Chapter Text
"More coffee?"
No. Coffee was actually a disgusting drink, but before Tommy could tell the waitress that, the coffee pot was already dipping towards his cup. That was fine. He let the brown liquid pour in and watched the waitress walk away. An excuse to stay longer on his part, probably.
The last two hours of his life had been spent here, in this diner staring out the window at the bank. It opened at eight. Eight in the morning, and considering the amount of time Tommy had already spent in the diner, eight am was very late.
Especially when you add in the fact that he was technically supposed to be home, oh, seven hours ago? Yeah, not the most ideal situation. Stacy (his guardian at the moment, some distant relative who happened to live in Cambria as well) was lenient, and for that he was forever grateful. Sure, she'd berate him for coming home at half-past eight the day after he was supposed to be home, but the worst she could do was take away Animal Crossing, and even Stacy knew that was too far. Too. Far.
The person that took Animal Crossing away from another deserved a life sentence locked away, who would do such a thing?
Absent-mindedly, Tommy took a sip of the coffee. Bad idea. Absolute dogwater. Would not recommend it. Seriously, coffee is one of the most disgusting things on planet Earth, why did it exist? Only for Wil- Nope. Only for the scourge of the earth, Tommy supposed. At the best it at least gave him a reason to look jumpy, rather than the not suspicious-looking green duffel bag by his feet.
On that point, was anyone looking at it? Probably not, after all who'd care about the skinny seventeen-year-old boy in a dingy diner early in the morning?
He couldn't tell what other people were thinking, but he knew no one was staring at him. Still, Tommy couldn't help but be nervous.
There, that woman at the front counter. She had looked over at him. Was she thinking, "Gee I wonder what's got that kid so jumpy, maybe that green duffel bag?" Nope, she didn't blame the bag. Probably.
Paranoid? Maybe, but you would be too.
Okay, so no one was looking at him. Other than the cute girl at the front. Everyone was too busy with their own six am thoughts, on work, school, midterms, or maybe the army-green duffel bag at his feet.
Or maybe not.
Moonstruck Diner started to fill up, slowly. People going about their day, grabbing a quick drink before work, delivery people taking a quick break. Nothing interesting. No, there wasn't ever anything fascinating in Cambria, California.
A small town that boomed in the summer with college kids, nothing ever bad ever happened. It wasn't Detroit where gangs ruled the streets and guns laid in everyone's houses. Cambria was... chill, although it was cursed with the unfortunate luck of having Tommy live in it.
The diner he was in was situated on Main Street, much too busy for gang members to bust in and haul him out of the restaurant. All he had to do was sit and wait for the bank to open. Simple, right?
Of course, it never was. Especially when things concern Tommy. Waiting just an hour or so more for the bank to open was unlike him, even as anxious as he was. This.. this was a special case, however. He really couldn't risk anything else.
"Coffee?" the waitress asked again. Jesus fuck, it's been five minutes lady and no one wants your shit coffee anyways.
"It's been five minutes, I don't need any fucking coffee," Tommy snapped tiredly, toeing the duffel bag with his left leg. The waitress flinched at his words and lowered the coffee pot dejectedly, shooting him a glare as she stalked away to the next table.
Imagine being paid to give crap "coffee" to customers who have no energy to find a better diner. Hah. What an absolute pussy.
This diner though, seemed like the kind of place he'd hang around with his mates, under different circumstances. In another world, he supposed.
Really, Tommy always knew the voice would get him into some deep-shit, he just didn't think that today would be that day. Well, yesterday.
The night started off well enough - though that should've been the first sign that something was wrong.
Of course, the path from "date with a hot girl" to "sitting in a diner (with a duffel bag) at six am" is not very linear.
His night had started off great, to be completely honest. The voice had snagged him a cute girl, way out of his league, and into art. That was the first problem; Tommy knew nothing about art. The voice did though.
Every time the girl started losing interest, the voice - like a skilled fisherman - reeled her back in with a comment on an art show or a specific piece by a person that Tommy had never heard before of in his life. Who the hell is Riusuke Fukahori??
Lara was a wonderful person, really, but what kind of fucker enjoys art documentaries?
The date was okay, albeit expensive and dragging. The wine was expensive (Tommy was underage but that didn't matter) and the "movie" was frankly so boring he would've rather watched paint dry. Also the tickets were pricey.
He would've scammed his way out of paying, if it were up to him. The voice was good at that, getting things for free. He didn't though, the voice prompting him to pull out his draining wallet with slight remarks at Lara about how it was "on him".
It was at that point that Tommy had decided he'd had enough. He didn't really need the date anyways, but they didn't call him Wife Haver for nothing. Would Lara be considered a wife? One date is surely enough.
Pushing away from the table, his seat screeched against the floor and he offered an awkward grin at her. Before he could make up a weak excuse, the voice took over (again), this time with a lie about how he was just so dreadfully sorry, no it's okay I have a ride, perhaps I'll see you again soon?
Absolute bullshit.
He was not going on another fucking date with her - no offense to the poor girl - but surely there was something wrong with her? Modern art?? What the hell is that? Is normal art not enough for you fuckers?
With a regretful goodbye, he left her on the curb of the museum cafe, leaving a five dollar bill on the table as an offering. He does respect women, you know?
Tommy scanned the street, looking for his non-existent car that the voice had told Lara about. That was another thing; the voice was a bitch. It liked to twist the knife, like in this case where it'd said that his (still non-existent) Cadillac was a gift from his brothers. Hah, fat chance of that ever happening. Maybe six months ago, but certainly not now.
He could've called a taxi, but he was out of cash, having spent the last amount on his departing gift. Tommy was really starting to regret that now. Respecting the women can wait until he's home, yeah?
The late night air was chilly, permeating his body and letting the cold through his thin jacket. Style over comfort, that's what he always says. No, it does not matter that he is freezing and it certainly does not matter that Stacy had told him to wear a thicker jacket. Stacy was a pussy and also wrong. He was not cold.
As he stalked down the side of the road, jacket pulled tight around him, he spotted the bright and pulsating lights of the club around the corner. Tommy could get a ride there - or the voice could get one.
Steps quickening, he trotted to the front entrance, eyeing the crowd until his eyes fell on the fellow by the back, in the thick white sweatshirt and an army-green duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was dressed discreetly, and looked sober enough to drive. Score.
Prompted by his (probably) easy mark that he'd picked, he jauntily walked up to the guy. Stopping just short of the man, Tommy let himself slow down, until the guy smacked him in the face with the bag.
"Watch it, bitch!" he said in his own voice.
The guy turned around. Shit. He was rough looking with blonde hair and golden chains dressing his neck, the kind of guy that would crush you with a glare. Worse than Tech- anyone he'd met before. The guy's hand slipped into his pocket, like he was gonna pull out a knife or a gun.
"Whoa!" Tommy backed away, hands in the air, "Sorry about that big man, my mistake!"
The guy scanned Tommy, striking grey eyes piercing into Tommy's own lightning blue. After a moment he relaxed, hand coming out of his pocket and an easy smile finding its way onto his face. He rested a hand on Tommy's shoulder.
"Sorry man," he said with a gruff voice, "Did I hit you?"
"You missed, actually," Tommy quipped before he remembered the guy in front of him was not amused and really fucking stacked. He let the voice take over, "Boomer sent me over to help you out."
That was another thing; the voice was good at names, spouting out people that Tommy didn't know - not that he was social in any way. On the topic of names, what kind of fucking name is Boomer? What was he, a boomer? (probably, Tommy thinks)
The guy paused, eyebrows raised. He eyed Tommy up and down with an incredulous expression. The smile was gone. Tommy was rightfully offended, like this guy knew anything about his physical capabilities! Tommy could take him on any day!
"Boomer sent you?" he asked in disbelief. "How's a squirt like you gonna help?"
Tommy hated when this happened, when the voice got him in these kinds of situations. The ones where he had no fucking idea what was going on and the only route out was letting the voice finish.
"Boomer said you were bad off last night," the voice said easily. Tommy tried to smile to match the voice's tone - it sounded like a joke. "Wasn't sure you'd remember the way to his house."
White Sweatshirt waited for a beat, like he wasn't sure how to react. Then, abruptly, he started laughing like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "What a dickhead. I worked off the hangover with my brother this morning. Stupid idea to go to Schlatt's party, really," he said, throwing out another name Tommy was expected to know. "How do you know Boomer?"
"My brother fixed up his cars this one time," the voice supplied eagerly. This. This was when things got tricky. It was the truth, Tommy's brother was a mechanic. But what happened if the guy asked for his name? What then?
Also Tommy's brother was a pussy (that was a lie) and Tommy didn't miss him (that was also a lie).
Surprisingly, the guy loosened, like everything made sense now. "So you're family. Boomer wants you to join the team."
It seemed like the appropriate time, so Tommy nodded. "He said I should learn from the best," the voice continued, "No one better than Punz."
Punz grinned and slapped Tommy on the back. "He tell you to say that? What a dickhead." He started off down the sidewalk, the duffel bag swinging by his side. "C'mon, car's this way."
Huh. Maybe Tommy could still salvage a ride out of this (very sketchy) man. Listen kids, always get into the car with the stranger you just met. (Especially if a voice in your head spoke for you and told him that you're friends with his buddy)
Tommy took a deep breath and followed him, the flickering street lights highlighting his - very illegal - jay-walking. What a big man, breaking laws just like that.
Punz stopped in front of the crappiest car Tommy had ever laid his eyes on. A beat up old Ford sedan, either painted brown or covered in enough dirt to make it seem that way.
Seeing his expression, Punz laughed - quick and short. "Listen kid, lesson one. Skip the fancy cars. Too easy to spot. If someone is tracking you down, you're an easy mark."
Tommy shrugged. There was some kind of logic to what Punz was saying, albeit paranoid as fuck. His hand had slipped back into his pocket, Tommy noticed. He still couldn't tell what Punz had in there. Weapons? Drugs?
Spotting his wandering eyes, Punz asked curiously, "You're not carrying, are you?"
Tommy didn't say anything, just shook his head. What was that supposed to mean anyways? Fucker being cryptic and all that shit. Speak English, please.
"Good," Punz nodded. He looked up and down the street, then ducked his head and got in the car. "For now, your job is to keep your eyes open."
Tommy nodded again, wordlessly. A shiver ran down his spine as the situation settled in. He was about to get in a car with a strange man (a really strange man) who was most likely a criminal with a duffel bag full of who-knows-what and heading who-knows-where.
Tommy opened his mouth to let the voice take over, pleading for a way out. It could say whatever it liked, as long as Tommy could walk away - back home to where Stacy was probably asleep already after worrying for hours with Page and Molly (her dogs). Back to Ivy Street where he could trick a clueless driver into taking him home.
The voice stayed silent. That meant there was no way out, no backdoor or loophole. Nothing it could say that wouldn't raise Punz's suspicions. Tommy wasn't sure what would happen if Punz went to call Boomer and found out everything was a lie. Nothing good, probably.
So Tommy shut his mouth and got in the car.
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