I'm An Addict

Breezeblocks

James Barnes was a sinner.

A man cut from obsidian and spit on by nearly every bystander, he shot his way from hell and made his way to the top of the food chain. In every aspect, the man wasn't a man. James was a God among mortals, with physical traits to pure for anyone to understand, and the brain activity of a insomniac, he was the devil under your doorstep.

Gangsters were relentless. Criminals that were scabs dried over and in need of Neosporin. Gangsters were apathetic, sociopaths, who cared for money and themselves and nothing else. Which put yourself at high risk when being involved with the Barnes family. Their numbers were high and body count higher, the reputation for The Barnes was known throughout the entirety of America.

Everyone and their grandmother knew of James Barnes.

People in California referred to the man as Sir from thousands of miles away. He had eyes and ears everywhere, a pistol lurking around every corner and brass knuckles always around his fist. The most feared man in America, he stilled your heart with every intake of breath he took. 

He was nightmare. One you intended to live even when the sun was up. 

The infamous Gangster was all but subtle. He lavished you in anything he could, brought you to the clubs and the night shows, and flashed a toothy grin or tip of his gun to any man who glanced your way, depending on whom it was. With only knowing him less than seventy two hours, you would drill him relentlessly with silly little questions about his lifestyle, the oh-so-dangerous game of criminal actions.

"I don't think you need to worry about me, Angel." He would reassure you, hand drifting down your back just an inch too low.

The thing about Brooklyn, was the city never slept, so you constantly worried about the Gangster. He would leave you on your doorstep with helium in your stomach, and feeling like the world was dripping through your fingers as he held your hand. It was a feeling you never wanted to disappear, a euphoria that filled up the newspaper holes in your imaginary home inside your stomach.

Quietly pressing yourself into the table, the small clock above the stove ticked aimlessly as you shoveled another spoonful of pasta into your mouth, watering down the dinner with milk. The awkward encounters with your parents had been maximized as their attempts to keep you from the felon increased. Another set of negative social cues from your Mother about the man sent in your direction had you stilling, pasta hanging from your mouth.

The dinner had been filled with inconsiderate comments and coughs from your Father. The table set and platters half empty, you started to pile your things on top of each other, wanting to retreat to your room as the woman hesitantly glanced to her husband, seemingly lost.

"Pumpkin. We just want to look out for you," 

Wiping a hand over your mouth, you nodded, smiling softly to the couple as they glanced warily between each other. "I know. Thanks." You stated softly, scraping the excess food from your plate. "But, we don't want you seeing Sir. It's bad enough that we're in debt with him." Your Mother said firmly, stabbing her fork into the salad, eyes avoiding your gaze.

Blinking, you placed the platter in the sink, the clang sounding as you sat yourself back in your original spot. "Mom, I'm perfectly fine. We've gone on two dates and he treats me fine. He's a total gentleman. Don't even touch me without permission." Lies. 

Mother calmly placing her fork down, she leaned back in her seat, glancing to your Father as he swallowed his chew. The knots within your stomach started the tighten, eyes flickering between them. "Do you know how old he is? He's 24, the man's a creep if he's going steady with you. Frankly I don't give a rats ass about his reputation, but he damn well won't touch my daughter with the same hands that touched that pistol."