Frankie

The sound of the purring engine drew Frankie’s eyes to the curb. A sparkling white 1958 Continental idled at the edge of the sidewalk in front of Romeo Pizza. As the passenger window slid down, the blond man behind the wheel leaned sideways and called out. “Hey, Frankie-boy!” The familiar voice ripped through Frankie’s ears, through his heart. An unwelcome voice, the voice he’d tried so hard to avoid. Silky — his sister’s smooth-talking pimp, a good-looking guy who could spin lies and tales that any vulnerable girl, or boy for that matter, would believe. They had history, him and Silk. But Frankie’d thought that was all over and done with. Should’ve known better. He’d managed to stay clear of Silk for a few months — ever since he'd graduated out of Forrester. Juvenile detention was done with him. From now on it’d be big-boy jail time if he didn’t manage to keep clean. Unexpectedly, his sister, Maria, had stepped up to help — despite their tenuous relationship growing up. She’d moved out of the apartment they’d shared and in with her man — but still continued to pay the rent so Frankie’d have someplace to live. Lucky for him. “Hey! Frankie!” Frankie looked away, glanced in the greasy window of the pizza shop — saw his own silhouette reflected in the smudged glass — saw the car behind him. Always behind him. Turning, his dark eyes moved to the car’s open window. “What's up, Silk?” “Hop in.” Friendly enough. “Can’t.” Silky smiled. “Get in.” Memories flooded back, bad ones. Frankie drew in an uneasy breath. “Maybe later.” “Now.” The smile still there, but the tone different. Frankie cursed under his breath as he stepped over and opened the door. He slid in without looking at the driver and pulled the door shut. Bad mistake.