Dream Maker

by Kristen Ashley

  “It’s all Mo’s,” he informed me. “My shit, after the breakup, I put in storage. When Mo moved in with Mac, he didn’t need this stuff anymore, so I sold my crap, because it was crap, bought his, and before you get any ideas, Mo didn’t pick it either. He engineered a personal shopper, some lady who worked at some furniture store, and she did it.”

  “I cannot imagine how it would reflect poorly on Mo that he’s able to select a couch,” I noted.

  He looked down to his wires, stating, “Yeah, well, you don’t have a dick.”

  “I know many men who come with that equipment who have opinions on couches,” I retorted.

  His head came up and he grinned at me again.

  Stupid Evie!

  I decided it was time to get into his shoulder holster and ammo clips.

  “Just to say,” I dipped my head to his chest, “we’re not facing a zombie apocalypse.”

  Okay.

  What was with me?

  It seemed I just couldn’t help myself.

  Because he started chuckling, I started reacting to his chuckles in a variety of warm ways in a variety of places in my body, all precisely as I’d intended.

  He began to round the island to come to me.

  “In my life, I’ve learned you can’t be too safe,” he said dauntingly, then held up the wire that looked, at one end, to have a small microphone, and at the other, a small transmitter.

  Uh-oh.

  “Danny,” I stated warningly.

  I said no more because I didn’t intend to say anything else. I thought my warning tone should suffice.

  But more, he appeared like he was going to say something before his head ticked, his gaze on me warmed, his mouth grew soft, and he stared at me for a full five seconds like he was a doting boyfriend and I was his doted-upon girlfriend.

  This caused havoc on my insides, and I was grateful to him for finally speaking because it meant I had something else to focus on.

  “I’m gonna wire you, Evie, so I can not only see what’s goin’ down but hear it.”

  “I don’t think—”

  He interrupted me.

  “Babe, let me look after you.”

  It was then what was happening, what he was intent on doing, and clearly intent on doing thoroughly, fully dawned on me.

  And it felt like something had come up from his cement floors and clamped on my feet, rooting me to the spot as I stared up at him.

  No one…

  Not ever…

  In my life…

  Had looked after me.

  No one.

  “Now, I’m not bein’ fresh,” he said, “but I need to reach up your shirt and position this.” He gestured with the microphone. “I get it in place, you hold it there, we’ll tape it and stow the transmitter. You got your shirt untucked at the back, your blazer on, he’ll never see. Yeah?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “Untuck the front of your tee, Evie,” he ordered.

  I did as told.

  And, man.

  You had to hand it to him.

  He ducked his hand under my shirt fast. He then slid the microphone under the clasp at the front of my bra fast as well. And he did all of this staring right into my eyes, his gaze attentive, his manner efficient.

  “Hold that, babe,” he murmured.

  I lifted a hand and held the microphone in position over my T-shirt.

  He pulled his hand out, reached for some tape, ripped off a small piece and then ducked back in.

  I took my hand away, Mag kept hold of my eyes as he smoothed the tape over the wire in a practiced manner that took only a few seconds, then his hand was gone.

  He gave me the transmitter.

  “Hook that to your belt at the back. Turn it on. Cover it with your shirt. I’m gonna go into my room, close the door. We’ll test here and we’ll test again at the location. You’ll switch that on prior to turning into the parking lot. If he’s watching you, I don’t want him to see you anywhere, in or out of your car, reaching to your back. With me?”

  I nodded again.

  “Turn it on, hook it to your jeans, and go to Mo’s old room.” He indicated a door behind me that was closed.

  He then strapped on a minimal, wireless headset that wrapped around the back of his head that did not make him look like my ex when he had his headset on while he was gaming.

  Something I thought was cute, at first.

  Way not cute later.

  On Mag, it was just hot.

  “Go, honey,” he ordered gently.

  I switched on the transmitter, hooked it on my waistband at the back and headed to Mo’s old room.

  Behind the closed door, feeling kinda like an idiot, but still trying to make a joke (which, yes, would mean making him laugh, gah!) I said, “Testing, testing. Sibilance. Sibilance.”

  I then stood there, definitely like an idiot, because I was hoping I was transmitting, but I had no idea if I was, because I couldn’t receive.

  Did I open the door to call out and say I’d transmitted?

  Apparently not.

  For the door opened and Mag, with his jacket on and his hand still on the knob, swung his torso in.

  “We’re a go,” he declared. “Let’s bounce. I’ll lead you to safe parking where you can hang while I do a drive-by of the locale. I’ll text when it’s good for you to go in.”

  I dropped my eyes to my chili-red Rothy’s and started walking his way, saying, “Okay.”

  “Evie.”

  I stopped and looked up to him to see he had not moved.

  “I got you covered,” he assured.

  He had me covered.

  Man.

  I nodded.

  Then I blurted, “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you. It wasn’t you, or John Wick. It’s just…I keep odd hours and I don’t get many chances to sleep.”

  “Don’t think about it another second,” he said softly.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Let’s get this done,” he murmured.

  I took in a deep breath, let it go, and nodded again.

  As I sat in a fully lit parking lot of a Burger King on Colfax, I was rethinking my relationship with my brother.

  I truly did not believe that Mick would ever do anything that would put me into danger.

  Except, I felt in danger.

  And the question had to be asked.

  Did one make someone they loved feel something like that?

  My phone sounded and I jumped so bad, where I hit my back earlier on the counter stung and the dull pain in my forehead thrummed.

  The screen declared the call was from Mag.

  I picked it up and engaged.

  “Okay, I’m having second thoughts,” I said as greeting.

  Mag said nothing.

  “You don’t know my brother,” I told him. “And I can understand, considering the current situation, which is highly unusual for a first date, or any date, though that might just be my experience. You’re a commando. You use the word ‘mission’ when speaking of your employment. Perhaps this isn’t out of the ordinary for you. But for me, it is. And I can get why you might not think well of my brother considering what we’re currently doing.”

  “Evan—”

  “But he’s a good guy. We…” I decided not to get into the whole sad story and adjusted my stream of blathering. “He’s messed up but he’s a good guy, but…I just…” My voice dipped. “I don’t wanna be here, Danny.”

  He finally spoke and he did it gently.

  “Baby, it’s not me who wanted to do this. You wanna bag, I’m down.”

  “He was scared,” I blurted. “In lockup. During our visit. He’s always cocky. But he wasn’t cocky. He was scared.”

  Mag hesitated a moment before he said, “This is your call, Evie. I’m with you either way. I’m in position, and from the minute you turn in, I’ll have eyes on you and whatever happens, if you need me, I can get to you fast. Or I can bug out. Totally your decision.”

 
“What if…if I don’t do this and something bad happens to Mick?”

  Mag’s hesitation was a lot longer that time.

  And then he spoke.

  “I’ve known you five hours, Evan. I do not know your brother. I got no foundation in this. No position to defend. But from my standpoint, as it is, it hasn’t changed from the beginning. Whatever he got himself into, honey, it’s not up to you to get him out. It’s his. He has to own it and that includes owning the consequences.”

  “But he’s my brother.”

  Mag said nothing.

  So, I prompted, “Danny?”

  “Fuck,” I heard him mutter.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’d do anything for my brothers,” he said, and even over the phone, I could tell he didn’t want to say it.

  Fuck was right.

  I straightened my spine, felt a tinge again where I hit it earlier, but ignored it and stated, “Okay, let’s just get this done.”

  “You’ll be good, Evie.”

  I nodded even though he couldn’t see me.

  “I will,” I agreed. “Thanks. And just…thanks. I know I wasn’t real gracious about this earlier but I’m, well…” Damn it all, I had to say it. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “No issues, babe. Now, you got ten minutes to get here, it’s a five-minute drive, and I don’t think, if he’s casing the joint, he’ll balk you got here early. But I want you here so I have an eye on you.”

  My blood pressure spiked, and I spoke words I never in my life thought I’d say unless I was playing an RPG. “If he’s casing the joint, he might have seen you positioning.”

  “He didn’t see me positioning.”

  “But what if—”

  “Honey, baby, Evie, get this. He did not see me positioning.”

  I shut up, and this was partly to do with him clearly wanting me to let it go, partly to do with his utter confidence in his abilities, something that shared he was highly skilled in those abilities, and partly to do with double-barrel endearments before my name that were said gentle, but exasperated, and that was cute, and hot.

  Damn.

  “All right,” I muttered.

  “Hit it. You get a bad vibe, you bail. I got you covered. You with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Go. Phone in your back pocket. Keys in your hand. You get out of your car, do not take your bag.”

  “Okay.”

  “You got this, Evie.”

  I had everything.

  Always.

  Though now, for the first time, I had backup.

  “Right,” I said.

  “Go with your gut. Do not hesitate. Your gut tells you something, you do it. I got eyes on you, and however it goes down, we’ll deal, or we’ll rendezvous where we need to rendezvous. All right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Turn on the transmitter and mute your phone then talk to me.”

  I did as told.

  I unmuted my phone and asked, “Got me?”

  “Got you.”

  Oh boy.

  Those two words settled, and I had no control over how deep they went.

  Which, by the by, was deep.

  “See you soon, baby,” he said.

  “Okay, Danny.”

  I could swear I heard him mutter, “Fuck me, I like that from her,” before he disconnected.

  I tucked my phone in my back pocket, got my keys from my bag and started up my car.

  I spoke to him as I drove to the Storage and Such because I was nervous, because he might expect it so he knew we were still connected, and last, because I wanted that link.

  No.

  Needed it.

  I didn’t say much of anything except what I was doing.

  Like,

  “Pulling out of the parking spot now.”

  And,

  “Indicating to get onto Colfax now.”

  Etcetera.

  I then pulled into the Storage and Such (telling Mag I was doing that) and I did it with my heart beating hard.

  Man, oh man, did Mick owe me for this.

  Seriously.

  The Storage and Such was not well lit.

  But I found unit six and stopped beside it.

  I stayed in my car, letting it idle.

  “I’m not a fan of letting a car idle,” I told Mag, then realized if I was being watched, they might see my lips move.

  I quit talking.

  I tried to distract myself with looking around, attempting to figure out where Mag was hiding (he was right, I could not see him anywhere at all, and there weren’t a lot of hiding places), assessing the distance and then calculating the time it would take for him to get to me.

  I decided there were four different hiding places, and taking into account an average “fast” hundred-meter run (which I assumed Danny could pull off) was about fourteen seconds—and there were other parameters, including the fact he might have to get down from a roof—he could make it to me in between 0.27 and 1.23 minutes.

  I could probably hold my own for 0.27 minutes.

  I just hoped he wasn’t on a roof.

  I got bored with this and snapped, “He’s late,” when my clock struck 11:37.

  Two minutes later, a black car with a hood so long, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen that long of a hood, rounded me at my side and angled in front of me before it stopped.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I hissed. “Why is he cutting me off?”

  I needed an earbud.

  Mag didn’t offer an earbud.

  This dude would probably see an earbud, which was likely why Mag didn’t offer one.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The guy in the long car got out.

  He was tall, skinny, white, and dressed in jeans and a shirt I couldn’t see very well because it was covered by a big leather jacket.

  Slowly, I switched off my car and got out too.

  I left my bag behind.

  But I had my keys in my hand.

  He did not hesitate to walk to me.

  I braced.

  Mag was out there, watching.

  He had me.

  I had this.

  “Evan Gardiner?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Twenty-two left, thirty-eight right, seventeen left. Trader Joe’s bag. Grab it. Keep it safe. I’ll text you in a couple of days with instructions.”

  He then turned to walk away.

  Wait.

  What?

  “Hey!” I cried, starting to follow him.

  He turned back. “Twenty-two left, thirty-eight right, seventeen left.” He jerked his head to the sliding steel door on unit six. A door that had a combination lock on it. “Trader Joe’s bag. Keep it safe, Gardiner. Or Mick’s got problems.”

  With that, he got in his car, reversed a little, then his massive vehicle chugged forward and rounded the units at the other end, disappearing.

  I muttered to myself, “Twenty-two left, thirty-eight right, seventeen left,” as I approached the door.

  I had to shove my keys in my pocket and get out my phone to engage the flashlight to open the lock.

  This I did, and it made a huge, loud ruckus as I lifted the door.

  The contents were shadowed, but I could tell there were a lot.

  I swung my flashlight around, found a switch, flipped it, there was a hum and recalcitrant tube lights overhead came on. I entered just as my phone rang.

  I dug it out of my back pocket, saw it was Mag, engaged and put it to my ear, searching for a Trader Joe’s bag.

  “Okay, that wasn’t too bad,” I said.

  “Nab the bag, do not look in it, put it in your car, and go. I’ll meet you at your place. I’m in position until you pull out,” he stated, and I didn’t know him very well, but he didn’t sound happy.

  He also didn’t wait for me to confirm.

  He disconnected.

  It appeared this guy, or Mick, or someone collected a lot of junk.

  And thus, it was
not easy finding the Trader Joe’s bag.

  Though I found it in an old cooler.

  Mag (and possibly others) was watching so I didn’t look in it.

  I just grabbed it, found it wasn’t heavy, but it made a noise that didn’t make me very happy. In fact, it made my breathing go wonky.

  But I got out of there, pulled the door down, locked it, entered my car, stowed the bag, and got the hell out of there.

  I drove five miles under the speed limit on the way home, which might be stupid, but I was freaked and I didn’t want to be freaked and in an accident where someone would find whatever was in that bag in my car and I might end up in the hospital.

  And after that the pokey.

  I needed to focus on something, which I decided, for once, would be my driving.

  I would find Mag drove a lot faster for he left his position and he was on my tail the last five miles of the drive.

  I swung into my covered spot.

  He swung into a guest spot.

  When I met him with the bag, he took it from me, and we both jogged up the steps to my second-floor pad.

  I let us in.

  He closed and locked the door behind us.

  He then put the bag on my coffee table, and I stood beside him as he pulled out a wad of plastic sheeting that was stuffed in the top. Sheeting that would remain on this earth long after I was gone, and in its lifetime probably suffocate a number of dolphins.

  But, for once, I had no mind to that.

  What I heard bouncing around in that bag Mag reached in and pulled out.

  A prescription pill bottle.

  “Oxy,” he growled.

  Oh no.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  He was peering into the bag as he declared, “There’s gotta be twenty, thirty bottles in there.”

  He reached back in and pulled out a little baggie filled with milk-colored crystals.

  “Ice,” Mag bit off. “Meth,” he said when I did nothing but stare at him.

  “Oh no,” I whispered. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “There’s maybe a hundred of these in there,” he shared.

  Oh God.

  “And this,” he stated, reaching in and pulling out a brick of white covered in plastic wrap and crisscrossed with duct tape.

  I’d seen those before.

  In movies.

  “Coke,” he grunted unhappily. “Two of these in there.”

  I closed my eyes.

  I opened them and quipped, “Man, you can get a lot of drugs in a Trader Joe’s bag.”