The Hardest Path

A/N: Back to Nic. Warnings for this chapter....let's see....Abuse, more mentioned prostitotting, and crazy mothers.



The morning after his mother had lost her mind and screamed him out of the motel room, Nicholas returned with a pocketful of money that he'd taken straight to the motel office, paying their stay for the following week. The young office manager peered at him over the wide counter that divided them, pity shining in her wide-set grey eyes. Wisely, she didn't ask him where he'd gotten the money, simply handing him a reciept and going on about her business. Perhaps she'd seen this before. As Nic pocketed the reciept and turned to leave, the manager called out to him. "Hey, kid. You're gonna need a key to the place, right? I got a spare." She pushed a silver key over the countertop, and without a word, he pocketed that as well.

Instead of using his key and letting himself into the room, Nic knocked gently and waited for his mother to answer, so that he might be able to judge her mood. He sent a fervent prayer skyward that she was doing better than the night before. A ragged looking Charity opened the door, cautiously poking her head out. As soon as she saw him, a soft cry escaped her pale, chapped lips and she dragged him inside, clinging to him as soon as she got him past the door.

"I was worried sick about you, sweetie," there was a gentle scolding to her tone, but all in all, she seemed to be her normal, motherly self. Some knot of tension he hadn't been aware of until that moment eased away, and he gently returned his mother's embrace.

"Missed you, Mama. I really did," he whispered, grateful that his mind was nearly blank with exhaustion. Charity offered to tuck him into bed, but Nic declined, opting for another shower and a change of clothes.

After he showered, the boy hesitated with his hand on the bathroom doorknob, remembering what had happened the last time he'd seen his mother after a shower. With another hasty prayer, Nic slowly pulled the door open and stepped out onto the dingy brown carpet of the main room, searching for Charity. She was once again glued to the television, hardly seeming to notice his presence. Nic dressed in silence.

Talking wasn't that important to him at the moment, anyway. His jaw had begun to throb with a steady ache, and to say Nic was emotionally raw would be a grave understatement. He had a bit of cash left over, and there was no food in the tiny mini-fridge that the room provided. "I'm going shopping, Mom," he said softly as he headed out the door. Charity's eyes never wavered from the colorful screen.

Ten minutes later found him at the convenience store down the street, which had plenty of snacks and frozen meals, as well as a few fresh food items. Grabbing two apples, a carton of milk, and several frozen dinners, Nic made his purchases and went home. Apples were both his and his mother's favorite fruit, so he was excited to present her with one.

This time, Nic did use his key, since he'd passed his mother's episode off as a stress thing, no big deal. As soon as the door closed behind her son, Charity's cold voice hissed in his ear, "I sent you for milk four hours ago, Nicholas. Where the hell have you been? You went to your father, didn't you?" Jumping in shock, Nic turned to face her, stunned by the raw anger in his mother's face.

"W-what? I just left, Mom! I've been gone for like, half an hour, tops!" Nic's eyes widened as Charity stepped towards him, hand poised to strike him.

"Liar! You went to him, I know you did. Him and his rich little wife. But they didn't want you, did they? No, they want nothing to do with us, do they? What did you tell them about me?!" The last sentence was more shriek than word, coupled with Charity slapping Nic into a wall, uncaring of the groceries that now lay at his feet.

Curling himself into a protective ball, Nicholas bore the brunt of his mother's violence and accusations in relative silence, crying out in pain as few times as he could manage. When she grew tired, Charity left him there, just inside the doorway and beaten in a way he'd never experienced before.

After several minutes, Nic began to rise, slowly and carefully collecting the groceries. Eyes flat and dead, he avoided looking in his mother's direction, concentrating on putting the food away as if it was the only thing in the world he had to worry about. In truth, it was the only way he kept from breaking down right then and there. Some shred of pride that he still carried refused to allow him to shed tears in front of Charity, not at that moment. Not after that.

Grateful that there were two beds in the room, Nic crawled into the unoccupied one as soon as the food was stored, glancing at his mother. She was glued to the television, it seemed, which he was slowly learning meant that he was safe for the moment. Exhausted, Nic stopped fighting sleep, and slipped into deeply troubled dreams.


--


As the year dragged on, mother and son fell into an uneasy routine. Nic continued serving Berto and his friends, earning money and learning "valuable" skills. The redheaded prostitute, whose name he'd learned was Daiquiri, became his tutor and friend, once he gave her a chance. Turned out, her life had been similar to his in a lot of ways. She always looked out for him, and he did his best to be there for her, too. "You can never have enough backup, sugar," she'd wisely told him.

Nic learned to fight, and fight hard. The youngest of the street boys, he'd been more target than anything for months, and had finally gotten tired of it, asking Daiquiri what he could do to stop the older boys from taking the money he'd just earned, and giving him a hard time. As usual, her answer was simple and straightforward. "You gotta get rough back, sugar. Show 'em the color of their own blood, decorating the pavement. Beat some respect into 'em, and they'll treat you better."

Even knowing what he had to do wasn't enough to make him do it. His old life was shadowing him enough that he couldn't imagine himself being violent with anyone else. But one night, as he was heading home with his pockets full of his earnings, three of the street boys came out of nowhere, the eldest among them shoving him into a wooden fence and demanding that he turn out his pockets.

Just like that, the boiling pit of acidic rage in his gut erupted. How dare these stupid fucks try to mess with him now, when he was tired and angry already, just wanting to go home for some much needed sleep? He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until they advanced on him, angry at his disrespect and lack of fear.

Nic lashed out at the first one within range, coming at him like a wild thing, all untimed punching and kicking along with scratching and biting. He fought hard, trying to hurt the guy as much as he could before the other two dragged him off to beat the hell out of him. To Nic's surprise, the others just watched in shock for a good long minute, amazed that the normally softspoken and tender boy they'd picked on was attacking their friend so viciously.

Glancing at each other, the other two boys slowly approached the fight, hands up in a manner they deemed to be nonthreatening. "Woah, woah. Calm down, Catboy, we was just messin' with you," one started, voice careful.

"Yeah, dude, we didn't mean nothing," the other jumped in, tone unnaturally friendly, "So how's about you just let Vin go, huh? We're all friends here."

Stopping more because he couldn't continue than for any other reason, Nic dropped to the ground in a crouch, panting hard. There was blood on his face and clothing, blood on his hands, and none of it was his. The smell of it filled his nose, choking him even as it satisfied the rage in him. For the moment, at least.

Vin stumbled over to his friends, clutching his face. Nicholas could see the mass of scratches that littered his skin, along with the bites he'd landed on Vin's arm when he tried to shield himself. The other two looked at Vin, then at Nic, almost simultaneously bursting into laughter. "Aw, damn, Catboy, didn't know you had it in you," the first one crowed while the second nodded his approval. They left him there to go take care of Vin, and Nicholas went home.

The next few days were filled with street boys approaching him with new respect, demanding verification that he had, in fact, attacked Vin like a pissed off cat. After he confirmed his actions, the name Catboy seemed to stick with Nic, popular with street boys and his customers. It seemed the only ones who knew his real name were Daiquiri, and his mother.

Over the course of the year, Charity got worse. Much worse. She only ate when he forced her, only talked to the television, or to people he couldn't see. The only time it seemed she noticed him was when she was beating him senseless, which happened less and less. Some days, Nic almost wished his mother would hit him, just to prove that she saw him, that she knew he was there.

As his thirteenth birthday approached, Nic learned to fight with a little more control, though he still bit and scratched viciously, earning his name over and over. Sometimes he won, sometimes not, but he always learned, filing battle moves away in his head for later use; what worked, what didn't, what worked best.

One night after a particularly hard fight that left him bleeding from the mouth and nose, and the other guy not much better, Nic was startled to find himself with an audience. One tall man lounged on the wall of the alley they used primarily for fights. His clean-shaven face was iluminated by a streetlight, and Nic noted the man's short brown hair and hard eyes that appeared to be dark blue. The man had to be a few inches over six feet tall, broad shouldered and well muscled without being bulky. His plain white t-shirt and blue jeans showed that well enough. At only thirteen, the boy had gained a little muscle, but had yet to fill out completely or grow into his true height. He'd never felt more inadequate than he did then, standing beside this stranger.

The man was the first to speak, pushing away from the wall to come closer to Nic. "Nice fighting there, kiddo. You do that often?" His voice was deep and smooth, with a distinct Southern drawl that made his words sound lazy.

"What's it to you, dude?" Almost a year of living the way he had been had bred rudeness and suspicion into Nic, now as natural as breathing. "If you got money, we can go somewhere more private and...talk." Another side effect of his life; Nic saw cash-making opportunities everywhere.

The man simply snorted and shook his head, the look on his face grim. "I didn't come to pick you up, kiddo. Kids just never did it for me."

"Hey, I can give head just as good as anyone out here, probably better than half of 'em, at least! Gimme a shot, dude, don't be like that." Crossing his pale arms over his skinny chest, Nic shot the guy an imploring look, one which almost never failed to put money in his pocket.

The stranger stared for a moment, dragging his fingers through the thickness of his hair. "You ain't gettin' it, kiddo. I don't want you. Not interested. I came here because you have a spark in you. I've seen it before. Now, I'm willing to get you the hell out of here, if you want to come with me. The very least I can offer you is a position at a certified brothel, but I have something else in mind for you."

At Nic's skeptical look, the man sighed and offered his hand, which Nic cautiously shook. "My name is Rhett. I work for a brothel, as a bodyguard. We could use a backup guy, and I think that guy could be you. If it doesn't work out, you can always just work at the brothel, since you already have some...training." Rhett seemed uncomfortable with the situation, which Nicholas found strange, since he worked for a brothel. If what he claimed was even true, that is.

But Rhett's face practically screamed honesty, and somehow, Nic found himself trusting him. Nic idly noticed that upon closer examination, Rhett's eyes were a startling shade of cobalt blue, not just dark as he'd originally thought. They were good eyes, Nic decided, trustworthy eyes.

"Alright, dude. I'll play along. The name's Catboy. One thing, though. I got my mom with me. She...she's...sick. I gotta take care of her." The boy's eyes darkened and he stared at the ground, not wanting to see any pity on Rhett's face.

Instead of pitying Nicholas, Rhett simply gave a short nod and took the boy's arm, leading him out of the alley and to a black car marked with a weird symbol. Pointing to the image of the snarling panther, Nic asked, "That's the Kagailas deal, ain't it? You work for them?"

Rhett smiled gently, the first time Nic had ever seen him smile. It was a nice smile. Nic couldn't help smiling back when he caught sight of the dimples in Rhett's cheeks. "When you live in this city, kiddo, everyone works for the Kagailas Clan." Guiding Nic into the car and climbing in himself, Rhett glanced at the cellphone he'd pulled from his pocket, then back at Nic. "Two things, kiddo. One, I need to know where you're staying so we can get your stuff and pick up your mom. Two, I'd prefer to know your actual name. I somehow doubt your mama named you Catboy."

It was the first time in almost a year that someone had asked his real name, and Nic blushed darkly, though later he wouldn't be able to figure out why. "Uh...Nicholas. My name is Nicholas. But...Nic works. O-or kiddo, if you like that better." He could have slapped himself for letting his mouth run like that, but Rhett only chuckled and started the car.

It was a nice chuckle, Nic decided. Was there anything about this guy that wasn't nice? As he gave directions to his motel, Nic silently prayed that Rhett was truly as he seemed, and that his words were truth. But he knew there was no sense in worrying too much about it. If it was a lie, oh well. Nic had been in bad situations before. If it was all true...well...he'd deal with that when he got to it.

All would be revealed in time, anyway.




A/N: Alright Rhett! Save the kid from stuff! And things! Or is Rhett only taking him off the streets to shove him into yet another life of prostitution? How will Charity react to all this? Cuz damn, she's crazy! Tune in next chapter to find out!


Wynja! Bah, Nic's being all willing so far. But then again, if Rhett came up to me and talked, I'd be damn willing, too. -Is a total accent whore. Southern accents included.- Anyway, things aren't quite on the up and up for Nic just yet, there will be more darkness in the near future. Along with fluff. Dark fluff.


J42! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far! Hope it's going in a good direction, at this point. =D