Single Daddy Dom

by Sophia Gray

“And when's that going to be?” she asked as the elevator doors opened.

  Before Brock could answer, a cadre of six stone-faced gangsters came forward to greet them, led by Adamo.

  “He's still got you running around tonight?” Brock asked Adamo. “Jesus, I figured after everything you've been through, you'd be sitting somewhere quiet and nursing a drink or three by now.”

  “Nothing is more important than ensuring Margherita is delivered to her father safely,” Adamo rasped. “Don Ricci wants me to thank you again for your quick thinking earlier, and for protecting his most prized possession.”

  Brock felt Maggie stiffen next to him at being called a “possession.” He couldn't blame her. It reminded him of something from his own life, but he couldn't quite place it.

  “Come along, Margherita,” Adamo said, taking her by the arm gently. “It's time to go home.”

  As Adamo led her away, Maggie called to Brock over her shoulder. “Even with everything that happened, I still feel like I should thank you for a lovely evening, ha!”

  Brock smiled. For a pampered rich girl, she sure had some balls on her.

  “Likewise, I'm sure,” he called back.

  Once Maggie and the gangsters were gone, Brock turned to Crack, who stood near the check-in desk. “So! All in all, I'd say things are going well so far. I guess we should go to The Clear View and meet up with the guys, huh?”

  Crack raised his eyebrows and followed Brock out the door.

  Chapter 12

  Hammer

  Hammer's forehead ached furiously where the paintball had hit it, and the streaks of red dye were already stiffening and cracking on his face. But he was so filled with glee that he didn't care. He hopped up onto the bar at The Clear View, pantomiming a shotgun and bellowing theatrically.

  “It's time for some motherfucking payback, you worthless dago bitches! We're here for the girl, and you can't stop us! Eat buckshot! Blam! Blam!”

  The room erupted with laughter except for Franny, who stoically poured out shots of whiskey for herself and the others.

  “How about Brock, huh?” Cobra chortled, holding his sides. “The others are all cowering behind the car, and he's just standing tall like a badass, killing guys with each shot like he's fuckin' Dirty Harry or some shit.”

  “My favorite part was Splinter's Oscar-winning performance,” Lash snorted. He clutched his chest dramatically, shrieking in a panicked falsetto. “'Oh, no! You wasted Hammer! You scoundrels! You dirty rats!'”

  “'They're just too much for us, guys!'” Splinter chimed in merrily. “'We've gotta get out of here!'” He mimed hiking up a skirt and mincing away quickly, and several others followed suit.

  Hammer laughed so hard he fell off the bar, tears streaming down his cheeks as they turned purple. “Stop it,” he wheezed, slapping his knee. “I can't breathe!”

  “Hey, how about that Crack, huh?” Lash said. “Can you believe he switched out Adamo's gun without being noticed? Man, how does a guy that big have such fast hands?”

  “Speaking of which,” Greg pointed out, “shouldn't he and Brock have made it back here by now?”

  “Relax, they'll be here,” Robby assured him. “Brock is probably buying himself a drink at every bar in the French Quarter, patting himself on the back.”

  “He goddamn deserves it,” Hammer said. He turned to Ben, touching his forehead and wincing. “Dude, those paint rounds sting like a sonuvabitch! You couldn't have made them any softer?”

  “They were still fired out of a damn Desert Eagle,” Ben replied, rolling his eyes. “What, did you expect them to feel like dandelion puffs? I thought you bikers were supposed to be tough. You're just lucky Brock is such a crack shot, or you could've lost an eye.”

  The door opened and Brock walked in with Crack. Everyone in the bar applauded, and Hammer put two fingers in his mouth, whistling loudly.

  “You're finally here,” Robby exclaimed, getting up from his seat and bringing shots of whiskey to the two men. “What took you guys so long?”

  Before Brock could open his mouth, Crack answered. “He fucked her.”

  The room fell silent immediately.

  “Hey, what the hell is that?” Brock sputtered, sounding annoyed. “Come on, don't say shit like that. How did you...I mean...why the hell would you think that, anyway? That's...”

  Crack looked at Brock darkly.

  “Brock, that ain't true, is it?” Hammer asked. His heart felt like it was dropping down an elevator shaft. They'd gone over the plan carefully, and this wasn't part of it. No, it sounded a lot like the kind of reckless stuff Brock had gotten up to when they were still a couple of silly kids.

  The stuff that generally got them into deep trouble.

  “Of course it's not true,” Brock said. “Hey, just because I was alone with her for an hour, you think I can't control myself? You honestly believe I'd jeopardize this whole operation like that, just for a quick screw?”

  Greg shut his eyes tightly, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ, Brock.”

  Robby leaned in close to Brock and sniffed twice. His eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth quivered with rage. “Holy shit. You did. You actually fucked her, you testa di cazzo, you stupid, selfish motherfucking stronzo—”

  “Hey, hey, careful!” Brock protested. “I actually know what those words mean now, you know.”

  Robby kicked a chair, sending it flying across the room. “Goddamn it, Brock, can't you take anything seriously? What did I say to you, huh? What were my exact fucking words? Do not fuck this girl. Not this one. We've got millions of dollars on the line, and you're pissing it away just so you can get your balls drained!”

  “You've really got to work on your mixed metaphors, there, Robby,” Brock said. “Am I pissing, or am I draining my balls? I can't be doing both.”

  “I should have known better,” Ben growled, slamming a fist on the bar. “I should have walked away from this the moment I saw it was you, because you always fucking do this. No matter what the score is or how many other people are involved, you always find some way to make it about you. But, no, I got greedy and fell for your horseshit all over again...”

  “Men,” Franny sighed bitterly. She poured herself a double shot of whiskey, draining it in one gulp.

  “And you!” Robby barked, jamming an accusing finger in Crack's face. “You were supposed to be keeping an eye on things. Why the hell would you leave him alone with her for an hour?”

  “Couldn't exactly say anything, could I?” Crack asked.

  “Guys, there's no need for any of this drama,” Brock insisted. “Okay, fine, I got caught up in the moment and went a little off-book. So what? Nothing has changed. The plan is still solid. If anything, it's even more solid now because she actually likes me.”

  “This don't feel solid to me, Brock,” Hammer said sadly. He knew big, tough bikers weren't supposed to have hurt feelings, but, damn it, he had them just the same. “This feels bad. Like we can't rely on you to stick to the blueprint, so we'll all be sitting on one ass cheek waiting to hear about the next decision you made without telling us.”

  Brock looked hurt. “How can you stand there and say you can't rely on me, Hammer? Haven't we known each other since we were in second grade? Didn't I come running the minute you said you needed my help? Didn't I come up with a plan to get ten times your money back for you?”

  “Yeah, but now you're making moves that go against that plan,” said Hammer. “And for what? To get your dick wet? What is that?”

  “I should have known better,” Ben repeated. “I should have realized the only way you could ever keep your head during a scam is if someone milked you like a fucking dairy cow every morning.”

  “Oh, and are you volunteering for that job, Ben? Because if so, thanks but no thanks.” Brock let out a frustrated sigh. “Look. Clearly, you guys just don't understand. Even if I went a little too far, the fact is, seduction is still a crucial component of this whole thing. I mean, Christ, it's the Spanish P
risoner con.”

  “I don't give a flying fuck if it's the Chinese Dentist con,” Robby snapped. “You had no right to take that risk on your own, and you know it.”

  “So what, then?” Brock asked. “You guys want to just pack it in and forget the whole thing? You want to walk away from all that money and let these greasers shit all over you whenever they feel like it? Because it sure sounds like that's what I'm hearing.”

  The others exchanged glances uncertainly.

  “I think we can still do the rest of the plan,” Hammer said. He felt an uncertain twinge in his gut, but he couldn't help it. He and Brock went back too far, and he badly wanted to feel like he could trust his old friend despite this lapse in judgment. “But I'd say you owe everyone in this room your solemn promise that you'll stick to the script from now on.”

  “Oh, his 'solemn promise?'” Robby blurted out. “What, like cross his heart, stick a needle, all that shit? You must think we're all in second grade if you expect us to fall for that load of crap.”

  “I expect Brock to be the honorable man I know he really is, behind all the bluffing and bullshit,” Hammer said evenly. “We go back too far for me not to.”

  Brock nodded. “Absolutely. Thank you, Hammer. That means a lot to me.”

  Robby threw up his hands, exasperated. “We're going along with this fiasco? Fine. But from now on, Brock, you do not spend one second alone with that girl. Period.” He turned to Crack. “If he tries to send you away again, hoof him in the fucking balls.”

  “Suits me,” said Crack.

  “All right,” Hammer said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Glad we've got that sorted out. So what's next, Brock?”

  “You'll need to find us a brick of heroin,” Brock told him. “As pure as you can find. And you can't get it from anyone who could get word back to Ricci. This has to be completely off the grid.”

  Hammer thought for a moment. “There's a guy over in Mississippi who might be able to sell it to us. But it's still not gonna be that pure—my guess is, he'll have stepped on it at least three or four times by then.”

  “That's no problem. We can make it work.” Brock turned to Franny. “How about it, Genius? Are you ready to bust out your chemistry set?”

  Franny grunted her assent, pouring another drink for herself.

  “That ain't the only thing.” Hammer shifted his weight nervously. “Scoring that much H is gonna cost us. Big-time. And we already chipped in for your suit, and for the hotel room—”

  “Consider all of it an investment,” Brock grinned confidently. “By the time this is all over, you aren't going to care what anything costs anymore.”

  Hammer wanted to believe him.

  Except now, deep down, he wasn't quite so sure.

  Chapter 13

  Brock

  Two days later, Brock sat at a work table in a warehouse in Raceland, less than an hour's drive from New Orleans. The Clear View was shuttered, with a sign on the door saying “Closed Until Further Notice.” The bar had functioned as an immediate rendezvous point following the staged attack on Maggie, but the next logical step was to make it seem abandoned, in order to convince Ricci and his men that any remaining Saints had skipped town. Hammer had slipped the warehouse's owner some cash to let them use it for a few weeks, and the MC made it into a temporary base of operations.

  They'd also made a firm rule: until this scam was over, no member of the Saints was allowed to wear his kutte or even ride his motorcycle, and all bikers were strictly forbidden from setting foot in New Orleans. All it would take was for one of them to be recognized—if word got back to Ricci, he could pounce on that Saint and torture him into giving up the location of the others.

  As most of the Saints sat in another section of the warehouse with Crack—drinking beer by the case, watching TV, and having belching contests with each other—Brock watched as Frosty Franny set up the chemistry supplies she'd bought in Baton Rouge the previous day. The array of burners, funnels, and chemicals made the corner of the dusty room look like a section of Dr. Frankenstein's lab. Robby, Greg, and Ben observed this scene, as well.

  “Were you able to pick up everything you'll need?” Greg asked.

  Franny examined one of the tall glass beakers, polishing it meticulously with a small square of fabric. “It'll do.”

  “I still don't see why someone like you would buy all-new equipment in every place you go,” Robby mused. He removed a chocolate bar from his pocket, unwrapped it, and took a big bite as he wandered over to Franny's setup. “Why not just bring your own kit with you?”

  Based on the look Franny gave Robby, Brock figured that must have been one of the dumbest questions anyone had ever asked her. “Do you travel around with a big suitcase full of evidence from the crimes you've committed?”

  Robby blinked. “No, I guess not. I never thought of it that way.” He licked chocolate from his fingertips, reaching for a funnel. “What does this stuff even do, anyway?”

  Franny's thin fingers clamped around Robby's wrist. “It gets busted over your head if you try to touch it with your grubby hands.”

  “Okay, okay!” She released Robby's wrist, and he rubbed it. “Jesus, your hands are like ice, you know that?”

  “Poor circulation,” she sneered. “It's how I got my nickname. Or did you think it came from my warm, sunny disposition?”

  Robby shook his head, returning to his seat next to Brock. “You've got problems, lady,” he grumbled under his breath.

  There was a series of five rhythmic knocks high on the door, followed by a pause and five more knocks lower down. The coded knock was Hammer's idea—a crude approximation of the first few bars of “All Along the Watchtower.”

  Ben unlocked the door and Hammer entered, carrying a shopping bag. In place of his usual outlaw duds, he wore a new pair of jeans and an ugly sweater.

  “I can't believe you've got me riding around in a rental car like some half-assed cager,” Hammer said, dropping the bag on the floor. “And in this stupid outfit, no less. I may as well have had James fucking Taylor playing on the radio.”

  “Hey, low profile means low profile,” Robby snapped. “You get seen and I get dead, remember? No one recognized you, did they?”

  “Not 'til I met up with Whitman over in Hattiesburg. Once he was done laughing his ass off at my clothes, it took a lot to convince him we weren't going to use his stuff to set up shop for ourselves down here. He knew it wasn't for recreational use, since using junk is against club rules.”

  “So what did you tell him?” Brock asked.

  “I said we were gonna use it to set some guy up for possession with intent.” Hammer opened the shopping bag and took out a brick of heroin wrapped in clear plastic. “He wasn't thrilled about us using his stuff to do that, so it cost extra.”

  Franny took the brick from Hammer, examining it carefully. “Hmm. Some serious color impurities, and a significant amount of particulate matter. Whatever you paid for this, it was too much.” She carried the brick over to a plastic bucket and pried off the round plastic top, revealing a clear liquid inside.

  “What's that?” Ben asked.

  Franny dug her thumbnail into the plastic wrapping of the brick, prying it apart to expose the powder beneath it.

  “This is water,” she said, dumping the heroin into it.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Hammer shrieked. He ran to the bucket just in time to see the heroin dissolve into it. “Do you have any idea how much that's worth?”

  “Nothing compared to what it'll be worth in a few hours, I assure you.”

  Hammer turned to Brock, his face red. “What the hell is this crazy bitch talking about?”

  Brock smiled, slapping Hammer on the shoulder good-naturedly. “Relax, Hammer! You're about to watch an act of absolute alchemy. You've heard of spinning straw into gold? Well, Frosty Franny is going to turn this stepped-on garbage into the purest junk you've ever seen.”

  “Bullshit,” Hammer growled. “No one can really
do that. It's a fucking urban myth.”

  “Then I guess I must have gotten my degree in mythology instead of chemistry,” Franny said calmly, “because that's exactly what I'm going to do.”

  “Okay, fine.” Hammer walked over to where Brock and the others had been sitting, grabbed a chair, turned it around backwards, and straddled it. “Show me.”

  Franny eyed Hammer and the others balefully. “You really expect me to do this for an audience? This isn't an episode of Bill Nye, you know. I'll be working with dangerous chemicals.”

  “Relax, Franny,” Brock said. “You're a pro. I'm sure having us around won't affect your work one bit.”

  “All right. But stay quiet, keep your distance, and no smoking. If you light up around these fumes, you could kill us all. And remember, kids—don't try this at home.” Franny put on rubber gloves and a pair of safety glasses. Then she took a long, thin strip of paper from her equipment. It had colored sections on it. “We'll be monitoring this process using these pH strips.”