Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

My dad was nodding like a bobblehead, too afraid to make even a peep. I was huddled behind the door, sneaking a peek through the crack.
Suddenly, my eyes locked with a pair of dark, piercing ones, and the guy let out this mysterious little chuckle. By the time I snapped back to reality, he
was gone, leaving me with a cold sweat trickling down my back. Even gangsters have their code, I guess—no messing with the innocent.
That night, I faked being asleep, listening to my dad moan and curse up a storm in the next room. Oddly enough, there was a tiny thrill in that. The
thug had been ruthless. My dad was bedridden for three days, too weak to even lay a finger on me.
After that, I was careful to steer clear of that alley to stir up any more trouble. I never even crossed paths with the guy again. Honestly, I couldn't think
of anyone else who could handle my dad like that.
So, there I was, at the crack of dawn, stepping into that narrow alley for the first time. The cobblestone path was lined with soft green moss, and at
the end stood a two-story house. Its old, weathered walls had been spruced up with a fresh coat of white paint. A little lilac tree out front was just
about to bloom, its faint scent hanging in the air.
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The living room was in view, with all kinds of hand-drawn sketches adorning the walls. The guy stood
with his back to the door, wearing a white tank top that showed off his muscular arms. A cigarette dangled from his fingers as he sorted tools on the
workbench. He flicked the ash when he heard me, but didn’t even bother to turn around.
“We’re not open yet,” he said, as cool as a cucumber. I knew—there was a sign outside saying they opened from 3:00 PM to midnight.
I wanted to tell him I wasn’t there for a tattoo, but my lips wouldn’t budge. Last night’s untreated wounds had them stuck together.
“You can come back in the afternoon...” he started, turning his head. The cigarette almost slipped from his grip. His dark eyes locked onto me for
what felt like an eternity, and he muttered a low curse.
Before I could figure out what was up, a voice rang out. “Son, you want some scrambled eggs or—Oh my gosh, I knew getting up early was a bad
omen!” A woman popped her head in, then dashed back to the kitchen so quickly, I barely caught a glimpse of her clothes.
He handed me a small mirror, and snuffed out his cigarette against his cheek, clearly not in the mood to chat. I took the mirror, and there I was—a
pale girl with wild hair, big eyes shadowed by dark circles, half my face swollen, and dried blood on my lips. My school uniform was red and white,
and showing up like this at the break of dawn? Yeah, it was a bit much. The fact that he hadn't kicked me out spoke volumes—either about his
patience or my luck.
Awkwardly, I wiped my mouth. He grabbed a leather jacket from the sofa, sliding it on with ease. “Don’t bother coming back this afternoon. I don’t
tattoo minors. Especially rebellious runaways.”

He had it all wrong. I shook my head and pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill from my pocket, slowly placing it on the table. “I heard you offer
protection. Can you... protect me?”
He gave me a once-over, neither too light nor too heavy. “Do I look like some kind of mobster to you?”
I gathered enough courage to study him closely. He was surprisingly young, with sharp features and thick lashes. He’s good-looking, yet intimidating,
especially when his face was expressionless. Not only did he look like a mobster, but he also seemed like the boss of a gang. As these thoughts ran
through my mind, the words just tumbled out.
He cracked his neck and let out a derisive laugh.