"No," I whisper. "Not anymore, anyway. Not since you."

Ugh, are we really talking about this?

"Good." I can hear the sleep in his voice. "I'm glad."

"You are?"

"Yeah," he says. "I like to know I can keep you satisfied."

They say what goes around, comes around. Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you. It's the Golden Rule. I've always tried to follow it, to be a good person, but karma has caught up to me.

Dozens of calls. Just as many messages.

I haven't heard from my mother in weeks.

I'm regretting all those times I sent her to my voicemail, regretting the missed calls and days where I didn't respond to her messages. Every time her answering machine clicks on, I grow a little more worried, leaving yet another message she won't respond to.

"Mom, it's me… call me."

"I'm worried, Mom… where are you?"

"Why aren't you calling me?"

"Please, just let me know everything's okay."

I'm in the den, where Naz spends most of his time when he's home, sprawled out on the couch in my pajamas. I've been here for seven days now, and it still feels surreal, like I'm just visiting, although Naz acts like I've lived here all along. His guard dropped easily, quickly, the façade of perfection he always carried melted away now that I've moved in.

Today he's sitting at his desk, still wearing a black suit, but he didn't bother putting on a tie and his feet are still bare. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the bottom not tucked in. His laptop is open in front of him as he types away. He's doing whatever it is he does, I'm not entirely sure. I asked and he said 'dealing with people'.

For someone who deals with people every day, I rarely see another living soul come around him.

He works odd hours, leaving occasionally on a whim, slipping away in the middle of the night and returning before I'm awake. I have my suspicions about what kind of dealing he does, but I don't bring them up to him.

Maybe because I don't think he'll admit it.

Or maybe because I'm afraid he will.

Sighing, I open up the contacts on my phone and find my mother's name, hitting the button to call her. Bringing the phone to my ear, I listen as it rings twice. I wait for her machine, the monotone 'leave a message' voice, but instead a series of beeps greets me before the line dies.

I call her back again right away, hoping it's a fluke, once more getting the beeps. My stomach drops. The tape is full. I don't know what to do, what to think, but sickness brews inside of me at the realization.

She hasn't been listening to my messages.

"Do you think I should call the police?"

The typing instantly ceases as Naz's eyes dart over top of the computer, meeting my gaze. "Excuse me?"

"I can't get my mother on the phone," I say. "I haven't heard from her in weeks, so I'm wondering if I should call the police, you know, to have them go check on her."

He stares at me for a moment. "People go weeks without talking to their parents. That's nothing out of the norm. I haven't spoken to mine in months."

His words distract me from the worry. "You have parents?"

"Of course," he says. "I didn't create myself."

I roll my eyes. "I know that. I just didn't realize they were still around. You don't ever talk about them."

"We're not close," he says. "Ray's more of a father to me than my own father ever was."

My curiosity is piqued. He opened the door, so I stick my foot in, seeing how far into the room I can get. "Have you known Raymond long?"

"Since I was your age," he says as he shakes his head. "Younger, actually. I was sixteen."

"How'd you meet him?"

He's quiet, and I think he's about to shut down, to change the subject, when he lets out a deep sigh and closes his laptop, sitting back in his chair. "I stole from him."

That was not the answer I expected. "You stole from him?"

"I did," he admits. "He owned this store back then… this little corner store, but it was a front for this gambling ring. I used to walk by it on my way home from school. I went in one day, grabbed a soda, and paid for it with a five-dollar bill. As soon as the guy opened the register, someone from the back called for him. When he wasn't looking, I reached over the counter, swiped the money from the register, and walked out."

"Did you get caught?"

"Of course," he says, laughing to himself. "Barely made it a block. I was about to cross the street when a car cut me off. Ray stepped out, said he wanted his money back. I gave it to him, of course. I knew who he was. He counted it out as I stood there, asked me why I did it. I gave some smart-ass response about how it was his fault for employing idiots who leave money out like that. Figured if he was going to hurt me, I may as well get my digs in while I could."

"Did he hurt you?" I ask hesitantly.

"Yes, but not as bad as he could've," he says. "I took the beating like a man, licked my wounds and went home. My pride was hurt more than anything. I wasn't mad he caught me, or that he beat me… I was mad he robbed me. You see, before he left, he took my five dollars."

I can see where this is going. "I'm guessing you did something about that."