Stronger: Stark Ink, #4

Chapter One

As Jonah looked out the window and watched the snow falling outside, Mrs. Plank, his social worker, stood behind him while tapping her foot.

Well, Jonah? she asked again. Why? Why would you hit Steve? Why? Why would you do it?

Even at ten years old, Jonah knew that Mrs. Plank cared less about why Jonah had hit his most recent foster father and more about where she was going to place him at 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

Jonah shrugged and didn’t answer. What was the point? Tammy, his foster mother, knew. She knew damn well why Jonah had finally hauled off and popped Steve in the mouth tonight. But for some reason, when the cops and social worker came, she didn’t want to show them her bruises.

Steve never hit the kids. The kids were money in the bank. A check from the state came every month for every mouth they (sort of) fed. Steve was on disability (was being an asshole a handicap?) and he wouldn’t jeopardize his cash crop of kids from broken homes.

He’d hit his wife, though, from time to time. Mostly he just drank so much that he couldn’t chase her down even if he wanted to. But it was Christmas and he was being sober for the Lord, or some shit, and as such, he had a short temper and a long reach.

Tammy had wrapped the presents, what few there were, instead of making dinner. And Steve didn’t seem to care about getting a piece of coal in his stocking. He’d punched her in the gut, and Tommy, the new boy, had started to cry.

Jonah’d had enough of the Morgans at this point. He’d balled up his own fist and knocked out one of Steve’s teeth. This was probably the only thing that had saved Jonah’s hide. Steve was at the dentist on an emergency visit. While he was gone, Tammy had called Mrs. Plank and asked her to take Jonah away.

Everything he owned was in a duffel bag at his feet at the police station. Mrs. Plank wouldn’t take him to her own house. She had children, for God’s sake, or so she’d whispered into the phone.

Who knew what Jonah would do to them?

Jonah had wanted to point out that he rarely ever hit other kids, only the bigger ones, the bullies who deserved it. But what was the point in saying anything?

Mrs. Plank huffed loudly and walked away. In the corner, she hastily dialed yet another number and waited for someone to answer.

Did Santa deliver presents in jail? Jonah made a mental note to ask Mrs. Plank when she got off the phone, just to mess with her.

In three years, he’d been in five foster homes. Some had been better than others, none had been great. But then home hadn’t been great either.

Mrs. Plank hung up the phone and waddled over to him. He opened his mouth to ask about Saint Nick, but the look on her face told him she’d actually found someone to take him in, despite the holiday.

Well, Jonah thought, guess Santa does deliver to jails.

Not that he cared where she’d placed him. Not that he thought it was a friggin’ Christmas miracle. But Jonah had plans, big plans, secret plans and there were too many cops watching him here.

In his tattered left shoe, he had a couple hundred dollars stashed. When Steve had left for the dentist and Tammy was on the phone wailing that Jonah was the devil incarnate, Jonah had slipped into their bedroom and swiped the money from their sock drawer.

Steve used the money to buy weed from a former foster kid they’d housed. He’d said it was medicinal but Jonah didn’t buy it. The guy was still an asshole, after all.

Jonah was going to run. Tonight, if he could manage it. He didn’t much care where he ended up, so long as he got as far away from South Dakota as he could. Florida sounded nice. Palm trees and Disney World.

He could make it.

I found a family, Mrs. Plank announced. They’re on their way.

Jonah frowned out at the snowfall. You can barely see, he pointed out.

Mrs. Plank waved a dismissive hand. It’s fine. They have a truck. They’re coming. She moved closer and bent down, taking his chin in her hand.

Jonah fought the urge to push her away.

Don’t screw this up, she whispered fiercely.

He clamped his jaw shut.

––––––––

A little blond girl peeked out from a door down the hall. She giggled when he saw her.

Ava! Mrs. Stark admonished, but she didn’t seem all that mad. Well, come on, she said, beckoning the girl closer. If you’re up, you’re up.

The little girl raced down the hall and stopped right in front of Jonah. Hi! she cried loudly. Are you my new brother?

Mrs. Stark laughed.

Hey.

Ava, Mrs. Stark said, this is Jonah. He’s going to stay for Christmas. The woman’s eyes twinkled against the lights of the tree in the corner. And maybe longer.

Uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, Jonah suddenly announced, I’m tired. Do I sleep on the couch?

No! Mrs. Stark replied. No. There’s a bedroom. All made up. Clean sheets, extra blanket. She frowned back at the sandwich. I’ll... I’ll just put this in the refrigerator, then. You can have it in the morning.

Jonah’s stomach rumbled as he looked at it. It was tempting, but he was anxious to get this show on the road—literally. He’d been hungry before. He’d be hungry again. Besides, he could buy a burger and fries at McDonald’s with Steve’s weed money.

Mrs. Stark ushered him down the hall and into the bedroom. Jonah was impressed with how clean it was. And how large. There was just the one bed, but Jonah knew from experience that that didn’t always mean much.

How many kids sleep in here? he asked her. If another kid lived here, Jonah would have to bribe him to keep his mouth shut as he snuck out.

No one, Mrs. Stark answered. Our two older boys have moved out. This was Adam’s old room. Ava’s room is next door. She’s our only child left still living at home.

Jonah nodded, not really listening. He could hang on to his money for now. That was all he cared about. Okay, he replied, just to get her to shut up.

Mrs. Stark stood in the doorway, looking unsure.

Jonah plastered a fake smile on his face. I’m fine.

She nodded thoughtfully and then started to pull the door closed. We’re just right down the hall, she told him. If you need anything. Anything at all.

Outside the door, Jonah heard whispering. Not that he really cared, but he was curious anyway. He crept over to the door, lowered himself onto the floor, and listened at the crack.

What are we going to do? Mrs. Stark whispered. It’s after seven! We don’t have anything. Nothing at all.

Mr. Stark’s basso voice floated down. Miriam, it’s Christmas Eve. It was an emergency. I’m sure the boy will understand—

There was a soft whump, like Mrs. Stark had stomped on the floor. "Absolutely not. Absolutely not! I will not have that boy wake up in the morning without a gift under that tree. I will not."

What do you want me to do? Mr. Stark asked. "It’s dumping inches tonight, Miriam. Inches. And nothing’s open anyway. If you just explain to him—"

Find something, she insisted. Anything. I’ll get the wrapping paper.

Jonah felt a bit bad that they were bothering with a gift. He wouldn’t be here in the morning to open it, but of course he couldn’t tell them that.

He got up off the floor and looked around the room. There was a desk and a dresser, and his fingers itched to search them, but it felt wrong to steal from them. They hadn’t done anything—so far—to deserve it.

He crossed the room and lifted the window carefully. He tossed out his bag, onto the snow, and climbed out into the night. It was cold as hell, probably just above freezing. As he eased the window closed behind him, he looked up at the nearly full moon. The night sky was crystal clear and a thousand stars glittered overhead. His dirty sneakers crunched a thin layer of pristine, white snow that glittered as brightly as the sky above.

He huddled into his coat, shouldered his duffel bag, and headed off across the back yard, away from the house. There was a truck stop on the south side of town. He’d lived near it once for a few months. He could hoof it there and get a ride from someone. His hand slipped into his jeans pocket and he fingered the pocket knife that he’d also taken from Steve’s sock drawer. Jonah felt confident that he could protect himself.

As he moved farther from the house, toward the row of houses that lined the parallel street, he heard a muffled noise. Instinctively, he gripped the knife and peered into the shadows. Beyond the scrub trees stood another house. As Jonah edged closer, he made out a small figure sitting on the back step.

Whoever it was, they were smaller than he was—by far. Jonah could kick his ass if he needed to. He pushed the knife back down and took another step closer. As the wind kicked up, it carried the sound with it.

Crying.

Jonah moved faster now, spurred by panic. It was a kid, clearly. He could tell just by the sound. He dropped the duffel and burst between the small trees that were barely taller than he was. There was a startled cry that seemed deafening in the relative silence of the late night.

Jonah froze, glancing around nervously, but no lights came on at the other houses. Nor at the Stark house, he saw, as he checked behind himself. Heaving a relieved sigh, he turned back to the kid.

Who is it?

It was a girl. Alone in the dark.

Jonah stepped toward her.

It’s just me, he replied, then kicked himself for his stupidity. He didn’t know this girl. She didn’t know who ‘me’ was.

Who?

He was closer now and could see her huddled into a coat that was slightly too big for her. He wondered if she were somehow a foster kid, too. He never had clothes that fit, either.

My name’s Jonah, he said gently.

She squinted at him, frowning deeply. I don’t know you.

She didn’t run, though. Probably because Jonah was a kid, too. And there was solidarity in that. At least to her, it seemed. Which was how he knew that whoever she was, she wasn’t a foster. If she were, she’d know he might not be safe, even if he was a kid like she was.

Where do you live? she asked.

Jonah licked his lips and tried to think of an answer. He nodded to the Stark house. There, he said. Not a lie. He had. For a few hours, anyway. With... Evie.

She frowned at him and pushed her knitted hat back on her head. She had dark hair. That was all Jonah could tell about her. You mean, Ava?

Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I meant Ava. And Mr. and Mrs. Stark.

She considered this at length. Are you ‘dopted, too? ‘Cause Ava’s ‘dopted. But her brothers aren’t.

Over my dead body, Jonah thought. It wasn’t likely to happen anyway. If the Starks adopted him, they wouldn’t get their check. No one gave up the check. Maybe they would, for a girl like Ava. Maybe for a cute, little, blond-haired girl who wasn’t dirty.

Not for him, though.

He shook his head, pushing down his rising anger. This kid didn’t know any better. She didn’t mean anything by it. He’d had foster sisters. Lots of them. They were mostly just annoying but, ultimately, harmless. No. I was just... hanging out with them for a while.

She nodded like she understood, like it was normal just to show up at a stranger’s house on Christmas Eve. For Christmas? she asked.

Yeah. I guess.

She sniffed and lifted something with her hands.

Jonah hadn’t noticed her holding anything before. In the moonlight, something glittered. He crossed the short distance between them and inspected it. It was a snow globe. Or had been. The glass had broken, though. The glittering was exactly that—glitter. It had stuck to the tiny model of a building inside.

She held it out to him and he took it gingerly from her. It said Chicago on the side. And the building was probably the Sears Tower. Jonah had read about it in school, once, if he was remembering right. He’d never been to Chicago himself.

That was my present, the girl told him. From my dad. But it broke in the mail. Mom said it was ‘cause he didn’t bother to wrap it tight enough. She sniffed again and wiped her nose. In a quieter voice, she said, She says it’s ‘cause he only loves his new family now.

Jonah didn’t reply. It was probably true, though.

Parents were dicks.

But he sent it! she insisted, as though she could sense his agreement. "So, he cares! And he said he’d call. Tomorrow. On Christmas Day. He said he would."

She gripped the globe in defiance, as though she’d hurl it at anyone who’d dare argue with her.

Jonah sighed and reached for it.

Hey! she cried and tried to snatch it back.

He grabbed her wrist and pried it out of her hands.

Nooooo! she wailed.

Quiet! he hissed at her. You wanna wake the whole neighborhood? It’s broken, okay? You’re going to get hurt! You’re going to cut yourself. Just get rid of the damn thing.

He cast about angrily, looking for a place to put it. He spied the garbage can near the corner of the house and stomped to it. He didn’t feel bad. She needed to know the truth anyway, the sooner the better. It would only hurt more when she was older.

He grabbed the lid with one hand and flipped it up. But he hesitated before throwing it in. Looking down into the can, he saw a familiar tableau. He bit his lip—hard—until he tasted blood. Inside the can, were bottles. Half a dozen, maybe more. Jonah didn’t count them. He didn’t need to. One was too much, in his opinion.

He looked back at the girl who was crying softly now. He could barely hear her, but he could see her whole tiny body shaking. It could have been from the cold, but he didn’t think so. He laid the destroyed globe down carefully into the can and returned to her.

Now he was the dick.

I’m sorry, he said gently. "But it’s best. It’s sharp. It’s dangerous." In more ways than you can know. You could have—

She brought her hands down from her face and he jerked. He took her hand and held it out in the moonlight. You did cut yourself, he admonished.

She didn’t reply this time. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her.

Here, he said. Let me see. Is there glass in it?

As he examined it in the light, he raised his eyes and looked past her. Through the glass of the sliding door, he saw another familiar sight. A woman was sprawled on a tattered couch, her face obscured by a mass of dark hair. Put her on a nicer couch in a bigger living room and it could have been Jonah’s own mom, passed out while her husband, Jonah’s father, was upstairs... in Jonah’s bedroom.

He looked away in disgust.

Does it hurt? he prompted, nodding at her palm. The cut didn’t look big, but who could say what a kid thought was bad, especially a girl?

She shook her head.

Maybe... maybe your dad could send you a new one, he said. It was a shitty thing to say, to get her hopes up like that, but he couldn’t bring himself to make her cry anymore. Her hands were cold. She’d been out here too long. Don’t you have gloves? he asked her.

She shrugged. Forgot.

Jonah snorted. You keep forgetting and you’ll have to ask Santa for new fingers.

Santa’s not real.

She looked up at him and Jonah got the distinct feeling that she was testing him again, spoiling for a fight. Maybe, maybe not, he hedged. I’ve never seen him.

Does he leave you presents?

Not for years. Sometimes, Jonah lied.

She smiled.

And damned if Jonah didn’t feel better for it. If you don’t go inside and go to sleep, you won’t get anything.

Or she might get a whipping, who knew?

Jonah sucked in a breath, testing the air. Hard to tell whether the cold or the drunk inside was a bigger danger.

The girl looked up at him with wide, shimmering eyes. He couldn’t make out the color. Do you think he’ll call? she whispered.

Your dad? Jonah shrugged and blew out a harsh breath. It fogged in the night like white smoke. "Maybe. He might. You’d better go inside. Just in case he calls tonight. You could miss—"

Sienna!

The shrill voice shattered the calm of the night.

Sienna turned back suddenly, startled.

Jonah watched her carefully, looking closely, but she didn’t seem all that afraid.

Coming! she called back. She turned back to him, but he pushed her away gently.

Go, he told her softly. Go inside. It’s cold.

She turned and slid open the back door to her house. A blast of heat hit Jonah, reminding him just how cold it was. He stepped back into the shadows, out of sight.

Sienna entered the kitchen. Her mother barely noticed her. She stumbled past her daughter to the refrigerator. From the freezer, she produced another clear bottle and twisted the cap.

Jonah’s guts twisted in anger as he watched.

Sienna left the kitchen, presumably to wait for Santa.

Jonah turned back to the scrub trees where he’d dropped his duffel bag. As he picked it up, a light came on in a window just a few feet away. The curtain pulled back and Sienna appeared. She waved at him.

He waved back.

When she disappeared, she left the light on. Maybe she liked it that way; she was young, after all. He noticed that his window faced hers. Not his window. The window of the room the Starks had shown him.

Through Sienna’s back door, Jonah watched as her mother took another drink and then collapsed onto the couch again.

So many windows for seeing and being seen. Yet no one was watching this girl.

He hefted the bag again and looked into the darkness beyond the houses. Jonah lived in the darkness. He wasn’t afraid of it. He’d hidden in the dark, listening for footsteps coming down the hall to his bedroom. The dark was neither friend nor foe. It was nothing to be feared.

So, it wasn’t out of fear that Jonah turned away from it and back to the Stark house. It was something else altogether.

Something he didn’t have a name for.

Chapter Two

Jonah awoke in his large bed over Stark Ink, not the small bed he’d slept in for so many years at the Stark house on the other side of town. It took a moment for him to come to grips with that fact. For the last several weeks, he’d dreamed about that snowy night when he’d first met Sienna. He supposed that was normal since he spent so many of his waking hours thinking of her, too.

He sat up and rubbed his face, then scanned the one-room apartment. On the nightstand was the small grouping of objects that Jonah cared most about in the world. A framed photo of his mom, Miriam Stark; the letter she’d written to him just before she’d died of cancer tucked into well-worn copy of Treasure Island; and the compass that she’d wrapped for him that first Christmas Eve.

To anyone else it probably would have seemed like a cheesy gift, but Jonah had held on to it all these years, eternally grateful that two strangers had cared so much about an angry little boy who’d had nowhere to go on Christmas Eve.

Maybe it was cheesy, certainly a little sappy, but Jonah’s life had indeed changed direction that night and he would never let himself forget it.

He stood up, stretched, and hobbled a bit to the bathroom across the room. He’d spent the entire week working out, preparing for this evening, and it showed in his stiff muscles. He turned the shower on, lukewarm as always these days, and glanced at himself in the mirror.

A tall, well-built man with inky black hair and matching eyes stared back at him. His eyebrows were pierced on each side. Small, silver hoops glinted in the overhead light. He stripped out of his shirt, revealing a larger set of matching silver hoops, one through each nipple.

Since Jonah’s older brother Adam had offered him the job of Stark Ink’s piercer, Jonah had taken advantage of the opportunity to explore new avenues of pain. He hadn’t given himself any more piercings lately, though, and wasn’t certain that he ever would.

He tossed his boxer briefs and stepped into the shower, allowing the beat of the showerhead to work out last