by Mazzy King
Blue-Collar Bad Boys Next Door
The Full Eight-Book Collection
Mazzy King
MZK Publishing
Copyright © 2020 by Mazzy King
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by RebecaCovers.
Proofread by Jenny Hanson.
Contents
1 | AXEL
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Epilogue
2 | DARBY
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Epilogue
3 | ROCCO
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
4 | MADDOX
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
5 | MAJOR
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Epilogue
6 | DAMIEN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
7 | DYLAN
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
8 | BROCK
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Epilogue
1 | AXEL
1
Blair
I step off the bus in Port City, glancing around. It’s a cool, drizzly spring night, foggy and damp.
But it’s so much better than where I just came from.
I pull my phone out and send a text to my brother, who’s all the way at Ali Al Salem Air Force Base in Kuwait. It’s six in the morning there. He’ll be up and starting his day—at war, where he’ll be for the next nine months. Well, okay. He’s not on front lines anywhere. He does a lot of work from an office on the base, and it’s “relatively” safe.
Me: I made it to the city
Maddox: OK. You get an Uber yet?
I find my ride—four minutes away. I text Maddox back to let him know, and he instructs me to contact him when I’m settled inside his duplex.
I trudge over to an empty bench and flop down, lowering my large, overstuffed duffel to the ground. Today was quite possibly the worst day I’ve had in a while, between getting fired from my day job and then being subjected to a vicious screaming match between my roommate and her asshole ex-boyfriend. The cops came and took him away in handcuffs, but I can’t stay there anymore, knowing he’s lurking. It wasn’t the first time they argued like that, and it won’t be the last.
My ride pulls up to the curb, and I grab my bag and hop in the back. Thank God for my brother. Even though he’s thousands of miles away, he always comes through for me. When I FaceTimed him crying earlier, he told me to calm down, get to the bus station, and take the fifty-mile ride from York Bay, where I lived to go to school, to Port City.
“You already finished your MBA, the whole reason you moved to York Bay in the first place,” he told me in his calm, rational, no-nonsense voice. I call that his “Staff Sergeant” voice. I know he uses it with his subordinates. But it helped calm me down. “And now you don’t have a job. Come to Port City and just stay at my place, at least long enough to decide your next move. It’s safe, it’s far from that bullshit, and I got an Army buddy, Hanlon, next door who can look out for you.”
This is not the first time Maddox has talked me off of some ledge, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but I’m always grateful in these moments to know I have a big brother who cares about me. A lot.
Fifteen minutes later, the driver pulls up to Maddox’s duplex. The whole structure is plain brick and drab siding, but I know he’s a neat freak, so his place inside is probably spotless. I thank my driver and carry my bag up the walk to the front door, fishing out the spare key Maddox gave me when he first moved into this place from his old apartment. Our parents still live in our hometown a couple hundred miles away. Maddox came to Port City for the Army two and a half years ago, and I had just gotten accepted to the University of York Bay’s MBA program. My parents were both pleased at the time—two seemingly successful kids, moving on to bigger cities to make their own life, and the best part was Maddox and I were still relatively close. He’s three years older than me, but we’ve always been best friends. He always preferred to come visit me in “college town” York Bay rather than me come here, even though I always wanted to come visit him here.
I’m guessing I’ll be getting my wish for the unforeseeable future.
I slide Maddox’s key into the lock just as the adjoining duplex’s garage door rises with a mechanical groan.
I glance over as a guy wearing a hoodie walks out to the older-model, dark Chevy truck in the driveway. That must be Hanlon, the Army buddy Maddox told me about. I know he’s got a first name somewhere, but in the military, everyone’s just their last name. It took me a while to get used to hearing other soldiers call my brother “Brassard” all the time.
If it is Hanlon, I wouldn’t know anyway, but he did come out of the house next door. I can’t see what he looks like because his hood is pulled all the way up.
“Hey,” I call, but he ignores me. “Uh—hey!”
He doesn’t turn. Instead, he yanks the door open and throws himself behind the wheel, as if he’s agitated.
Shrugging, I turn back to the door, unlock it, and step inside. So much for his good buddy giving a shit about me. However, it’s almost ten. Does this guy make a habit of coming and going at all hours of the night? Then again, it’s Friday night. Maybe he has a social life, or a girlfriend.
Not my business or concern.
My brother’s place is small but cozy, and still smells like him—familiar and comforting. He hasn’t been gone so long it’s dissipated.
I make the rounds of the house. It’s a two-bedroom, two-bath. The master, his room, upstairs is as neat as a hotel room. The guest room, which also doubles as Maddox’s gaming room, is just as neat. There’s a queen bed pushed against one wall and his big desk with computer console and gaming chair against the other.
I set my bag on the bed. I was only able to pack so much. I’ll need to head back to my old apartment and get my other things soon, but the idea of returning to that place makes my stomach turn. I took clothes and all the things that’re valuable to me—a couple pieces of nice jewelry and family photos.
I head back downstairs and make sure all the doors and windows are locked. There’s nothing in Maddox’s fridge, and only a few things in the small pantry. I grab a cup of instant mac and cheese, add water, and pop it in the microwave. I eat standing at the kitchen sink, feeling really alone in his quiet, quiet house.
I shoot Maddox a text to tell him I’m safe and sound and settled, then flick off the lights and head out of the kitchen. I pause at the bottom of the sta
irs and glance at the wall that adjoins my side with my new neighbor’s.
I hope I haven’t taken a flying leap from the frying pan into the fire.
The need for real food and coffee drove me out of the house around ten. Next door, the truck is back and parked in the driveway. Funny, I didn’t hear him come home. The bed in the guest room is extremely comfortable and I guess I was so emotionally drained from the day, I passed right out.
My job as an admin at a small plant got swallowed up when a larger firm bought the company, and the inevitable downsizing took place. There were two other senior admins already there, so I was the obvious choice. They sent me out the door with a box of stuff from my desk, my last paycheck, and two weeks of severance.
It’s better than nothing, but it won’t last forever.
Maddox pays the rent on his place out of his active-duty housing allowance and assured me he wanted no money from me at all for the place. But I fully plan to pay for utilities and food, and at some point, I’ll need a car. Maddox sold his before deploying. He plans to get a new one when he gets home, but in the meantime, I can’t keep paying for Ubers to get everywhere.
Luckily, Port City has a decent public transit system, and this morning I ride the bus to a nearby retail square that has a supermarket, a home furnishing place, some restaurants and fast food places, and a few other odds-and-ends type stores. Starbucks is my first stop. I know, I know. I just lost my job and have limited income for the time being, but I’m splurging, nonetheless.
I make quick work of the supermarket, stocking up on fresh produce and meat, a large bag of rice, eggs, cereal, milk, coffee, and bread. The bus totes me back home where I put everything away, then after a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast, I crash on the couch and check the local job listings. It quickly becomes clear I need to get my resume updated, but like an idiot, I left my laptop back in York Bay.
I ride the bus downtown, to the nearest copy shop, where I have to pay-to-play on the computer. Each minute I spend working on my resume, a copy of which I have in my email, and applying for some jobs makes me wince, because the dollar amount I owe keeps rising steadily.
When I’m done, I email the resume back to myself and print out a dozen copies, all for the bargain price of thirty-five dollars.
I’m not ready to go home quite yet. It rained while I was inside, and now the air is crisp and fresh and cool. I decide to walk through the area for a little bit, then catch a bus home.
The weight of my circumstances sits on my shoulders, growing heavier with each step I take. I just received my MBA in December, and in the three months since then, I lost the job I’d worked while in the program as well as the place I lived. I’m not far from broke, and instead of enjoying the benefits of having a graduate degree at a great company, I’m going to have to start from the bottom all over again.
It could be worse, I tell myself over and over. It could be so much worse.
I’m smart. I’m resilient. I’m determined. It’ll be okay. It’ll be—
“You look like you could use a drink.”
The gruff voice makes me snap my head up. A guy in all black, his T-shirt bearing a logo that says, “The Pit.” The bar behind him bears the same name. He grins at me.
“Sorry?” I say, even though I heard him fine.
“I said, you look like you could use a drink.”
I peer into the bar behind him. It definitely looks like a dive, seedy and just barely maintaining code. Then a piece of paper taped to the exterior next to the door catches my eye.
Server wanted ASAP.
I haven’t worked a restaurant since undergrad, but I hope it’s like riding a bike, because I need to make some cash, quick.
I look at the guy. He’s bald with gauge earrings, a big belly, and a ZZ Top gray-and-brown beard. “Actually, I could use a job.” I point to the sign behind him.
He raises his pierced brows and follows my finger to the sign, then he shrugs. “All right. Come on in. I’ll take you to Marty.”
I follow him into The Pit.
It’s not a corporate job, but it’s better than nothing, and right now, I’m desperate.
2
Axel
I was in a shit mood last night, but I could’ve sworn I saw someone going into Maddox Brassard’s house before I left for my shift at The Pit. I texted Maddox to let him know, but then had to put my phone up. Marty, my boss at the bar and underground fighting pit, has a strict no-phones policy.
But after my shift as a bouncer—and after my fight, where I collected three hundred dollars—I had a text from Maddox.
Maddox: It’s all good. That’s my little sis. Long story, but she had to leave her place pretty fast. She’s going to be staying at the duplex for a while. Keep an eye on her for me. She left a fucked-up situation in York Bay.
I thought about knocking on her door when I got home, but it was close to four in the morning, so I thought better of it.
Now, as I lay in bed, I glance at the time. It’s almost noon on Saturday. She’s probably up. I should go introduce myself and see if she needs anything before I head to the gym for my daily workout and then right back to The Pit.
I wouldn’t bother going out of my way for a strange neighbor, but Maddox is my dude. We’re both in the Army, but I’m attached to a different unit about thirty minutes from Port City. I often wish we were in the same unit, and never more than when he told me he was getting deployed. That was rough. I didn’t want my friend going to war alone. I haven’t known Maddox long, only for the couple months I’ve lived next door, but that man has become the brother I never had. And in a way, I think he needed too. He’s mentioned his sister before, but I’ve never seen her at his place. He seems to always make the drive to go to her.
Then again, if I’m not thirty minutes away working as a full-time Army supply technician, I’m at the gym, or I’m at The Pit, and in between all of that—I’m sleeping. A lot of life happens around me I’m not a part of.
I haul my tired and always-aching ass out of bed and into the bathroom. After handling my business and brushing my teeth, I put on gym clothes, sneakers, and a hoodie, grab my keys and gallon water jug, and head out.
There’s no answer when I knock and ring the doorbell next door. I hang around for a good few minutes, trying to peer through the narrow, vertical glass window beside the door to see if she’s home, but there’s no sign of anyone.
Shrugging, I walk back to my truck and head to the gym.
After my two-hour workout, I head back home, shower and nap, then check next door again. Still no answer. I can’t help but wonder where this girl is.
I can’t wonder about it too long, though. It’s time for dinner with my mom. Every Saturday evening, I go over to her apartment across town to eat with her and leave her the money I’ve collected from my fights that week. She was in a terrible car accident six months ago, almost died, and now she’s got a ton of medical bills as a result. She’s doing a lot better, but her mobility still isn’t quite back to normal. She and my dad divorced when I was a kid, and he has a whole other life in California he loves more than either one of us. Mom refuses to take his money, and I’ll work my hands to the bone to make sure she’s okay.
On the way out the door, she gives me a big hug, handing me the paper bag full of leftover pot roast. She always makes way more than necessary so I have leftovers to eat for several days.
“You work too hard, son,” she tells me, smacking me lightly on the chest.
I give her a half smile. It’s our usual argument before I leave each week. “I’m young. I’m strong. I can handle it. Anything to make sure you’re all right, Ma.”
She grazes the healing bruise on my right cheekbone. I’ve never come right out and told her I fight for under-the-table money—especially not the fact that money goes directly to her—but she definitely suspects. I’m never completely unmarred. There’s always a bruise or a cut or a scar. Always a battle wound.
“My sweet boy,” s
he says softly, and hugs me.
These are the moments that make all the fights, all the long hours, totally worth it.
By the time I get back to my place, I’ve got a couple hours to rest before heading to The Pit. I jog up Maddox’s front porch and knock on the door.
Still no answer.
I think about telling Maddox his sister is MIA, but that will only worry him, and he can’t do shit about it thousands of miles from home. Before I contact him, I’m going to make sure she’s all right, even if that means sitting on her front porch all night.
I’ve never even seen a picture of this girl before. Well, maybe I have—Maddox had a couple of family photos around the house, but I never gave them more than a passing glance. I envy families that are whole and care for one another, and I never want that to show on my face.
Finally, I drag myself downtown to the bar. I park my truck around back, then hop out. The night air is chilly, so I pull up my hood and jam my hands into my pockets. At least I don’t have to fight tonight. I appreciate the dough I make from fighting, but I’m never mad at a night off from it. It’s so taxing, and even though I’m popular with the clientele—Axel “the Axe” Hanlon! Who wants a chance to take his undisputed champion belt away?—I prefer not to fight. And the “champion belt” is a cheaply made fake leather slab with a round, 3D plastic logo of the bar attached to the front. Being the undisputed champ means a lot of cash for me, but some nights I’m tempted to lose on purpose just so I don’t have to drape that sorry fucking thing over my shoulder anymore.