made him comfortable; he was camouflaged.
    The windows were covered, but there was a tear in the black paper, and he could see a slice of the inside through it. He recognized Beckett’s voice.
    “Fuck you!