I gasped at the sudden exposure, but otherwise made no move to cover up or protest. I knew better.
He smiled at that, nodding even. It was one of the first acts of approval I’d seen from him. He left my breast out in the open for what felt like an eternity. I clenched my eyes shut, fighting back tears and trying to hide the rest of the world from my sight, wanting to believe that it might actually hide me from them. Then I felt three sharp impacts—“love taps,” he might call them—just over my nipple, and a second later the material of my dress was slipped back into place.
“That’a girl,” he cooed, starting to walk away from me.
And then I was alone, shivering and on the verge of tears. By some miracle, however, I had not spilled the drink that T-Built had left me holding.
Chapter 9
~Jace~
The son of a bitch was there!
He was right…
Fucking…
There!
The Carrion Crew’s resident drug lord, the one responsible for the sudden spike in addicts across a hundred-and-fifty mile radius. The sheer numbers of overdoses in that area since the Crew had formed and started working on disbanding the Crows for good was staggering; unstable poisons making rounds through the city and schools like a synthetic disease. If one went so far as to completely disregard all of the Carrion’s other misdeeds, the drug issue alone was enough to have the rest of the state looking. Wouldn’t be long before the whole damn country was using our once under-the-radar town as a spotlight for the national problem. And maybe that’s what the Carrion Crew wanted, national attention and free advertisement, but it was bringing an unholy mess down on the Crows. As their leader, that meant that T-Built and his drugs were bringing an unholy mess down on me. The truce we had with authorities was already shaky, and the rise in the wrong kind of attention was motivating old alliances to loosen as they were starting to feel the weight of their higher-ups’ rising awareness that there was a problem. Since my old man had founded them, the Crow Gang had been responsible for keeping out organized crime and generating quite a lot of money that cycled back through the rest of the town. We kept out the heavy drugs by carefully generating a steady and safe supply of marijuana and illegal liquors. We hired experts of various trades to create affordable knockoffs, giving them a bigger cut than they ordinarily would have in exchange for cycling counterfeits. We created an underground sex market with a strict set of rules that kept rampant prostitution under wraps and gave the unofficial brothels the means of maintaining a safe and clean means of running their business. And we used our resources to keep bad politicians out, good politicians in, and any other form of crime so tightly pressed under our collective boot that the region was declared one of the safest for hundreds of miles. There were no illegal guns, no sex trafficking, no rampant crime, and certainly no god damned addicts and overdoses gaining attention far and wide.
Simply put, before the Carrion Crew, the Crow Gang kept everyone, both members and non, safer and richer.
Then, practically overnight, the shit hit the fan. Suddenly Michael and I find my old man taken out of the picture, and it was up to my brother to try and take the wheel and steer the clusterfuck back into the lane of control. And, bless him, he was doing a damn good job of it until he got himself killed, too. Then it was up to me—up to little baby “Weekend Runs” Jason Presley—to take up the mantle.
And just looky what a grand job I’d been doing?
Crows were shrinking, Carrion Crew was growing, and the town was worse and worse for it. And so much because of T-Built and his motherfucking drugs!
Oh, and did I mention that he’d killed my wife and unborn child? Or how he’d tried to get me killed that same night? Or how, in failing to kill me, he’d forced me to live day-by-day in a waking nightmare that had me firmly gripped by my balls in a constant state of not-quite-batshit crazy?
Oh yeah! That son of a bitch! That bastard! That asshole!
Fucking T-Built, walking avatar of the shit-show my life had become.
You bet your ass I was gunning for him!
I was forced to lose sight of him as he slipped beneath the balcony I was watching him from, and I started for the stairs to keep a bead on him. Five steps into a near-sprint, I forced myself to stop. It hurt—Jesus, it hurt!—to bring my legs to a full halt in that instant, but I knew that to go after him like a crazed lunatic was to get myself “casually” escorted into one of those side rooms before I’d even get a chance to see him again. I forced my eyes to take in the sight of the door where I’d watched three men enter, knowing full-well that only two men would be coming out.
You want that to be you, Jace? I asked myself. No? Then you play it smart, asshole! Play it smart, play it cool, and maybe—MAYBE!—you can get through this night.
Reminding myself how well I’d done the last time I told myself to calm the fuck down, I took a few extra seconds—each of them a torture—to make certain that I genuinely had my shit together. Then, forcing myself to take each step slow and casual, I continued. I found myself pretending that I was a tourist in a particularly crowded museum; treating each sight and spectacle as something worth lingering on a bit longer than I otherwise would. I took meticulous care in side-stepping other guests, stepping aside and so that an older-looking couple could take to the stair side-by-side.
I was cool.
I was classy.
I was losing my fucking mind!
Finally free of the stairs, I turned to follow the direction T-Built had taken, stepping through a wide set of double-doors and entering into what looked to be massive dining room that had been set up into an almost perfect reflection of the other room, save for the addition of a bunch of tables housing old folks and way-too-eager-looking suits hanging on their every word. Peppered around the place were the breed of Carrion I’d come to expect, the ones who wore almost too much muscle for the suits they’d been crammed into and the ones who had exposed tattoos on their hands, necks, and faces. I passed a pudgy-looking guy with bulging arms and a pair of tigers tattooed to either side of his head who glanced up at me for an uncomfortably long time. I’d begun to worry that he’d recognized me—his eyes knowing and honed directly on me as I passed—but he said nothing as I slipped by.
“Creepy,” I said to no one in particular once I was certain Bulgy McTiger-head wasn’t about to be sounding any alarms.
And then I spotted him again!
Still a way’s away, strolling with his typical shit-eating grin along the far wall, I saw T-Built. He was keeping himself close to the wall, using the gap that the party-goers seemed to be naturally leaving open without doing so intentionally like some sort of emergency shoulder on the side of a highway. Though I could have just cut straight ahead and bisected him along his path, I would have had to shove through the ample crowd that meandered between us. Even if that didn’t get the attention of somebody who’d recognize me for who I was, gather why I’d come, and likely have me shot on the spot, the likelihood that it would either slow me down enough to let T-Built get away or, worse yet, tip him off of my presence at the party was too great to gamble.
Cursing under my breath, I moved to the adjacent wall, passing an old, bespectacled man who seemed unnaturally interested in sniffing at his finger. He hummed to himself, seeming pleased with whatever he must have recently spilled on himself, and I felt a shudder travel up my spine. Unsure of the reason behind the reaction but knowing I’d feel better to put the old guy as far in my rearview as possible, I pushed myself to move that much faster. Too late I realized that I was coming in too fast, and I had to awkwardly take an uncomfortable knock against my shoulder without making it obvious that I’d just walked into a wall; I started an unusual half-lean-half-saunter towards the corner that met with the wall that I’d spotted T-Built walking alongside.
I cursed.
Once again coming in too fast, I didn’t catch sight of the woman who’d been occupying that corner until I was practically on top of her. The woma
n—really more of a girl; couldn’t be more than early-twenties, which would only make her a year-or-so my junior, I supposed—looked to be already drunk; a nearly half-downed glass of what appeared to be scotch clutched in a white-knuckle grip. Her eyes were vacant, glassy, and staring off at nothing as her legs carried her blindly from the corner. She stepped one way, paused, and then dizzily toppled to the side. My side. I moved to counter the sudden avalanche of drunken flesh and reddish-brown hair, but with my primary mission being one of not gaining attention there was little more that I could do than brace myself and try to keep the impact as quiet and uneventful as possible. She crashed into me a moment later, my braced chest taking the bulk of the impact and knocking her drink-holding hand back, dumping the remains of the liquor across her almost totally exposed chest and letting it cascade past her navel and all across her dress and a rather pricy-looking necklace.
Well shit! I thought, If this doesn’t earn a screaming shit-fit then nothing will.
The girl’s eyes went wide, instantly sober, and it occurred to me in that instant that she didn’t seem to be drunk at all. While she certainly reeked of booze now, her reaction had the violent clarity of somebody yanked back from a rather intoxicating thought; it was not like the intoxicated to simply snap to attention like that. Surprisingly, however, she did not scream or start berating me for the blunder. She only looked down at herself—still very obviously upset by the turn of things—with a look that seemed to say that she’d been expecting something like this to happen.
It was the face of somebody who expected it to rain dog shit solely because they’d forgotten an umbrella that day.
I knew that look all too well.
It was the same look I saw from myself.
Relieved that she wasn’t reading me a riot act and gaining a bunch of unwanted attention, I looked past her to see what sort of lead T-Built had gained in the process. I couldn’t see him.
“Shit!” I growled, stomping my foot.
“What’re you upset about?” she asked, still gawking in mortified horror at her ruined dress. “I don’t think you managed to get a drop on you! Damn! Damn! Dammit! I was actually hoping to be able to return this dress when I was done!”
Hearing this, I paused to glance back at her. It seemed odd that somebody attending a Carrion Crew party and wearing a dress like that should be considering something as trivial to their ilk as getting their money back on a flashy piece of clothing.
And then I recognized her.
She was the cell phone hooker I’d caught sight of on the street the other night!
I’d lost T-Built and risked getting caught by murderous gang members because of some whore?
Sneering, officially not caring what she’d wanted, I said, “What’d be the point in returning something that looks that cheap? Or maybe it’s just the person wearing it that gives it that effect,” I spat. Admittedly it wasn’t the nicest thing in the world to say, and I didn’t even really mean it. But at that moment I was so furious at having lost T-Built that I needed to throw some of the extra venom in my veins at someone. Then, not yet satisfied, I said, “What’s a stupid whore doing here, anyway? And why would you be dressed like that? They run out of booty shorts and tube tops at Forever 21 or something?”
The hooker glared at me, taking the venom and, rather than letting it poison her, actually seeming to collect it and mix it with a gallon of her own.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I had the sudden impression that I’d gone and grabbed a viper by the tail.
“I’ll have you know that my boss is paying good money for me to be here. Even went and paid for the dress that you’ve decided to go and ruin, dick!” She curled her lip in disgust and made an obvious note of taking in the sight of me. “And while we’re on the subject: what fucking right does some punk have questioning the value of expensive clothing when he’s dressed in rags that look cheaper than the shit they’ve got the busboys running around in?” she shot back, then, rolling her eyes, added, “But what else should I expect from an obvious narc?”
I felt my eyes widen and my heart skip a beat at that. “Why would you think I’m a narc?” I demanded, trying to sound offended but only coming off panicked.
Rightfully so; I was panicking.
The girl smirked, knowing that she’d pegged me in a sore spot. “Even being a ‘stupid whore,’” she said, oozing arrogant pride on every syllable, “I can tell when a guy is keeping tabs on someone.” Then, folding her arms over her liquor-drenched chest, she nodded back in the direction that T-Built had walked off. “It wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to know you were tailing one of the Crew, and, at an event like this, there’s only two types of folks interested in finding a specific member: either they want to do business and they’re all smiles and handshakes and face-to-face chitter-chatter… or they’re a fucking narc asshole trying to make a bust, in which case they’re gonna be the kinda sleazy fuck who goes slinking around corners, cringing at the threat of noise, and trying to cut down a working girl just ‘cause he couldn’t watch where the fuck he was going! Want to call me a liar? Fess up or I’ll start screaming ‘cop’ right now and we’ll see how the night goes for you, narc!”
I winced at the realization of how much I’d let be noticed and caught myself before I began a paranoid scan of the room. “Okay! OKAY!” I said, holding up my hands in surrender and hoping—goddam praying!—that she didn’t make good on the threat. “Just… just please, please don’t do that! I’m begging you!”
Christ, I really was, too; begging to a hooker, no less.
They really did have their shit together.
And, at that moment, this one had my life in her hands.
She paused, even going so far as to hold her breath, and took in the sight of me. Blue eyes studied me, darting back and forth between my hands—squinting in momentary confusion at the “don’t shoot!”-gesture I was holding before her—and then moving up to take in my no-doubt panic-riddled face. What I imagined she saw was a man who knew that the person in front of him knew he didn’t belong where he was, that he was surrounded by known killers, and that one word from them would very likely end in his death.
She stared back at me, looking bewildered. This struck me as odd, since, in that instant, she had all the power and, given everything I’d said to her and what I’d done to her dress, she had no reason not to pull the proverbial trigger on me.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” she suddenly asked out of the blue. “You called me a ‘whore,’ and—”
“And that was a mistake,” I interjected. “I shouldn’t have said that and I am sorry.”
Her mouth hung open for a moment, looking like I’d just proclaimed myself Jesus Christ and offered her free rides on my cotton candy unicorn from Saturn. Then, wetting her lips and clearing her throat, she finally said, “So now you’re saying that I’m not a whore?”
I flinched, feeling like I was being set up in some sort of trap. I knew what she was—knew it the same way she knew it—but the question seemed loaded and ready to go off on a hairpin trigger. I, uh…” I stalled, trying to choose my words carefully. “Well, I only meant that it wasn’t fair to say it like I did.”
“And how did you say it?” she demanded, still seeming confused by my answers.
I took the opportunity to wet my own lips before saying, “Like it was something to be ashamed of.” Feeling like the gesture had outlived its usefulness, I slowly lowered my hands.
“You don’t think it is?” she asked, watching my hands lower as though she were prepared for them to do something else except hang idly at my sides.
I shrugged. “Work is work,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got a bit of experience with prostitutes—both professionally and personally, I might add—and I think they’ve actually got their shit together. Certainly seem more on the pulse than a lot of other people in this world—maybe because they’ve got a lot of time to think and not too many people bothering to ask them what they’re thinki
ng about.”
That cotton candy unicorn look deepened and held for a long, long time.
I was starting to feel like I might have broken her brain with my words, and out of my periphery I spotted the finger-sniffing old man glancing in our direction.
“Shit!” I muttered, looking away. We weren’t as out-of-sight as I would have liked, and, standing across from a hooker who was more naked than not and looking like she’d just decided to play at a wet tee-shirt contest with a glass of scotch, it wasn’t like I was super incognito. “L-look, can you do me a big favor? Like, huge, HUGE favor? Please!”
She seemed to snap out of her stupor at that and scowled. “And why should I?” she asked.
“Because, as stupid as I was—as stupid as I probably am—I can see that you want an excuse to get out of here,” I said to her. “I’m not a narc, I’m nothing like that, but you’re not wrong, either. Somebody here is bound to figure it out, too, and when they do I think you know what’s going to happen to me.”
She folded her arms stubbornly and asked, “So why should I care if you get yourself killed?”
“Because, despite what I said, I don’t think you’re stupid,” I explained. “I think you’re just trying to survive, and I’m just asking you for a chance to let me do the same. If I try to make it out of here on my own, it being as early as it is and such, then I’m bound to be made by someone here. Nothing more obvious than a single guy waltzing out of the party when it’s in full swing, right? But… but if I’m a wasted party-goer soliciting a hooker and not wanting to sample the goods here—maybe taking her to my car or even back to my hotel for the night—then nobody’s gonna give two shits. So I get a way out of here with my ass still on my back and you got an excuse to ditch this place.”
“And, in the meantime,” she countered, still glaring, “foregoing the buckets of cash these old perverts are willing to offer me for a few minutes of time? You must think I’m stupid if you think I’m gonna piss off my boss by skipping out and miss out on all that money just to—”
Running On Empty_Crows MC Page 14