McCoy: A Bad Boy Romance

by Michelle Amy

  The man on my other side reached out and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. His hand fell to my neck which he traced with one finger. “No, we won’t do anything to you,” he said, “unless you want us to.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I said.

  All the men in the car laughed. Donnie patted my knee. “I can see why he likes you.”

  “Where is Clint?” I asked.

  The car fell silent as we left my street. Donnie peered down at me. “Clint?”

  I nodded. “This is how you all treat your friends?”

  Donnie frowned. “It is how we treat our friends who betray us for a skirt with a pretty smile.” He leaned in close to me. I could smell the beer on his breath. “McCoy has options, doll. He can help us out on this one job, or he can die. It’s entirely up to him. We aren’t savages,” he chuckled.

  My head was spinning. I felt sick. I needed air.

  Donnie was laughing. “You don’t look so good, princess. You wondering what happens to you in this equation?”

  I wasn’t worried about what would be done to me. I was worried that McCoy was going to tell this gang no, and that they were going to kill him. I tried to calm myself by taking a deep breath, but I couldn’t get the air into my lungs. It started to burn.

  “Princess, John knows what’s good for him. He’ll help us, and he’ll be free to join you in your Stepford Wives house and the two of you can bake cookies together on Sundays. Sound like a fair deal?”

  I needed air. I wasn’t listening to what Donnie was saying to me. The panic that I had been unable to control the last time I was in a situation like this was resurfacing. My throat ached, my lungs burned, and my mind was a mess of confusion as I struggled to breathe.

  Donnie was slapping my cheek. “What the hell is the matter with you, girl?”

  I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. My eyes slipped closed. I needed McCoy. I needed his touch. I needed to hear his voice.

  But he was locked behind me in the trunk of the car. I could hear him being jostled around when we stopped or took sharp corners. He was in rough shape, and I didn’t know how long it would be before he woke up.

  The darkness behind my lids must have been the same as the inky blackness of the trunk of the car. I felt smothered. I needed out.

  Donnie was shaking me now. I felt him undo my seatbelt. I was being carried out of the car. They put me down on cement. It was cool on my back. They were tapping my cheeks again and calling to me.

  Their voices were increasingly far away.

  My eyes fluttered open and I found myself staring up at Donnie and the bald man. I looked past them at the stars in the night sky. I could feel a sense of calm washing over me. “Don’t hurt him,” I whispered, releasing the only amount of air I still had in my lungs. As it went so did my consciousness. As they carried me back into the car I was whisked away to a gentler dream world that gave me a very brief solace from the misery I could not escape.

  The Following is a preview of Michelle Amy’s new Bad Boy romance Spark. The following preview is intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is advised.

  Chapter One

  My great grandmother’s china set was laying in pieces in the middle of the kitchen. There were too many pieces to count. The center of one plate remained intact, sitting in the middle of the shattered remnants, its beautiful pastel pink flower and gold trim screaming for me to pick it up and pull it out of the chaos.

  I was too afraid to reach out for it. It lay a mere three feet from the toe of his boot, and the look in his eye dared me to make a move for it. Dared me to try to recover any of it. I took my eyes away from the flower and shimmied backwards, pressing my back against the counter and pulling my knees up to my chest.

  Don’t cry, Alice. Keep it together.

  His boots crunched more china as he took three steps towards me. I refused to look at the damage he was doing. He knew that set was all I had of my mother; he knew it was all she had left for me. He knew and he relished in it. I could see it in his face, in the way the corner of his mouth curled upwards in a villainous smile that made me wonder how I had ever found it so charming. I could see it in his dark eyes as he watched me do everything I could not to fall to pieces on the kitchen floor beneath his looming shadow.

  He crouched down in front of me and rested a hand on my knee, rubbing his thumb over the red plaid flannel of my pyjamas. “I didn’t want to have to scare you like this,” he said, his voice husky and ragged from the exertion of tearing apart my kitchen like a rabies infected mad man.

  I waited for the rest of the sentence. I waited for him to tell me why he had done it, what had driven him to such destruction. I knew what it was. Of course I knew. I knew the moment I had walked in through the front door that I was going to have to face him. I hadn’t expected him to go for the one thing in the house I cared about. I thought maybe he would destroy some of my more expensive possessions. Like my perfume collection or my first set of crystal that I had purchased myself. I had entertained the idea that maybe he would even smash the television. I wished he had destroyed all those things. That’s all they were. Things.

  He continued his justification as he pushed broken china away from us so he could sit on the floor beside me. “But I had to do this. You didn’t leave me any other options.”

  I fought the quiver in my chin and denied him the luxury of seeing me cry.

  “I warned you. I warned you that you couldn’t go to work looking like a whore. You are mine. You don’t need to worry about making extra money from tips. I will buy you whatever you need. I will buy you a new china set tomorrow. Whatever one you like. Price isn’t a factor. But you will not leave this house dressed like that anymore. Understood?”

  I wanted to tell him to fuck off. I wanted to scream at him. There were so many words floating around in my head, but they failed to make their way to my mouth, so I sat there on the floor in numb silence while he rested his head back on the cabinets as if he had won some sort of victory. Perhaps my silence was his victory.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk now. We can talk in the morning, alright?” He leaned over and kissed my forehead. Then he stood and surveyed the damage in the kitchen. “I’ll fix this all up in the morning too. Don’t worry about any of it. Come to bed.”

  Words. Speak. Say something. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I managed.

  He nodded and left me where I was. I listened to him run the sink in the bathroom and brush his teeth. I heard him spit and gurgle our mouth wash. Then he went to the bedroom. The light clicked off after five minutes or so and I sat on the kitchen floor until I was sure he was asleep. Then I went to the flower and lifted it in my trembling hands and clutched it my chest while I sobbed like a six year old with a skinned knee.

  I thought of my mother’s apartment in Detroit, full of broken knick knacks and photographs of my father. I thought of her sitting alone and staring at those photographs, missing him, missing me, but being too bitter and too stubborn to ever pick up the phone and return any of my calls.

  When she died I was the only family she had left. She had a will, and all it said was that the china was for me, and the rest of her belongings were to be donated to her church. The china was sent to me by one of her friends in her apartment building, and I never had the chance to go through the rest of it.

  And now all I had was this broken shard that I was clinging to like it held my mother’s soul in it.

  I hated him. I hated that smirk and the way his blonde hair hung over his cruel eyes. I hated his hands that were always on me. The hands that had ruined everything. I hated his voice and his lips and his god damn shoes that were always strewn around my living room.

  I had to get out. I had to pack all my shit and get out.

  Chapter Two

  I cast a glance over at my tip jar. A lot of silver change was floating in it and I knew that I’d be lucky to count out over a hundred dollars by the end of the night. The bar was busy, for sure,
but the clientele was cheap. The bar I had worked before this was an upscale place downtown Chicago called The Wallflower. Every night I brought home at least four hundred dollars in cash on top of my hourly rate. It wasn’t a bad living, that was for sure. The customers were friendly and usually business people, stopping for before dinner drinks and not batting an eye at the inflated prices on our menus.

  My current place of employment was a far cry from The Wallflower. It was bigger in terms of sheer space, but that space was usually empty. When it was busy it was full of people wanting to get drunk for less than twenty dollars. The Red Rose was a good place for that. A twenty dollar bill could get you two shots and two cocktails if you ordered off the specials menu, and that includes taxes. But, you know what it doesn’t include? Tips. The money I lived on.

  The inside of the bar was dimly lit with wrought iron wall sconces and chandeliers with mostly burnt out bulbs. Black curtains hung in front of all the walls which added a sort of gloom and doom feel to the place. At first I thought it was intentional, but I found out from some of the bouncers that the owner had put them up to hide holes in the drywall from some of the more out of hand bar fights. The dance floor hosted a single disco ball that hung right smack in the middle and cast flickering beams of light down on the stone flooring.

  I tried to hide my frown as I handed a curvy blonde with fake lips her martini. I think she smiled at me- it was hard to tell since her lips seemed somewhat frozen- before turning away and joining her friends near the stage to ogle the live band. I couldn’t help but gaze sadly at my tip jar again.

  Gone were the days of making enough to cover my rent in two nights. Gone were the days of being able to buy a new pair of pumps every month- and a matching handbag to boot. I was no good at the whole penny pinching game. My last job had afforded me a somewhat luxurious lifestyle which I knew only came to me based on my good looks and charm. And by charm I mean my ability to manipulate a man into putting a decent amount of money into my tip jar. No shame.

  Now it looked like I might have to sell some of those pumps and handbags. Responsibilities would be the death of me. I had already sacrificed a lot of my favourite things when I moved out of my old place. I hadn’t had enough time to gather it all. I prioritized as best I could. Everything else was left as a sacrifice. He could do what he wanted with it. Burn it. Sell it. Use it all to build a shrine for me, which he could sit in front of cursing my name from dawn until dusk. I didn’t care. Screw him.

  As the night wore on I forced myself to focus and not pay so much attention to how much people were dropping in the mason jar beside my bar mat. I put more effort into my smile and played coy with some of the men who lingered around and made small talk with me. I complimented the women on their makeup and their outfits and impressed everyone with my occasional shaker toss and fancy pours. It didn’t take long before I was enjoying the evening. Friday nights at The Red Rose always picked up later in the evening, when everything else in town closed down and people were looking for a place to dance and maintain their buzz.

  I looked up from my mat and called for the next customer after I handed a long island iced tea off to a girl with a drunken sway in her step. My eyes fell upon a man of medium build and exceptional height. He leaned an elbow on the bar as his green eyes scanned the menu above my head and slightly behind me. He ran his thumb and forefinger over the stubble on his jaw and I shifted my weight to my right foot to stop my knees from aching. I hadn’t seen a man who looked like him before.

  He had a presence. I wasn’t used to being intimidated by my own customers, but there was something about him that demanded respect. His eyes were still scanning the menu board behind me. I let myself stare into their sea of green, flecked with streaks of gold. His dark hair nearly grazed the top of his eyelashes as he looked up from under his brows. Finally, he settled his intense stare on me.

  “What’s good here?” He asked, raising his voice over the chorus of one of my favourite songs of all time.

  “Uh,” I stammered, “isn’t anything with alcohol considered good wherever you are?” Smooth Alice. Very smooth. My first attempt at small talk was the same line I used when I was using fake I.D.’s to get into bars when I was seventeen.

  He cracked a smile and nodded. “‘Suppose you’re right. Just a rum and coke will be fine.”

  I found myself disappointed that the drink he had ordered was so quick to make. I made it nonetheless, throwing it together in a quick fifteen seconds. “Don’t like to take chances?” I asked.

  He paid me with a twenty and dropped the rest into my tip jar. “Not so. I just don’t want to trust the new girl with something complicated. You know, in case you mess it up.” He took a sip of his drink and nodded his approval. “Not bad. Next time I’ll shoot for something a bit more complex.”

  As he turned away from me I thanked him, even though I was sure he had just insulted me. He waved over his shoulder before vanishing into the crowd. I stretched up to my tiptoes to try to spot him through the swaying dancers and intoxicated gossipers who stood on the outskirts of the dance floor. I looked for his dark messy hair and gray T-shirt, but as my eyes scanned the bar more patrons swarmed me with drink orders and I was forced to submit to their requests.

  By two in the morning the live band had vanished and the DJ was playing a smattering of pop hits and old dance songs from the nineties. It seemed that this was always a sure fire way to get those who leaned lazily in booths against the wall out on to the dance floor.

  The last call for alcohol announcement came on and I was swarmed with a last minute rush of people wanting to cram in one more drink before they headed home. It’s funny how the people who flock to the bars for last call are usually the folks in the room who should have stopped drinking six shots ago. I whipped up vodka crans and screwdrivers and a smattering of all kinds of drinks in a fifteen-minute whirlwind before collapsing against the back counter and rolling my wrists. Bartenders can get carpel tunnel. Just saying.

  One of the girls who worked on the other side of my bar slid up beside me and smiled. I couldn’t remember her name, as I was still pretty new in this place. She was shorter than me by about half a foot, and she had bright blue hair that was cut in a cute pixie cut that framed her face. She leaned on the counter beside me. “So,” she said, her voice raised even though the music had long since stopped, “you’re kinda killing it here.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That’s good to hear.”

  She nodded. “Yep, been watching you the last couple nights. I think you’re a good fit. I wasn’t too sure at first, you know, ‘cause you’re kinda…” her eyes swept up my body from my shoes to my hair. “You just don’t look like the rest of us. Not that that’s a bad thing.” Her tone immediately turned apologetic and I could see she was afraid she may have offended me.

  I laughed. It was true. I didn’t really fit in. I was lean and tall with long brown hair that was a stark contrast to the colourful dye jobs hosted by most of the other employees of The Red Rose. I was also the only person without a piece of metal in my face. “I like it so far,” I said. “It’s a lot different than the other place I worked at.”

  “That’s good.” We stood awkwardly for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say next. Then she groaned beside me and pushed herself off the counter to stand in front of me. “This is super embarrassing but I totally forget your name, new girl.”

  “It’s Alice.” I offered her my hand as if we had never met before, and I was delighted when she shook it and didn’t call me a weirdo.

  “Alice. Awesome. I’m Claire, just in case you forgot to.” She nodded at the bottles stacked neatly on the wall behind us. “Want a drink? Max doesn’t care if we treat ourselves at the end of a busy night.”

  I felt that there was a high chance that she wasn’t telling the truth. But, I wanted to make friends with the people I worked with, and the fastest way to do that was to sit down and share a drink. Or two. Sometimes more. Don’t judge.

 
We sat at one of the booths once we had closed the place down. Claire had poured us each a vodka water and brought out a small bowl of peanuts from the kitchen. I popped one in my mouth and leaned my elbows on the table while she gave me the rundown of all the things I needed to know about the Red Rose.

  “Max is a great manager,” she said. “He’ll always help you out of a bind. He’s given me an advance on my rent before when my roommate up and bailed on me. It’s just the kind of guy he is. He cares about us, you know? He always wanted to own a place like this, and now that he finally has it he treats us all like family. Best job I’ve ever had.”

  She was being sincere. I could tell by the way she looked me in my eyes as she talked. I took a sip of my drink. “There are definitely good vibes to go around here.”

  She smiled. “Definitely. So, tell me about you. Who is Alice?”

  I cocked my head to one side. “Um, I don’t know-”

  Claire giggled. “Come on, don’t be shy. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  I shook my head. “No. No boyfriend. Kind of trying to take a break from the whole dating scene.”

  “Ah. Somebody did you wrong, hey?”

  “Something like that.” I took another mouthful of vodka water and swished it around my cheeks before swallowing. “I just have other priorities right now.”

  “All good,” Claire chirped. “Don’t mind my curiosity then… but I saw you talking to Jack at the bar earlier.”

  “Jack?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You know, tall, handsome? Broody. Everything a girl wants but knows she should stay away from?”

  The man with the green eyes. I tried to hide the flush of pink in my cheeks, but Claire spotted it right away. She lightly slapped a hand on the table. “Girl, you can’t blame yourself. He’s sexy as hell, and he knows it. He’ll be curious about you, too. You’re new meat around here.”