Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Oh, I know, baby.” The woman’s voice sounded close to his head. Strains of her drawl echoing down his ear and setting up residence inside his mind. Colors and warmth accompanied those words, the stretching of the tones discordant and painful. “You won’t remember anything, baby.”

  “Goo.” Ben barely got the sound out before a narrow prick of pain in his arm surrendered to the broad rush of heat in his blood. That wave picked him up and carried him out to sea, out of sight from land, adrift and blessedly, blessedly alone. No shouting. No demands. No clamoring of people to tear him apart. Just the music in his head, playing sweetly.

  Eight

  26 years old

  Benny stared in shock at the man seated across the booth from him. Short and heavyset, the thickly accented Mexican had just made a proposal that was too good to be true. But Benny wanted it to be true. Needed it.

  Juan had approached him after a gig in downtown Denver a month ago, looking like a fan as he chatted, holding out a poster to be signed. Then he offered Benny a twist of green that would go a long way to letting him sleep that night. Combine it with a cheap bottle and he could even stretch it a couple of nights.

  Juan showed at the next show, and the next, the same offering freely extended each time. Next show? Different offering to the rock gods. Also gladly accepted, and Benny found even more peace in oblivion, loving the slow slide into darkness. Hating the climb back out the next day. And so it went, his new friend providing a bliss Benny found himself craving. Too good to be true, shoulda known. Of course, Juan had an agenda.

  Part of a gang out of Mexico, Juan offered Benny more green, better green and blow, uncut blow and heroin—all he could ever want. All with the understanding he would pay back the value. Eventually. Juan said no hurry. Juan said they were all friends. Juan talked about a lot of things.

  After the first taste of the really good stuff, Benny hadn’t been able to say no, which meant he wound up owing Juan’s friends. One thing led to another, led to another, and he owed even more. A lot of money. More money than Benny could ever pay back in his life, but they’d kept the pipeline open for a long, long time. Now that he was in deep with them, they had an idea how he could pay them back, even things up. If only.

  Which brought him to now. Juan was part of a biker gang who had picked a fight with a drug gang, both out of Mexico. Juan’s gang of bikers didn’t want to buy from the drug cartel directly. According to what Benny could understand through Juan’s accent, there was bad blood going way back between the two groups. One wouldn’t deal with the other, and that was just how it was.

  But, one—the bikers—could use an intermediary—like Benny—to make a purchase. They urgently needed to make a purchase. Their Tijuana supplier had failed to provide a needed shipment of product. According to Juan, they needed to offer a steady supply or the buyers would defect. They couldn’t have that, so they needed product. All Benny had to do—and this is where it got into the ‘too good’ category—was make the purchase, hand over a duffle filled with money, and accept a shipment of blow. Bring said blow back to the gang and they would forgive all his debts. All of them. Every dollar. Even if it was too good to be true, he still had to ride the chance to the ground, just in case.

  “Benny.” Juan shook his head. “You know this gonna be the only way to clear your shit.” He tapped the tabletop once, loudly and Benny jumped. “And you wanna clear your shit. Trust me, you want that in a big way. So, Benny, you just gotta find a way.” He pushed out of the chair and stood. “Call me, but make it tonight, or your debts come due. And that, you do not want.”

  Fuck. Chin lifted, face tipped up, Benny stared at the man who no longer looked like a fan at all. He nodded.

  ***

  “I’m telling you, I can pull this off.” Benita stared at him, lips pressed together, holding back her disagreement. “I can, swear. My brother’s got connections, and he can help us make a profit like you wouldn’t believe.” Ben knew his movements were jerky, a stair step of discordant notes because he needed a drink. He was off the juice, trying to stay sober for the upcoming transaction, but sober was fucking hard these days.

  “I make the deal. Get in and get out. No sweat. I’ve already borrowed the money, found an opportunity and took it. I just gotta turn this cash into product, then turn that product into more cash, and we can buy that record label in San Fran we talked about. California, baby. Sun and beaches, all day long.” Not quite what the bikers were expecting, but he would talk to Juan after, explain everything. First, he had to make sure the drug guys had enough stuff to sell a bunch to him, too, and then he could do exactly what he’d told Benita. Andy’s connections would come in handy, and finally, fucking finally, his luck would change.

  “Benny.” The single word held shadows from a decade of disillusionment and pain. Jesus, now I get this from Benita. He had turned twenty-six last month. Just one more day in a blurred string marred only by the expected call home for birthday wishes. That never went well, always leaving him feeling more like an asshole than usual. GeeMa was cordial, friendly, her tone tolerant and loving, and she never brought up his failures or talked about his betrayals. The discomfort was all on his side, because for him, the undercurrent of his treachery threatened to suck him down, never letting him up for air. He had lied to and stolen from his grandparents so many times, and in his mind cutting the ties to them so thoroughly he was certain there’d be no repairing them. Not ever.

  Over the years, he watched and listened as his family repeatedly forgave his mother’s betrayal of family, labeling her situation extreme. She lost the only man she ever loved, after all. It was understandable she would go off the deep end. Act out to numb her pain. Benny, however, should have known better. Had been raised better. Forget the fact her loss was his, doubled because he’d lost her, too. Tripled with the loss of Andy. Filling in the holes left behind took more than a shovelful of good intentions. Anymore, it took more than a shovelful of booze, too.

  He’d been enhancing his numbing concoction with the addition of a few side menu items. Green or blow, he wasn’t picky, able to angle either way based on his mood. He’d smoke a ‘lil smoke, toot a line of blow, pop a tiny cross, or swallow purple forgetfulness chased with vodka—anything to help oblivion take effect sooner, and let him escape the bullshit always swirling around.

  Bullshit aside, Ben believed he’d found a sure-fire solution to the band’s current problems. And they had them. Money and opportunity were the biggest obstacles he saw. Money was tight, beyond tight. The last five grand he stole from GeeMa had gone to pay for studio time; overages from their already planned outlay caused by his own behavior, and he knew it. That was why he decided to go all in, hacking his way into her account for what would be the last time. He promised himself. Again. Paying for the final sessions had been his penance to Blake and Danny since it was his stuttering talents that had fucked them all. With the extra cash, they did the studio time and turned out some of the best work ever. Songs sure to get them walking the red carpet, finally.

  Dmitri Glass had joined them right before the studio sessions, and he’d augmented the group in a way only Ben had believed in at first. Back when they first began playing bars outside Denver, Ben had heard Dmitri play and loved the guy’s talented sound, the phrasing he brought to a song. The fact he could also handle a guitar was a bonus they frequently leveraged, letting his fingers stand-in for Ben’s often of late.

  Right now, an oblivious Blake and Danny were inside a diner, seated at a table with Dmitri while Ben and Benita stayed in the van. They tended to take things like eating in shifts, first because it made it nearly impossible for thieves to snag gear cases and run, and second because it was easier to get along when they didn’t spend too much time together. Or maybe it was easier to get along when they didn’t spend too much time with him. Whatever.

  So he had the band, finally, that he’d dreamed of for so long, and wanted to see if they could take things beyond the next level. Bypass
ing that stop on the road to stardom, true stardom, where venues competed for your bookings, not the other way around. He had the band, and, thanks to Juan, had an opportunity. Benny had persuaded himself he just had to make his own luck, and get Occupy Yourself the chance to see where they could go.

  This meant he had to convince Benita of two things.

  One, he had a plan.

  Two, he could pull it off.

  He smiled at her, shining the rock star hard, knowing he got inside her head when she sighed, closing her eyes.

  ***

  Shit.

  That one word hurtled through Benny’s head. He was crouched beside group of a tall metal lockers set in the middle of a long wall. His back pressed tightly against the protective structure as he listened to more than one set of footsteps coming closer, leather soles slapping the cement floor in a percussive assault.

  Three hours ago, the world had looked different.

  Three hours ago, Benita had dropped him off on the side of the road, not too far from the wide driveway leading to this bunker complex.

  Three hours ago, he stood and watched her drive off, dust from the gravel swirling up in the van’s wake, grit hanging in the air for longer than he’d expected, the rasp of sand between his teeth nearly as annoying as the bite of his need. It had been too long, and he knew it. The thought of a drink or a fix or a snort or a joint filled his head to the point where hardly anything else penetrated.

  He knew mentally he wasn’t in any place to negotiate, but this seemed a straightforward exchange. Here, I have money. Give me drugs. He snorted. Somehow he’d managed to convince Benita. He’d swayed her, and after she gave him her trust, the idea of seeing disappointment written on her face, again, firmed his resolve. Shoving down thoughts of clinking ice and sloshing brown bourbon, he tried to remember which parts of his plan seemed brilliant only minutes before she dropped him off. Stupid.

  Waltzed in, loaded bag in hand, fully intending to handle the payoff, only to find no one home. No challenges and nobody to even ask him what he was doing. He remembered thinking, If their security is this lax, they deserve anything that happens. That became his justification, and for a time, he actually considered what he was doing would be a favor to them, pointing out the flaws in their setup. A security consultant. Yeah, right. A fully delusional one. Then there were noises, and shouts, and he ran while fear swallowed him whole, blanking out long moments of time.

  Now he was trapped, deep inside the compound in a place where he had no excuse for being, bag of money abandoned in his panicked dash along the way. Voices accompanied the approaching footsteps, and he made out two voices, both speaking Spanish. No surprise there, being as this was a Mexican drug cartel’s facility. Shit.

  “Nada. Mi esposa es estúpida.” Guttural laughter. Talking about his wife, a family guy, a good guy?

  Closer and closer. Benny turned his head, pressing tightly to the wall, wishing he could disappear into it, to meld inside like a science project gone bad, radio waves loosening the hold atoms held on each other. “Ella quiere más bebés, pero he terminado con los niños.” Closer still, as tension built inside him.

  Fuck this. I’m done with this, he thought, wanting to leap out, put an end to the waiting, knowing they were only steps away. At the same time his stomach clenched at the thought, and he was left wondering if he could really move into view and accept whatever consequences came his way.

  A commotion at the end of the hallway nearly had him jumping out and into view, but he managed enough self-control to remain hidden. A distant shout, then another, and far away, he heard what distinctly sounded like the rattle of gunfire. Shit. Receding footsteps had him brave enough to peer around the locker in time to see two stocky men running away up the hallway, automatic weapons held in a ready position across their torsos. Benny stood, easing away from the wall for a moment, watching. Then he turned and bolted the other direction, away from the men, away from the gunfire…deeper into the compound.

  Herded by frantic sounds of what had to be a shootout, he blindly ran through the maze of hallways. Left. Right. Right. Left. Right. The turns weren’t at standard intervals, and he couldn’t imagine the size of the rooms they indicated. Huge warehouses built into the side of a mountain; the entire facility was far larger than the outside indicated.

  Every few seconds, gunfire would sound in the distance, as fear drove him ever onward.

  Finally, a metal door barred his progress, and he halted, pressed against it, panting for breath. With sweat streaming off his body, he cautiously looked through the small glass window set high in the center of the surface and when he did, Benny froze in place. The next area was brightly lit and vast, with tables lined in row after row stretching off to the far wall. On nearly every table was a stack of tightly wrapped bundles. Jackpot.

  Scanning left then right, he didn’t see a single person in that room. Unreal. For no one to be guarding so much smack was unbelievable, so he pinched himself, winced, and then checked again. Still no one. He was gathering his courage to open the door when movement caught his attention and he watched as an overhead door on the far wall rolled up, letting in light. Moving fast, a van backed into the building and a dark-haired woman swung down from the driver seat, ran to an empty table and picked up a clipboard. Flipping through several papers, she laid the clipboard back down and then, using a huge button on a device hanging from the ceiling, lowered the door before running out through a normal-sized door set in the wall next to the overhead.

  Quiet. Empty. The bundles beckoned. Maybe abandoned. He heard no more gunfire.

  He should have taken the money and run from the gang out of Mexico. So stupid. But he’d lost the bag, and now, if he didn’t get the product, he’d be well and truly fucked. Sideways. With a crowbar.

  Wrapped packages, lined and stacked. A single brick would be worth enough to keep the band going for a month. This drug gang had all the money. They’d find the bag of money, and then surely they would count it, see it was an even trade. Which just left the biker gang to worry about. Unconsciously, Benny was jittering in place. His desire for the oblivion promised by the drugs laid out in front of him a living thing inside him. This would show them their security was lax. Look how far I made it inside. His thoughts splintered, but that wasn’t an excuse for what he was about to do. Band needs this.

  Denial is more than just a river. That was Andy’s voice in his head, something he’d heard his brother say to their grandmother. While he'd been talking about their mother at the time, Benny knew the statement could easily be about him now. Not liking how those words made him feel, he ignored it, focusing only on Andy.

  Andy was in Fort Wayne, Indiana. A high-ranking person in his own biker gang. Organized crime. That was what the papers called what they did. He’d read all about Andy’s gang. Suspicious deaths, racketeering, pimps and whores, gun runners, drug dealers, it read like a laundry list of what not to do. But they did it. All the time. So, this would be normal for them. Same shit, different day. Drugs were normal in a gang.

  With the money, he could pay the bikers back. He could pay GeeMa back. Hell, he could even pay Andy back. For years and years, his brother had been pulling Benny’s fat out of the fire. Years and years of Benny being the burden. All his life. Born to it. The words teased at his mind, and his eyes slipped closed as he chased the possibility of lyrics into the dark.

  Born to be his trouble. Always my brother’s burden. Making his life a waste.

  Sounds coming from a distant hallway to his right jerked him back to alertness, unaware of how much time had passed while he stood there staring at the darkness behind his eyelids, playing with words. Looking into the room to find it was still empty, abandoned, the van remained standing in front of the now-closed doorway. I can do this. Andy could use the smack for his friends. Sell some of it for himself. Pay Juan back. GeeMa. Everyone makes a tidy sum. It would make up for so much. He could sell the rest for me. I’d even give him a cut. These were the argu
ments he had made to Benita. Sounding reasonable enough to believe, she had stopped trying to talk him out of the idea.

  We can get booked into his bar. Show up. He’ll be thrilled. I’ll ease into it with him, feel him out. See what we can organize. Not something to bring up on the phone as he’s in a gang. Their phones are probably tapped. Benny’s hands rested on the crash bar that would open the door and almost without conscious intent, he pushed, and the door clicked open. He froze, the door a half-inch away from the frame, held in place. He has to hate me, that hate growing every year. Lodged in place like a chicken bone choking the life out of a careless diner.

  Andy had been gone for years. All the times Benny needed him the most, his brother had been thousands of miles away, nothing but a voice on a phone. Gone before I knew him. Leaving made Andy’s life easier, even if Benny learned from Harddrive that it hadn’t been an easy decision. Shit, I haven’t thought about that old man in years. Wonder how he’s doing?

  Distant sound from the right broke into his thoughts, and he pushed the door wide enough to slip through. The room was cold. Chilled in a way the hallways weren’t, and there was a positive airflow that propelled wind out through the doorway until it settled back into place. Drifting towards the van, he trailed his fingertips across stacks of bundles on each table, counting as he went. One hundred on this table, one-twenty on that one, only eighty-five here. So much money. In his mind, the bundles were no longer drugs, but blocks of greenbacks. Benjamins.

  Opening the back doors of the van, he was surprised to find it vacant, the entire cargo area spotless and…empty. Glancing at the tables behind him, he remembered how the woman went for the clipboard and walked over. The top paper held the schematics of a van, showing what looked like voids in the walls. Back to the van, he started feeling around, finding panels held in place with strong magnets. They might be voids some of the time, but right now, they were filled with white bricks, tightly wrapped in paper then plastic, sealed with a hand-written sticker. Everything he needed, right there in front of him, already packaged for travel. A new van. A new start. A new life.