by Teagan Kade
I laugh. “Kill you? This isn’t The Godfather. Saul’s a reasonable man. He’ll hear you out.”
“Are you sure?”
No. I’m definitely not fucking sure of that, but whatever it is Saul has planned to lure her ex back, I don’t want any part of it. “I am,” I lie.
My hand rolls on the steering wheel, my knuckles healing from the last job, the skin tight. “You like working at the dress shop?”
She nods. “I want to have my own one day.”
“A dress store?”
“A label, yes.”
“You’re a designer or something?”
“Something like that.”
I hate this kind of forced fucking conversation. I look down. “Did you make that dress?”
She runs the fabric at the hem through her fingers. It’s got daffodils printed all over it. “I did.”
“You like daffodils?”
“They’re my favorite. Silly, I know.”
So she’s got a thing for yellow.
“It’s beautiful—the dress, that is,” I say. You’re beautiful, I want to add.
She keeps her eyes ahead. “Thank you.”
We drive in silence, consumed in our own thoughts, until she asks, “What were you doing, before this?”
My hand tightens on the wheel again. What’s the harm? “I was a boxer.”
“I’ve never met a boxer before.”
I look over at her dress again, her heels. “No, I don’t suppose you have. Probably for the best.”
“Were you good?”
I was. They called me the next Sullivan, a future World Heavyweight Champion, but I took it too far. I pissed off the wrong people and paid the price. “I could hold my own.”
“Did you ever knock anyone out?”
“Twenty KOs in my first year.”
“That’s good?”
“It’s fucking exceptional, but it doesn’t mean shit now. Nothing does.”
She’s put off by my demeanor, my words, her eyes repeatedly drifting to my tats, but that’s okay. She should be scared of me.
I motion to the yellow rubber wristband at odds with her dress. “What’s with that?”
She looks down, holding up her wrist for inspection. “Oh, it’s one of those negative ion wristband thingys.”
“You know those things don’t work, right?”
“I do, but Mom gave it to me. We don’t see a lot of each other, so I like to wear it. It reminds me of her. Besides, it’s my favorite color.”
I make a mental note of that. “Your Mom’s back in Kansas?”
“How did you…?” she trails off.
“The boss called you ‘Dorothy,’ you know, but I guess you get that a lot, huh?”
She smiles. God, it’s fucking beautiful the way the corners of her mouth pull, her lips so delicate, so pink. I’m already picturing them around my cock.
“First time, actually, but it’s fitting.”
“Why’s that?”
The smile is gone, just like that. “Because if I could click my heels together three times and disappear, I would.”
Good work, asshole, I scold myself.
I pull up to the front of the Red Velvet nightclub, Saul’s nighttime haunt. I’ve always thought it was kind of funny that given the name the place is decked in blue inside and out. “We’re here.”
Thanks to that dress, Dawn slips right on in. Even Bobby on the door gives her a once-over as we pass by. He winks at me. “Go get her, tiger.”
I ignore him and walk through, the beating music giving me an instant fucking headache.
Hand at her back, I guide Dawn upstairs to Saul’s office. A goon I don’t recognize stops us before the door. I’m in the process of telling him who I am when his earpiece starts to jabber. He steps aside.
Saul’s pacing when we enter ‘the box,’ so called because of the one-way glass on every side that looks down into the club. The door closes and the music is snipped away with it.
Saul used to be military, black ops—the hard-ass the government would send into third-world shitholes to plug up drug supply, but he was cut off, left for dead. He’s been on a one-man mission to fuck them over since. I guess he saw the grass was indeed greener on the other side. He’s been the city’s numero uno mafia boss since. Even the cops are in his pocket.
He motions to the two seats at front of his desk, this one the fuselage from a B-25 bomber. He’s wearing the same shit suit, the same shit grin. “Please.”
I take a deep breath. Here we fucking go.
Chapter 4
Dawn
The guy sitting behind the desk—part of an airplane, no less—seems to be the one in charge. He’s wearing the World’s Ugliest Suit, hair cropped military tight. The way he’s smiling suggests all is well, but I have a funny feeling in my stomach that’s far from the truth.
Under my feet the floor vibrates with the constant oomph oomph oomph of the club’s music.
The ‘boss’ addresses me. “Dorothy. Welcome.”
I feel no need to correct him.
He places his hand on his chest. “I’m Saul, Saul Barnes.”
The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. I just want to get out of here.
“Your… boyfriend,” he continues. “He did a little business with me, Dorothy. Did you know that?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I squeak, palms growing increasingly sweaty, the glass walls of the office closing in, the dulled music beating in time with my temples.
“Whatever he is,” says Saul. “Rick owes me a substantial amount of money, money for a loan under your name, a loan you signed for.” He gestures to Max. “My associate here was to send him an appropriate message, perhaps see if you could help with reimbursement, but given his sudden constitution, we have to look elsewhere for a solution.”
I can’t remember signing anything, but I wouldn’t put it past Rick to forge my signature. He’d do anything to feed his habit.
“Solution?” I query.
“A solution,” Saul repeats, “to my fifty-thousand-dollar problem”.
Jesus. I knew Rick owed money, but clearly I didn’t know how much. He hasn’t just screwed himself. Now he’s got me caught up in this, this shady world of criminals and clichés.
Saul stands and walks around the front of his desk. He stands before me, uncomfortably close, his legs spread, his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’m a busy man, Dawn—” using my real name now “—so I’m going to make this simple. You like simple, right?”
I nod.
“You come up with the fifty k or,” he pauses, for effect. “You start working for me.” He crouches, gripping the sides of my chair and leering down into my cleavage. “A pretty young thing like you should make it up quick enough.”
I look sideways through the glass wall, down into the throng of men. Women dance on stage. Clothing appears to be optional. I have no doubt what the kind of ‘work’ he’s referring to entails.
“Saul.”
We both turn to look at Max. He’s standing.
Saul pushes off the chair, takes a step back. “Max?”
“Let me help.”
Saul laughs. “Oh, I’ve think you’ve done quite enough, Toto. Calling me up on the emergency number? What the fuck’s with that?”
“I can get the money,” Max continues.
It’s enough to pique Saul’s interest. “And how do you propose you’ll do that?”
I don’t think Max has thought this through himself, but he answers all the same. “I’ll track down this Rick character with her help, shake him down.”
Saul stands in front of Max, the two chest to chest, but Max doesn’t back down. “This could have been easy, Max. She’s flesh and blood, just like any other mark, but… I’m nothing if not reasonable, and it would be a shame to spoil something so sweet, so pure.” He licks his lips as he says it. “You want to take Miss Congeniality here and get back my cash? Be my guest, but you’ve got a week. Show up empty-handed after
that and I’ll have Viktor lay you both out.”
Saul looks past Max to the corner of the room. I turn in my chair and flinch. There’s a man standing in shadow there thin and spindly, cheeks sunken as he sucks on a cigarette, the tip glowing hot. He breathes out, watching me. I never heard him come in.
Max glances to the man and back to Saul. “I won’t let you down.”
Saul prods him in the chest, leaning into his face. “Do not fucking disappoint me, Max. I’d hate to see my best and brightest fall from grace.” He glances to me. “And little Dorothy there? Don’t even get me started on what the boys will do to her.”
I tense up. I still can’t believe I’m here, that I’ve fallen into this mess because I couldn’t see Rick for the asshole he was.
It’s okay, I think, Noel will have called the police. They’ll find you soon.
In a city of eight million? Yeah, right.
You’re cursed. It’s as simple as that.
If only it were that easy, a quick trip down to the local witchdoctor for some herbs and garlic to clear everything up. No, this is far more complex. How does this Max guy, one man, hope to track down Rick if this Saul character and his goons can’t?
Max walks over and takes my arm. “Let’s go,” he whispers.
I don’t argue. I’m just as eager to get out of here.
“One week,” Saul calls to our backs.
The guy in the corner, the one Saul referred to as Viktor, doesn’t move, continuing to drag on his cigarette in the darkness. He gives me the heebie-jeebies.
The goon on the other side of the door checks out my ass when I walk past, Max leading us through the crowd below. We come out into the cool, heading around the side of the building to an open street.
I sit down, press my back up against the wall and bury my face in my hands. I’m shaking, in shock.
Max crouches, scanning. “You okay?”
I’m struggling to even out my breathing. Panic’s clamping my throat. I bring my hand up to my chest.
Max places a hand on my shoulder. “Breathe.”
“I’m trying,” I gasp.
“Forget about those guys and concentrate on the task at hand. Focus and we’ll get out of this. Where is this Rick guy?”
I shake my head. “I… don’t know.”
“Not good enough. Give me something, anything. When did you last see him?”
I concentrate, but all I’m seeing in my head is the man in the corner of the office, his beady eyes black as night. “Um, we went to dinner about six weeks ago, this Italian place down by the waterside in Jersey City, Belmonte’s or something. He said he was going to the bathroom, but I saw him go into the kitchen, talk to someone. I don’t know who or what about. We came home and the next morning he was gone, no note, no nothing.”
Max stands, hand against the wall, nodding to himself. “Belmonte’s. Yeah, I know it. The Italians run most of the underground tables in town. That’s good. It’s a start. Anything else?”
“He had a bike, a bobtail Harley with Pamela Anderson airbrushed on the tank, custom. It was his pride and joy.”
Saying it aloud makes it sound even more stupid. You dated a guy with a Baywatch star airbrushed onto his motorcycle. What were you thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the whole darn problem here.
Max pushes off the wall and extends his hand.
I reach up and take it, surprised at how strong his grip is. He pulls me to my feet like I’m a feather. I can make out his eyes better now, the deep, brandy amber of them, as firm and telling as his touch. I have no doubt there’s pain there—deep and penetrating. “Good,” he says. “Very. Fucking. Good.” He points down the street. “I’ve got to make some calls. Wait in the car.”
“What if I run?”
He locks his eyes on mine. They’re feline, feral. “You won’t if you want to stay alive. I’m your only hope now.”
I nod, defeated, and head down to the Lincoln.
The door’s unlocked, though I imagine it would be unwise to jack cars from outside a crime lord’s hideout, because that’s surely what this Saul guy is. I’m in deep, way too deep. I should run, but then what? Where am I going to go? Drag Noel into this mess? She’s probably speaking to the cops already, sorting this out.
Yet something deeper still is telling me to stick with Max. He could have handed me over up there, but he didn’t. He wants to make this right, which means in some, strange, twisted way he’s looking out for me, and try as I might I am pulled to him. There’s something about him that wants me to draw closer, an animal magnetism that’s got the spidey sense between my legs running on overdrive.
He works for a crime lord, Dawn. That is not the kind of guy you want to get involved with.
It doesn’t seem like I have a choice.
I sit in the passenger seat and sigh, the tight ball in my chest refusing to unravel.
Fifteen minutes pass. The glovebox begs to be opened.
Don’t do it.
I check down the street, the rear-view. There’s no sign of Max.
I turn and look at the rear seat. It’s full of clothes and boxes. He probably lives in this car.
I come back to the glovebox. Better the enemy you know, right?
Quietly as I can, I open the glovebox and fish inside. There are a bunch of papers in there, mugshots of people, random police files. It’s not a casting call for Jeopardy, that’s for sure.
There’s an additional photo tucked underneath. It’s a black-and-white glossy of Max in a boxing ring, his gloved hands held high, a belt between them. Half of his face is bloody, one eye closed over completely, but he looks happy.
I’ve never understood boxing. It seems like nothing more than an excuse for grown men to beat each other senseless. I’m surprised such an arcane sport still exists.
I dig deeper into the glovebox, my hands falling on something cool and hard. What do we have here?
I take out the object and stiffen.
It’s a gun, a pistol to be precise.
I’ve never held a gun before. It feels alien in my hands, shaking there between them. I bring my other hand up to keep it steady, holding it before me.
Without thinking, I pull the hammer back, the click that follows is louder than I expect.
I hold the gun and thoughts stream into my head, thoughts of escape.
You think you’re going to shoot your way out this? You’re not Clint Eastwood, Dawn.
I’m about to un-cock the hammer when there’s a tap on the window.
Without thinking, I turn, squeezing the trigger involuntarily.
The figure there shifts away just in time, the window shattering. The pistol kicks me back into the seat, my ears ringing.
A hand reaches in and pulls the gun away, the door opening and glass spilling to the ground. “What the hell are you trying to do?” Max shouts. “Kill me? Didn’t you fucking hear me before?” He’s angry and I don’t blame him.
He pulls me out, holding me tight with one hand, the pistol in the other. “If you think there is a way out of this, you are wrong. I am your way out. Understand? Without me, you are dead. D-E-A-D, and I’m not talking about being put in the ground, I’m talking about being forced to work in a whorehouse, fucking guys 24/7, drugged out of your mind, fucked literally to death over months, maybe years. Is that what you want?” He shakes me for emphasis. “Do you fucking understand me?!”
“I’m sorry,” I plead. “I didn’t know it was—”
“Loaded?” he laughs. “Why the fuck wouldn’t it be? Do you know who I work for?”
He lets go of me, hands on his head as he paces out into the street. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I’m sorry.”
He exhales and turns back, placing the pistol down the back of his pants. “We’ve got to trust each other, okay? That is the only way this is going to work. It’s asking a lot, I know, but if we don’t, we’re fucked.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. “Okay.”
>
He leans against the car beside me, temper simmering. “Alright then. The good news is I’ve got a lead on your boy.”
“A lead?”
“The Italians came through. It seems Saul’s not the only one Rick the Dick owes money to.”
That comes as no surprise. “Why did you stand up for me?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why didn’t you just hand me over?”
Max looks down at the ground, shaking his head, hands on his hips. “Honestly? I don’t know. I guess I just don’t like to see innocent people hurt, and you… you’re…” but he can’t finish it.
“Isn’t that your entire job description? Hurting people?”
His lambent gaze is electrifying. “Not like you. Not…” he trails off. “We should get going. We’ve got a bit of a drive.”
“Can I at least let my friend know I’m okay?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. It’s better this way.”
My throat’s tight. “If you’re expecting me to… you know…”
He faces me in full. “Are you fucking serious? You think I’m doing all this to what? Get laid?”
He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. There are easier ways. It’s not that you’re not attractive. I mean, you’re fucking amazing… but… Forget it. We should go.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
The funny thing is, I do want to kiss him, a small gesture to say thanks, a peck on the cheek, but I can’t bring myself to do it, to approach him or make the first move. You don’t step closer to a fire when you’re already being burnt.
He holds the passenger door of the Lincoln open, taking out the pistol and swiping the rest of the glass out of the window.
“To answer your question,” he says, standing there with the pistol in hand. “Nowhere nice”.
Max drives, the road as black as the moonless sky above. “It turns out your beloved Rick took off as soon as he got the money from Saul. From what I can gather, he never intended to pay it back, the motherfucker, knowing full well you’d be left to deal with it.”
I shift in the seat. “Where is he now?”
“He was last seen at an underground betting agency putting down some big numbers, enough to get him noticed by the wrong people.”