Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

I opened my mouth to argue the cause for a celebration but the words die on my tongue. I wanted to tell him I was just doing my job; following orders was part of my oath to the club. For these guys their club wasn’t based on law but on heart. And no matter how hard I fought against Wolf, he’d always remind me the patch on my cut said I belonged somewhere—I wasn’t a drifter anymore.

  “We’re going to go out to Smith and Wolensky’s and have ourselves a grand ol’ time. Have a nice meal and some straight whiskey, none of that non-alcoholic shit Jack’s been shoving down our throats either. Contrary to what you’ve seen, we used to know how to get down,” he said with a grunt. “Before everyone became a bunch of pussy whipped idiots.”

  I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Compared to other clubhouses the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn kept things, well, they kept things cleaner than most. They weren’t about drugs, they passed a blunt here and there, but that hard shit, they swore off it. Maybe because Blackie was an addict—I don’t know. And with most of the guys being wifed up there weren’t whores parading around the Dog Pound. Nah, if you wanted to get your dick sucked you needed to work for that shit.

  “Besides, it’ll be good for everyone to get out together, especially with all the tension between Jack and Blackie.”

  “Yeah, I imagine the Bulldog didn’t take it too well when he found out Blackie’s been banging his daughter,” I comment, reaching for the pack of smokes he had in the cup holder between the seats.

  “That’s putting it mildly, but he’s adjusting. I think after Blackie got released and he and Jack charged into the Bastard’s clubhouse, guns blazing, Jack realized how much Black loves his daughter. He don’t like that Lacey moved in with him but he’s got to get over that shit too. Man’s got bigger problems; his old lady is knocked up. Imagine that shit, having a kid in your forties. I’d fucking blow my dick off.”

  I blew out a ring of smoke and glanced over at Wolf.

  “You got something against kids? Don’t you have a fucking football team or something?”

  “Three boys,” he boasts, pointing his thumbs toward his chest. “Real men only make boys but that don’t mean I’d fucking start over at this age. Hell no, I did my time. Time for this guy to sew his oats and all that.”

  Most men do that before they do the kid thing, but Wolf wasn’t like most people—he was a special breed. So special that when we pulled up to an intersection, and the light changed, he got out of the car and carried the old lady and her walker across the crosswalk. He jumped back in the car and before he could put the car into drive, the man behind him swerved around him, cutting him off.

  Wolf lost his fucking shit, pulled a baseball bat from under his seat and waved it out of his window as he told the driver to go fuck his mother in every hole.

  So much for being the Good Samaritan.

  “Like I was saying, we’re going to have ourselves a grand ol’ time tonight,” he declares, throwing the baseball bat into the back seat. “I even wore my eating pants for the occasion.”

  If I wasn’t already second guessing my decision to follow this fuck to Brooklyn, I would be now. I’d ask God to help me, but me and the big guy never got along too well. In fact, if I was a gambling man like Linc, I’d bet the man upstairs saddled me with this crew purposely.

  Fuck you, Stryker.

  Yeah, fuck me.

  Chapter Three

  It was only supposed to be one drink. The plan was to meet my client at Smith and Wolensky’s Steak House, dazzle him with my confidence and promise to make his millions turn to billions. Six martinis later and a porterhouse for two, the deal still wasn’t closed.

  The closing bell rang on the trading floor of Wall Street twenty minutes ago and I already had received a text message from Matt, the vice president of our firm, asking if I had closed the deal. The bastard’s waiting for me to fail—anxious to steal my thunder and prove this is a man’s world and I have no place in it.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I flash a smile toward the suit I’m trying to convince to sign on the dotted line as I break and take my shot, sinking two striped balls into the corner pockets of the pool table. This game depends on his signature; it pisses me off because if I was a man he wouldn’t be playing games with me. He would’ve signed after I picked up the check for lunch, but this guy, like most men I work with, has high hopes that the deal will close and I will wind up in his bed.

  He wants to play—let’s play.

  I hustle pool as hard as I hustle stocks and tonight when he wraps his hand around his cock, wishing it was my mouth—I will be home in my bed figuring my commission check from this deal.

  I put on the act, pretend like it’s all beginners luck as I sink ball after ball into the pockets of the table. It isn’t long before I’ve got a crowd around the table. There are three balls left—one stripe and two solids, but the way his balls are positioned all he needs is a kiss shot to win the game, which isn’t hard to do but it’s my turn and time for me to win and this man to sign on the dotted line.

  I position my cue stick, lining up my shot and lift my head to smile at my client when I notice Matt standing behind him with his arms crossed. He and several other guys from my firm are huddled around my client—their eyes are trained on me and I can see the doubt radiating from them.

  Watch and learn boys.

  They think they’re better than me, more competent because I’m the only one in our firm that wears a skirt, but they’re slowly learning I can run circles around them. And when I’m done securing this deal, I’m going to make each one of them regret they ever doubted me by emptying their pockets. That’s right, I’m going to hustle them hard tonight and when I’m done, I’m going to buy myself a Louis Vuitton bag with all their hard earned cash.

  I take my shot, let the tip of my stick kiss the ball and roll along the felt. I turn around, flip open my briefcase and pull out the contract and a ballpoint pen. By the time I turn around my ball has made its way into the pocket and my client’s mouth is on the floor. All eyes are on me as I walk around the table and stand beside my client who has his hands braced on the edge of the table, staring at the felt in amazement. I slap the contract onto the table in front of him and lean close to his ear.

  “I’m going to make you a lot of money, Mr. Sanders,” I promise huskily, running the tip of the pen down his arm as I peer up at him from under my lashes. “A lot.”

  He tears his eyes away from the contract and stares back at me for a moment before taking the pen from my hand.

  “I don’t doubt you will,” he says, before he leans over the table and signs over twenty-six million dollars for me to invest. Once he has signed on all the lines I had labeled with post-its he hands me back my pen and the contract. He looks over my shoulder at Matt and shakes his head, pointing toward me.

  “She’s the best thing that ever happened to your firm,” he acknowledges, averting his eyes back to me and treating me to a wink. “I’ll be in touch, Gina.”

  “I look forward to it.” I beam, smiling like a pig in shit as I watch him walk out of the restaurant before turning around and crossing my arms as I smirk at the men staring at me.

  I want to tell them they have no business doubting me—that I’ve been living life in a man’s world since I was a child and even though I am a woman I can hustle just as hard as any one of them. After all, I’m the one who scored the twenty-six million investment portfolio today.

  Me.

  The skirt.

  The one without a dick.

  But the girl with a pair of balls bigger than any of these poor schmucks.

  Come on Gee, let’s celebrate the win.

  I’ll buy you a drink.

  Let’s play a game of pool, baby.

  Right. Like I don’t know they’re taking bets on which one of them they think I’ll go home with by the end of the night.

  I wouldn’t mind getting laid. Yes, I said it and let me
stop you right there before you judge me. Why is it okay for a man to fuck whenever he gets the itch but a girl says she needs to get laid and automatically she’s a slut and the Virgin Mary is frowning upon her?

  I like sex.

  Big fucking deal.

  But as much as I like sex it’s not happening for me tonight. Which is kind of sad considering I don’t remember the last time I had an orgasm that didn’t involve batteries or my hand. But I’d rather buy stock in Duracell than go to bed with any of the men in my office. I’ll continue to drink them under the table and win game after game of pool, taking every dollar they have secured to their fancy money clip until I feel like going home to my vibrator and the pint of ice cream in my freezer.

  I lean over the table, knowing I was driving my co-worker, Jerry, nuts as I flaunted my cleavage and took my shot. I watched his face as the ball rolled into the pocket and declared me the winner of yet another game.

  I was on fire!

  I took the martini Matt offered me and smiled up at him.

  “You think you’re safe because you keep buying me drinks,” I accuse.

  “I know better than to play a game of pool with you, Gina. I like my money in my pocket thank you very much.”

  I shrug my shoulders, taking the little plastic sword from my glass I wrap my lips around the two olives and pull them into my mouth.

  “Pussy,” I call as I chew on the olives and set my glass down. “No wonder, you gave me Sanders. You don’t have the balls to close a deal like that.” I lifted my finger to his lips when he started to argue. “Don’t bother denying it. You won’t even play a game of pool with me, too scared to get your ass kicked by a woman.”

  I drop my finger from his mouth and grab my glass again.

  “Fine,” Matt growls. “One game,” he says, taking a pool stick off the rack on the wall. “You want to play with the big dogs, Gee, then you better make the stakes high,” he demanded.

  For a fleeting second I debated on waging my ticket to a partnership within the firm, but I decided I wanted to earn that based on my success as a broker and not as a pool shark. He reached into his pocket and pulled ten crisp one hundred dollar bills from his fold, fanning them out on the table.

  “Too rich for your blood?” he taunts.

  “What do you think? You saw the contract I just nailed, a numbers guy like you can surely figure my commission on that,” I respond, tipping my chin toward the table. “Rack ‘em.”

  I was able to convince Wolf to let me stop off at the clubhouse to take a quick shower and grab my bike. There was no way in fucking hell I was getting in a car with him again—ever. He tailed me to the restaurant, making sure I didn’t take any detours, and that I didn’t ditch him. The man was relentless in his quest for brotherhood or rather, his quest to make me one with the men of my club.

  Once we arrived at the restaurant, parked in an overpriced garage, Wolf led me into the packed steak house, through the main bar area and into a private room reserved for our club. They were all there—Jack, Blackie, Riggs, Pipe sat together on one end of the table and across from them were Linc, Deuce, Cobra and two of the prospects Bosco and Mack. They didn’t notice us enter the room, too engrossed in Pipe’s story about his wife’s implants.

  “A fake rack never did it for me,” Jack says, lifting his beer bottle to his lips and pausing to point a finger at Blackie. “If you put your two cents into this conversation, I might shoot you.”

  Blackie leaned back against his chair, shaking his head as his eyes found me and Wolf.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” Blackie announces.

  “And his party planner,” Riggs noted, raising an eyebrow toward Wolf as he glanced around the room. “Fancy place, Wolf.”

  “You’re used to fancy aren’t you, Richie Rich?” Pipe quipped, loving to throw in digs whenever he could about Riggs’ rich boy status.

  Jack stood from the head of the table and walked over to me, patting my shoulder as he grinned at me.

  “Welcome home, brother,” he says, looking over my shoulder at the waiter standing in the doorway. “Get this motherfucker the finest bottle of whiskey,” he ordered.

  “Thanks, Prez,” I said, forcing a smile as I let him lead me toward the table. I wasn’t used to this shit—the appreciation, the attention, and I didn’t know how the fuck to respond. Even when I came home from Afghanistan and I was awarded a medal for my service—I didn’t want the appreciation or the validation. It’s not why I put myself out there and the same applies for my club. I did as I was told for the greater good of my brother and the patch we wore proudly. It wasn’t some grand gesture, and it didn’t deserve one in return.

  Blackie stood up, sizing me up before he tipped his chin and bit his cheek to keep from grinning.

  “How’s the nose?”

  I shrug my shoulders, taking the glass the waiter offers me and knock it back before I look back at Blackie.

  “It’s good, gives me character,” I replied, watching the smirk spread across his face as he patted me on the back.

  “Thank you,” he said, his face growing serious. “Appreciate what you did.”

  “No sweat,” I assured him, taking a seat at the table. “I needed the fucking vacation.”

  “Yo, bro, we’ve missed your ass,” Linc called from across the table.

  “You missed him hustling pool,” Deuce gave up. “Kid’s broke.”

  “Kiss my ass, Deucey,” Linc replies, before turning his attention back to me. “They have a table outside if you feel like making a quick buck,” he informed me, wiggling his eyebrows.

  It was my thing.

  Since I was a teenager, looking to escape my home life—I hustled. If there was a way to turn a dollar into ten, I was all over that shit. When I was sixteen, I hung out at a pool hall, learned the game, mastered it and now I’m known for being the pool shark. After Wolf brought me back to Brooklyn, I played religiously and Linc was all up in my shit. He was like my pimp, taking bets on me whenever I played—guy made some serious dough with me.

  “Fuck pool,” Wolf said, handing me a menu. “I’ve got this room for the next four hours.”

  “You really went all out,” Pipe started as he buttered a piece of bread. “I hear The Knot is hiring if you’re looking to hang up your cut and start planning weddings and shit.”

  “Fuck you,” Wolf hissed. “You should thank me, if it was up to the rest of these clowns we’d be having cherry pie and fake beer, while Blackie and Lacey played footsies under the goddamn table.” He points his finger at Riggs and adds, “And this guy would be chasing his kitty all over the fucking place.”

  Wolf wrapped an arm around my shoulders as I closed the menu and reached for the whiskey again. “Don’t you worry, man, Uncle Wolf knows how to throw a party, part of the reason I reserved the room for four hours was because the girls are due to arrive soon.”

  “What girls?” Blackie asks.

  “My man Stryker has seen nothing but dick for months—got him some top notch girls. The pussy on tonight’s menu is as prime as the cuts of beef.”

  This is my life.

  Always running with the chaos.

  “Pussy whipped fools,” Wolf muttered, throwing an arm around me and Linc. “Not us. Shit, we ain’t going down like that, right boys?”

  “Fuck no,” Linc agreed.

  “Yeah,” I added, refilling my glass.

  Fucking chaos.

  We ordered dinner, they caught me up to speed with the club—shit has been quiet. I’m learning that’s a rarity here in Brooklyn. It symbolizes the calm before the storm or in our case the calm before the mayhem.

  Wolf wasn’t bullshitting—the cuts of beef were prime and by the time our bellies were full his girls showed. Jack grabbed the waiter and gave him his credit card number before rounding up Blackie and Riggs. I didn’t blame them for cutting out of here—they each had a warm body waiting for them at home, and
this scene no longer appealed to them. Even Pipe had a wife at home waiting for his sorry ass.

  It fucking didn’t appeal to me much either—which was scary as fuck considering it’s been eight months since I sank my dick into anything other than my own fisted hand.

  “Hi there, handsome,” a blonde crooned as she stepped in front of me. “Wolf tells me we’re all here because of you,” she added huskily as she ran her hand along my arm. I let my eyes travel the length of her body, taking in her barely there dress and the fake pair of tits threatening to swallow her head.

  I peeled her hand off my arm, took a sip of the beer I was drinking and stepped closer to her as I brought the neck of the bottle down.

  “Wolf’s telling tales,” I tell her, glancing over at him. “We’re really here for him but the big lug is too proud to admit it.” I turned back to her, winking at her. “Bet you wouldn’t take him for the shy one, huh?”

  “No,” she says as she looks over at him.

  “Why don’t you go show him some love, darlin’,” I whisper, turning her around by her shoulders and leaning close to her ear. “Wolf can use a little TLC and I think you’re just the one to give him what he needs,” I murmur against her ear, feeling the goosebumps rise on her skin beneath my fingers. I drop my hands from her shoulders, take a step backward and a moment later she is walking straight for Wolf.

  Thank fucking Christ.

  I downed the rest of my drink and snuck out of the private room in search of the men’s room. The same bunch of stiff suits that were occupying the pool table when we first arrived are still huddled around the table. These fuckers didn’t look like they knew how to work their dicks much less a pool stick. After a quick trip to the bathroom I made my way toward the main bar, ordered a beer and leaned back against it as I kept my eyes trained on the crowd by the pool table.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Linc says, coming up beside me. I bit my cheek, holding back the exasperated sigh. All I wanted was five fucking minutes alone. He tipped the neck of his beer bottle toward the pool table. “I think we’ve been nice long enough. It’s time to show these bastards the door, unless of course you don’t think you can take them,” he teased, bringing the bottle to his lips to mask his grin.