Pawn: The Pawn Duet, Book Two

by Frazier, T. M.

  The seconds pass, moving in slow motion. If this is a prank, it’s a pretty shitty one, at least for me. Percy and Darius are the most manipulative men alive. I’m not about to confess everything and get myself killed before I’ve had a chance to carry out my plans. No, I’m keeping my cards close to my chest, out of view, in case this is some sort of trick or a test. That’s it. I’ll think of it as a test.

  I’m good at those. Tests are my jam.

  A’s all the way, baby.

  “Uh, Percy?” I start, giving him my best I don’t know what you’re talking about face. “Bringing what down? What do you think I’ve got planned?” I’m playing dumb. Well, at the very least, ignorant. I may have just admitted to being with Pike but I’m not about to admit that I have a plan to take down the organization he was born into.

  “Playing dumb ain’t gonna work on me, Mickey. I know how smart you are, and I know what you’re planning,” he insists.

  Fuck.

  “Did someone put something in your head, and tell you—”

  Percy cuts me off. “No one told me shit. I know what you're up to because I recognize myself in your eyes. I couldn’t see it before, not until I changed and started seeing everything differently. We want the same things, Mickey. To end it. All of it.” He sits down on the edge of the bed. The usual hate-filled eyes I’m used to seeing glaring at me are gone, replaced with a much more tired version. And he’s right. I see myself in his eyes.

  “When?” I ask, pushing off the wall and joining him on the bed. “When did you change?”

  He sighs and looks down at his hands. . “When I was in prison. I…I just changed my mind. I saw clearly for the first time. Things, people, the world, but mostly myself. It all became…clear. For the first time.”

  “Why?” I press, curious as to what can change beliefs he’s lived his entire life upholding and wondering if whatever changed him can be sucked into a syringe and injected into the rest of them.

  “Why?” he laughs. “Because I feel like shit all the time. Because I was, am, angry all the time. I’m tired of being angry. Of being this person.”

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth and this isn’t some sort of elaborate trap to get me to confess?” I ask, cautiously.

  Percy pulls a bandana from his back pocket and swipes at the back of his neck. When he pulls it away, it’s covered with ink and the tattoo is smeared across his skin, revealing scarred raised ink-free skin underneath. “There’s this program in the joint,” he starts, “to help inmates rid themselves of the tattoos from gangs and hate groups. To erase the symbols that link us to our past. I started with my head and the ones on my neck are mostly gone now. I’ll eventually do the rest of my body, but it takes a long time and a lot of sessions to get them to go away and as much as I don’t want to sound like a fucking pussy, it hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  “That’s why you’re growing your hair back,” I realize, pointing to the blonde stubble on his head.

  Percy rubs his palm over it. “Yeah, also, you know that the men of The Reich are supposed to grow their hair out when they get married. Skinheads are the soldiers, and Darius has always wanted me to be a leader. Our marriage is supposed to solidify that, and I guess it doesn’t hurt that I won’t have to have April painting my head every morning.”

  “That’s the girl who is always coming out of your room in the morning? I thought…”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You thought she was one of the Reich’s girls? A whore?”

  “I was going to say consenting sexual participant working to meet the needs of the men of The Reich,” I correct.

  “Of course, you were,” he laughs. “Well, good. I guess if someone has to see her coming out, it’s not bad that’s the impression they got, but no, she’s a makeup artist. She does the one on the back of my neck and the one on my throat. The ones I wouldn’t be able to hide, even with a full head of hair.” He looks down at his colorful arms, sleeves of bigotry displayed in beautiful colorful art. “I still have a lot of work to do,” he sighs. “And I’m glad these are gone.” He runs his fingers over his throat, head and neck, but I can still feel them there. I can remove them from my skin but the reason I want to take down the Reich is because I want them gone from here,” he places his open hand against his chest. “It’s going to take more than a few sessions with a laser to remove those.”

  “What do you want from all this? What’s the reason you came back here after prison?” I ask.

  His eyes are both determined and sad.

  “Redemption.”

  There’s a knock at the door. “Michaela,” a voice calls out. “Darius wants to see you to talk about the recruitment.”

  “You better go,” Percy says. “We’ll talk more later.”

  I turn to leave, then stop. “How…how is she?” I ask, because I have to.

  “She’s safe…for now.”

  8

  Pike

  The door to King’s studio is unlocked. It squeaks and groans as I push past it and enter the dimly lit, unoccupied room.

  Again, I check the message King sent me. It ordered me to be here at eight PM.

  I’m a few minutes early, so while I wait, I take in the room around me. Two giant windows line the back wall, lighting the room in what’s left of the setting sun’s rays. Below the windows are a row of black shiny toolboxes with a butcher block counter resting over the top. A backlit easel sits upon the counter with a stack of fresh stencils in the small open drawer beneath.

  I follow the direction of the new-looking multi-tone grey wood floors into the center of the room where a big, comfortable black leather couch and chairs divide the workspaces on each side with a low glass coffee table between.

  Each workspace consists of a tattoo table, swivel stool, and an additional tool box like on the back wall, except these are on wheels.

  The wall over one of the workspaces catches my eye. It’s covered in a graffiti version of the landscape of Logan’s Beach, complete with a tiny, spray-painted cock and balls on the water tower. I chuckle to myself that Preppy’s vandalism made it into such a work of art. Looking over the rest of the town, I can even make out the rooftop of my pawn shop. The details are incredible, but then again, I couldn’t draw the cock and balls on the water tower, never mind a masterpiece mural like this one. So, I may not be the best person to judge art for the exception of maybe how much it’s worth. I spin on my heel and continue on to the other side of the room where the art covering almost every inch of space in an intricate collage is different than the mural and yet somehow even more incredible. They’re mostly canvas black and white portraits, close-ups of women’s faces or faceless nudes. I recognize one of the faces as Poe, Nine’s girl, and another as Thia, Bear’s wife.

  My chest constricts when I see Mickey’s face staring back at me from one of the portraits. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. I plop down onto one of the chairs and rest my elbows on my knees, rubbing my palms over my face. Mickey isn’t up on that wall, I remind myself. When I look up again, the portrait is no longer Mickey, but Dre, Preppy’s wife.

  And I thought Mickey was crazy for seeing things.

  As the sun sets further into the horizon, the studio begins to glow. The LED rope lighting lining the room casts the walls and floors in shades of neon green and orange. The soffit above the windows has a sign that reads King’s Tattoo, on a neon sign depicting a skull wearing a crown and a bow tie with the number nine in the center. The skull is symbolic of Bear, the crown of King, the bow tie of Preppy, and the Nine in the middle is a recent addition, for of course, Nine himself.

  I find myself staring back at the mural again and wondering if I’ll ever be able to prove myself in this town. I don’t even hear King until he’s standing directly behind me. “I’m the one who painted it, and even I find myself staring at this shit all too often,” he says.

  I turn my head to see him with his big arms crossed over his chest. The neon lights cause the spikes on the belts wrappe
d around his arms to glow bright white.

  “I don’t know shit about art,” I admit with a shrug, “beyond what it’s worth. I couldn’t tell you if something is good or bad, but just looking at this shit, I have to say it’s pretty fucking amazing.”

  “Not nearly as good as my girl’s stuff,” he points to the other wall with his smoke. “She’s got the real gift. I can make something look good, while Ray—” He smirks and shakes his head as if he can’t believe it himself. He absentmindedly rubs his thumb over a tattoo of a black bird on the back of his hand. “Her shit makes you feel something. That’s real fucking talent.” His voice is filled with pride and wonder. Again, I find myself thinking about Mickey. If things were different, would I be speaking about her the same way? Doesn’t matter. She made her choice, and I’ll never find out. I try to shake off the thought, but it’s like shaking off a tick that’s already half-burrowed into your skin. Hard to get rid of and might cause an incurable disease. In my case? The disease is love.

  Love?

  I…shit. I do love her. I’m fucking in love with her.

  I remember my earlier revelation with Thorne. It doesn’t matter that Mickey made her choice, because I plan on making another one for her.

  “You got something you want to get off of your mind?” King asks, cocking an eyebrow that’s missing half the pigment on one side.

  I run my hand through my hair and blow out a breath. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Talking’s never been my thing. I thought we’d go over a plan I have for the Reich. There’s been a development.”

  King pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bottom cabinet of one of the tool boxes and nods to the skull shot glasses on the coffee table. I retrieve two of them, and he fills both. We clink our glasses together before downing our shots. The liquid burns on the way down but not enough to burn out the longing that grows inside of me with each passing hour.

  “Talkin’ ain’t never been my gig, either. I speak when I’ve got something to say, and usually, it’s only when I’m pissed. But with the kids and Ray, it’s different. It turns out if someone calls “Daddy” forty-five times in a row, they’ll still keep goin’ until you respond.” He smirks and pours two more shots. “What’s this plan of yours?”

  I lay it out for him, and he nods. “It’s a solid plan. Complicated as fuck, but so is the situation.” His eyes meet mine, and one side of his mouth curls up in a knowing half-smile. “So, you’ve decided to claim her, after all. You realize you’re responsible for her now. As much as it means that we can’t lay a hand on her in any way, it also means that any actions of Mickey’s that affects us comes back on you. And you can’t take that shit back. You only get one claim.”

  I nod because I know there’s no going back. I don’t want to go back. “I understand how it works. Mickey’s mine.”

  King downs the next shot, and I follow his lead. “You know,” he starts, staring into his empty shot glass. “I get pissed off a lot when shit goes sideways, but that’s only because I have high expectations of the people I choose to surround myself with. You, included.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, and I’ve been doing a lot of fucking up lately. I know.”

  He sets down the glass. “You don’t think I’ve fucked up before?” He smirks. “There was a time when alls I did was fuck up. Especially, when I first started out. Hell, I went to the clink so many times I was starting to think they’d give me one of them frequent customer cards or some shit. I fucked up more shit than I got right.” He looks at a picture of his family on top of the tool box. “Even managed to get myself locked up for a few years. Got myself separated from the only thing that mattered at the time. My baby girl, Max.”

  Max is the one that Darius tried to take from King through her birth mother all in the name of causing a rift between me and King. “I can’t imagine what it was like when she…when the shit hit the fan during the hurricane.”

  “No, you can’t, but you will, someday. His voice changes from sad to determined. He points at my chest. “You gotta put that past you, and you gotta know that I give you shit because I see a lot of myself in you. The drive. The take no bullshit attitude. The fucking stare you give everyone when you know they’re full of shit.” He chuckles. “You wouldn’t be around if I didn’t want you around. I trust Nine, and I trust you. Try not to fuck it up again, but if you do, we’ll work it out. That’s what families do. Real fucking families. And it ain’t got shit to do with blood. Though, some of that gets spilled along the way. Especially around here.”

  I appreciate his loyalty, but I also need him to know mine. “I’ll pay you back all of the money I owe you. I’m going to sell the shop.”

  King frowns, and he lifts his glass again, gripping it so tight I’m surprised he doesn’t break it in his hand. “No, you fucking won’t. I got more money than I can bury. I lent that cash to you as an investment, and sometimes, investments don’t work out. You’ll pay me back, but you don’t gotta do it now. And you ain’t selling your fucking shop. That’s final.”

  “I don’t see any other way,” I reply.

  “You’re a smart kid, Pike. Don’t consider it an investment in the deal that went bust. Consider the cash an investment in you. Long term.”

  “But,” I begin to argue.

  “You love your shop, right?” King asks. He looks around his own studio. “Probably as much as I love this fucking place.”

  I nod. “It’s the first real thing I ever owned that was truly mine.”

  “Then, you ain’t giving it up. That’s an order. You’ve got a future ahead of you. I’ll be here when you figure your shit out, and I know you will because as I’ve said, I see a lot of myself in you, and I know that right now you’re trying to think of a million alternative ways to pay me back, and you won’t stop until you do. It wasn’t your fault, but I know you’ll make right by it. Try and sell it and I’ll buy it back in your name and then you’ll owe me even more.”

  He’s right.

  King smirks because he fucking knows he’s right. “And on that note, you want a tat or something?” he asks, pouring another shot for each of us.

  I down mine quickly. This time, there is no burn from the alcohol, just from the bittersweet truth trickling down my throat.

  I shake my head. “Not tonight,” I say, wanting to get to the point of why King wanted me to be here now that I’ve laid out my plans for him.

  King walks over to the nearest swivel stool and takes a seat. Even in the small chair, it’s as if he’s just sat upon his throne in the Kingdom that he built. “Then, did you come here just to stare at my walls, or was it just to tell me your plans and claim your girl?” he asks, lighting a cigarette and holding out the pack to me. I take one and light it as well, perplexed by his question.

  “Uh, you asked me to come here,” I remind him.

  King shakes his head. “I got a lot going on right now, but remembering who I set a meeting with isn’t something I ever forget.”

  I frown and reach into my back pocket, and pull out the note he sent me this morning. I hand it to King.

  He takes a deep drag off his smoke. He looks from the note to me. “This wasn’t me.”

  “Then, who?” I ask.

  The door slowly creaks open.

  Our eyes meet as we both realize we’ve been set up. King springs out of his chair and heads to the wall safe behind one of the drawings, and I draw my gun from my waistband as he pulls out a weapon of his own.

  “Who the fuck is there?” King shouts, grabbing a gun from the safe he takes a position on one side of the door while I take another.

  A man walks in with his hands on his head as if he’s being arrested. I can only see the back of him from my position. His head is shaved down to the skin. He’s wearing a white tank top and baggy jeans. He’s got tattoos, shitty ones depicting swastikas and…

  “Oh, shit,” I whisper to myself before realizing there isn’t time for hesitation when it comes to Percy Alban.

  I
rush forward and kick out his legs from behind, sending him to his knees. I press the gun to the back of his head. “You’ve got two minutes to speak before I blow your fucking brains through your forehead.”

  “I’m not armed. I didn’t come here to cause shit,” he says, calmly. Too calmly. “I came here to talk.”

  “Oh yeah? Who else did you bring to have this talk?” King asks, stepping in front of Percy.

  Percy shakes his head. “No one, man. Check your fucking cameras. I came in here alone.”

  King steps over to the monitors beside the door and checks the cameras. He nods to me. “He’s tellin’ the truth. He’s alone.”

  “I told you,” Percy says. “I just came here to talk.”

  “Why should I fucking talk to you, of all fucking people?” I grate, as King steps to the other side.

  He looks over his shoulder at me. “Because I need help, from both of you.” He looks to King and then to me with what looks like tears in his eyes. “And so does Mickey.”

  “Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your fucking head right the fuck now.” I grate. “You killed Gutter, you son of a bitch.”

  Remembering how Gutter was murdered right before my eyes in the parking lot of my business and home. The only person and only place sacred to me ruined in one stroke of a fucking baseball bat. I gnash my teeth so hard they feel as if they’re about to break. My jaw tightens. My hands shake for the first time since I was a fucking kid. The anger of the memory mixes with the sweetness of revenge, which is only one trigger pull away from being mine.

  Percy shakes his head. “I didn’t—”

  I don’t let him finish because facts are fucking facts. “Don’t fucking deny it!” I push the barrel of my gun against his temple. “I fucking saw you fucks with your skeleton hoodies. There ain’t nothing you can say that is going to buy you a ticket out of your death sentence.”