by Jamie Zakian
Candy cried out, dropping to her knees. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth as she looked up at Otis.
“It is my business. That’s my girl you’re gripping up on.” Otis stomped forward, Betty cowering with his every step. Even though Betty let go, Otis pushed her aside. He held his hand out in front of Candy, a smile raising his lips. Her palm slid into his, and he pulled her up into his arms.
“She’s coming with me, and she won’t be back.”
Otis looked at Candy’s face, finding a sparkle beneath the scatter of bruises. “Is there anything you need to grab?”
“Just wait one sec.”
Before Candy could trot from sight, Betty latched onto Otis’s arm.
“Why do you want a little bitch like her? She’s young, dumb, and full of cum. You could have me, baby.” She rubbed her hard nipples against Otis’s back and wrapped her hands around his chest. “I’ll let you stick it wherever you want, honey, whenever you want.”
Otis pried Betty’s boney arms from his body. Scabs brushed against his skin as she tried to move closer, but when his hand hit an open sore, he dropped his grip.
“Nasty.” Otis shoved Betty onto the couch, glaring down. He wanted to spit in her sunken face, but by the looks of her stringy hair, a bunch of people beat him to it. “For Christ’s sake, clean yourself up.”
Betty giggled, slipping her hand inside her ripped spandex pants. “You gonna teach me a lesson, Daddy?”
Otis grabbed Betty by the back of her neck, dragging her kicking and screaming to the mirror in the hall.
“Look at yourself.” He squeezed until she lifted her eyes to the glass. “You used to be Miss Kentucky. Now you look like a five-dollar whore.”
He unclasped her, and Betty stayed in front of the mirror, gawking at her own reflection. Candy moved into view, and Betty snatched a lamp from the table, smashing the mirror before chucking the broken base at Candy’s head.
Candy ducked, clutching onto a duffle bag. She scurried behind Otis. “Crazy bitch,” she yelled, peeking out from behind his solid body.
“Get the fuck outta my house!”
More glass broke. Knickknacks sailed around the room as Otis pulled Candy toward the open front door.
“You can buy that little slut her tampons and hair dye and watch her fuck up all your shit. Good luck, motherfucker,” was the last thing Otis heard before his truck’s door slammed Betty’s voice out.
He turned to face Candy, and she looked away. That one second of guilt Otis glimpsed told him what he needed to know. Sasha brought this on.
Without a word, he backed out of the driveway, and they drove away. After fifteen minutes of silence, Otis parked in front of his house and shut the motor. He looked at Candy, and this time, she stared right into his eyes. Her body swayed, as if she’d spring forward and fasten onto his lips at any moment.
“What tripped her fuse?” he asked, amazed at how casual he was able to sound.
“I took her car last night. Guess I stayed out a little too long.”
“Where’d you go in the middle of the night?”
Candy shrank back, and Otis chuckled. The girl was a master of the doe eyes.
“You were with Sasha?” Otis said. It was more of a statement than a question.
“It’s not what you think—”
“Did you run to her, or did she call you?”
“Look,” Candy reached out then pulled her arms back, “Sasha called me, but she didn’t want me to come over. I just did, ‘cause she sounded…wrong.”
“Let me guess. Sasha got all right when you showed up?”
“No.” Candy dropped her gaze. “It wasn’t anything like that. Some heavy shit must’ve crept up on her. It didn’t have anything to do with me. I think she was just lonely. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was scared, but that’s ridiculous. Nothing happened.” She looked up, scooting closer. “Nothing will ever happen again, for reals.”
Otis wrapped his arm around Candy, and she slumped against his chest. “I got you now, babe,” he said, running his hand through her hair.
“You’re like a prince from a fairy tale, rescuing damsels from wicked witches and junk.” Candy gripped Otis’s cheeks, kissing him softly. “My prince,” she whispered, climbing onto his lap.
Chapter Nineteen
Sasha
Water glimmered outside Sasha’s window, stealing her gaze for just a second. On the top arch of a wide bridge, the whole city stretched out before her. The Big Apple. She didn’t get it. Didn’t look like they grew apples here. Must be fancy city talk for some metaphoric apple no one could see or ever bite into.
Traffic got thicker, streets smaller the deeper Sasha roamed through a concrete maze. Between the many red lights, she tussled with a map. After circling two wrong blocks, she found a row of warehouses. At the end of the street, two men holding assault rifles pointed her toward an open bay door. Sasha drove past a sign that read ‘Lazzari Bros. Meats’ and parked her truck inside the dark building.
This was no different from any other drop. Same type of warehouse in the same kind of rundown neighborhood, yet her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She grabbed a gun, staring down at its worn handle. A first impression was key with new clients. To wear this gun on her hip would indicate fear, which would be more dangerous than going in unarmed. Sasha stashed the gun back under her seat then opened her door. In slow, easy movements, she climbed from the cab and stretched.
“Ms. Ashby.” A round Italian man filled her view, his hand tugging at the Uzi strapped across his chest. “Mr. Lazzari would like a few words.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sasha stopped to adjust her bandana in the truck’s chrome before hurrying to catch up. A series of tunnels and four guarded doors later, she walked into a bustling restaurant.
Her steps slowed at the loud flow of voices and smooth vibes of jazz, every table packed with propers decked out in sequined dresses and tuxes. She pulled at the ends of her leather jacket, looking at her baggy cargo pants.
“It’s all right,” the man said, taking Sasha’s arm. “The mooks don’t notice anything. They just drink and keep to themselves. Right up those stairs, miss.”
Sasha walked by large round tables, not one head turning her way. It left an odd taste in her mouth. It was a comfort to float around unseen yet a chill to be faceless. She could be killed in this room and not one of these people would look up from their china plates.
Three small steps stood between her and a lone table of finely dressed men. These men didn’t laugh into their cups and stare at silver spoons. They eyed her. Straight lips, hard glares, taking her in from head to toe.
“Well, look at you,” the widest one at the head of the table said, only sparing a second to part from his heaping plate of lasagna. “The spitting image of your mother. Sit.”
He gestured to the empty seat across from him, and the other men moved their hands under the table. They were trying to intimidate her by holding their holster guns, and it was working. Instinct told Sasha to drop her stare, but she forced her chin up and sat at the table.
“Your mother,” the man at the head of the table said, waving a butter knife Sasha’s way, “she must have a lot of confidence in you to send you here. Or she hates you.”
The men around the table chuckled, and Sasha leaned back.
“Probably a bit of both,” she said.
More chuckles, until a tall man walked over. A hush befell the table, maybe the entire room, as people exchanged whispers.
The tall man walked away, and the round man who headed the table stared at Sasha. “You fed them?” he asked. He dropped his silverware into the lasagna, and everyone tensed up.
Sasha cleared her throat, removing the lump that crept up to rob her of breath. “I’m sorry, sir—”
“Antonio.”
Now Sasha’s eyes dropped. She couldn’t help it. “Antonio Lazzari.” Don of the largest crime syndicate in America. “I, umm…beca
use of the last minute nature of this delivery, there were delays. I didn’t want your stock to get ruined, so I had to improvise.” Sasha glanced up, unable to read Antonio’s blank face. “It won’t happen again.”
“They left quite a mess in your trailer.”
“It’s no big. I’ll hose it out at a rest stop. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir—I mean, Mr. Antonio.”
He chuckled, his big belly jiggling, and the tight grip in the air loosened. “That’s why I love you southerners, so polite.” He waved his arm and, like magic, a woman in a tiny black dress placed a glass of wine in front of Sasha.
Sasha took a sip, watching the woman’s hips sway as she walked away.
“I was surprised to get a call from Ellen,” Antonio said between chews. “She turned this place upside down when she left. Broke my poor brother’s heart when she ran off with that Ashby punk and twenty-G’s of my money.”
Antonio’s eyes locked on Sasha. All the men’s eyes seared holes through her nerves.
“Your brother?”
“Of course.” Antonio pushed his plate aside and reached for a pack of cigarettes. “It’s just like Ellen to toss someone in a viper’s nest without a mention why. Your mother was married to my brother, Donatello. You might know him as Dante.”
“Dante’s a Lazzari?” Sasha downed her cup of wine.
“Smoke?” The man at Sasha’s right slid a pack of cigarettes in front of her. How nice. Maybe she’d get a few puffs in before they whacked her.
“So,” Sasha lit her zippo, gaze on Antonio, “I guess you know about the…scuffle that’s been going down.”
“Probably more than you do.” Antonio nodded, and the men got up from the table, leaving just the two of them. “It must be hard for you, in your mother’s crew. She’s very intolerant.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I saw the way you looked at the young lady who brought the wine. It only took five minutes of sitting across from you to see what you’re all about.” Antonio flicked his ashes in a crystal tray, leaning close. “I reached out to a few associates of mine, asked about you. The ones who didn’t fear you respected you. That’s a rather large feat for a girl of only…?”
“Nineteen.”
“Huh. Nineteen? You don’t say.”
Antonio sat completely still, staring at the smoke rising from his cigarette. When he finally moved, crushing out his butt, Sasha flinched.
“I like you, Sasha. You’re honest, smart, civil. Those are hard qualities to come by these days.” He smiled, much like a man who was trying to lure a child into his van. “If you worked for me, you could be whoever you want. You wanna sit here every night with a different girl on your lap, no one would say a thing. The boys might bust your chops, but hey, that’s just what we do.” He dipped his head to the side and shrugged. “No pressures, messy turf wars. Just a few jobs here and there and the freedom to live your life the way you want.”
“Wow. I…” Sasha slouched in her chair, looking around the room. Diamonds and rhinestones glittered in the low light, a mesmeric dance of shimmering flickers.
“You have no idea how tempting that offer is.” What a good life she could have…for maybe two months until her mother came to burn the city to the ground. “I really appreciate this, really, but I can’t abandon my club.”
“And loyal, I like it.”
Antonio rose from his seat, and Sasha scrambled up. She stood tall as he stepped closer and placed a briefcase in her hand.
“My offer stands anytime,” he said, patting her on the arm. “I hope to see you for my next shipment.”
“Me too. Thank you, sir.” Sasha shook her head then grinned. “Mr. Antonio.”
***
Twenty miles of pavement and a little rest stop off I-78 lay between Sasha and the glow of city lights. She hosed down the trailer, the water’s stream sending a wave of filth pouring out the back door. The stench caught in her throat. It took all she had to keep from gagging. Her mother’s voice played on a loop in her mind. This is what you get for being nice, you stupid little bitch. She hated that the words rang true. Every time she sacrificed for the comfort of others, she ended up standing in a pile of shit.
Sasha jumped from the truck and shut the faucet, taking a long gulp of fresh air. A quick call home then nine more hours of open road. Her eyes zeroed in on a phone booth when a young woman strolled in front of her.
“Hey there,” the woman said. Bells jingled from her flowing skirt, a long stretch of skin between its waistband and a tiny suede halter-top. “Are you a trucker?”
Sasha stepped back, scanning the woman over. Chipped nails, worn flip-flops, ratty hair littered with dreads and braids. It looked like the road had chewed her up and the seventies spit her out.
“Yeah. Why?”
“So awesome!” She took a half-spin, clutching her fringed bag. “Say, how come truckers shove their hands up your skirt at the twenty-mile mark?”
“Excuse me?” Sasha said, crossing her arms.
“Oh no.” She waved her hands, more jingles trilling from cheap bracelets. “I’m not trying to be rude. It’s just every single trucker I’ve ever rode with stuck his hand up my skirt. And it’s always at the twenty-mile mark. I started keeping track. Is it, like, some unspoken trucker law?”
“Yeah, it is.” Sasha held a straight face, even through the woman’s gasp. “It’s how you’re supposed to pay for the lift.”
“Really?”
“No,” Sasha said with a snort. “Men are just pigs. That’s probably how long it takes before their hard-ons overpower their brains.”
She giggled, holding out her hand. “Misty.”
“Sasha.” Soft palm, too silky to match the rough ensemble. “You waiting for someone?”
“I am. Maybe it’s you. Are you going to D.C.?” Misty asked, flashing a cute smile.
“No, sorry. I only cut through the western edge of Maryland.”
“That’s close enough. Do you think I could hitch a ride? I mean, it’s cool if you can’t. I just thought…you know, you won’t try to put your hand up my skirt.”
Sasha tried to hold it in, but a laugh burst from her lips. This woman, she couldn’t be more wrong. Maybe men weren’t pigs, just truckers, no matter what sex.
“I guess that’s cool.” Sasha backed toward her truck. “Just wait right here for a sec.” After shutting the trailer door, she hopped into the cab. Guns decorated every surface, not to mention the suspicious briefcase. She shoved the shotguns under the seats, stuffed the handguns into her backpack, and loaded a revolver into her holster. The briefcase slid into its secret compartment in the floor, and she moved a cooler over the seams.
Before leaving the truck, Sasha peered into the side mirror. Misty stood in the same spot, dancing to music only she could hear.
Sasha jumped to the pavement, stopping Misty mid-spin.
“I just gotta make a call,” Sasha said, heading for the phone booth, “then we’ll hit the road.”
***
Ellen
Ellen jumped when the phone rang. She dropped her straw on the desk, hurrying from the backroom of the clubhouse. By the third ring, she lifted the receiver from the wall.
“Sasha?”
“It’s me,” Sasha’s voice streamed through the phone. “Everything went fine.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m about twenty miles outside the city. I should be home by first dawn.”
“All right, good.” Ellen slumped against the wall, the knot in her chest unraveling. “Wake me when you get here.”
“Okay. Later.”
The line clicked, and Ellen squeezed the receiver. A dial tone blasted in her ear, humming in its steady tone. “Love you, baby,” she whispered, hanging up the phone.
Her heel dug into the floor, and she turned toward the backroom when a motor revved. She marched to the front door, grabbing a shotgun from the pool table on her way. When spotting Otis, his arm around Sasha’s
favorite trucker slut, she chuckled.
“Hey.” Otis dropped a grease-soaked paper bag on the nearest table. “I brought food.”
“Nice.” Ellen set down the gun, stepping toward Candy. “What happened to your face, darlin’?”
“Oh.” Candy darted her eyes to the floor. “I might’ve upset my mama.”
“It don’t take much with that woman.” Ellen pointed to the bar. “Why don’t you flip on those neon lights and call some of the girls? Let’s get this place rockin’.”
“Hell yeah,” Candy said, the clack of her heels filling the room as she hurried to the bar.
Ellen shifted her gaze to Otis then strolled into the backroom.
“I gotta take care of some business, babe,” Otis said, glancing at Candy.
Candy waved her hand while gabbing into the phone, and Otis followed Ellen, shutting the door.
“You got that look on your face.” He walked to the end of the table, leaning against the solid wood. “Did something happen with the run?”
“No. Sasha called a bit ago. It’s all good,” Ellen said, keeping her eyes low. In a minute, she’d play Otis like a fiddle, and he wouldn’t catch on until after she got her way. Unless she looked into his eyes. Then he’d spot the guilt in her stare.
“It can’t be all good.”
Ellen snaked across the room, placing her palms on Otis’s chest. “The VP chair is gonna need to be filled now that Chewy’s in the ground.” Her hands wandered down, and she unbuckled his belt.
“You want me to be VP?” Otis asked, his smile spreading wide.
“Oh honey,” her fingers grazed the soft yet hard flesh inside his jeans, “you’ve been my VP for a long time. The title’s symbolic. It doesn’t actually mean anything.”
Otis clutched the sides of Ellen’s arms and positioned her so her back was against the table. His hands slid to her hips, and he lifted her atop the glossy surface, sliding her leather skirt up.
“So you’re fucking me.” Otis twisted his fingers into Ellen’s hair, thrusting himself inside her.