by Naomi West
Chapter Eleven
Honey
Sadness gripped Honey like a cold fist. Leaving the hotel, she didn’t know what to do with herself. Grit, the father of her baby, had just banished her from his life for good, and the worst part was that she knew on some level that he was right.
I was stupid, she thought, driving home. Fucking stupid. I knew that Charlie giving away his product was the smoking gun that Grit needed, but I didn’t do anything about it. What did I think was going to happen, that I’d learn that Charlie hadn’t actually done anything? That Bethany was just making things up?
She shook her head in disbelief. On top of everything, Honey was furious with herself for not telling Grit the news that she’d called him to discuss—the baby. But she felt wrong about it somehow, as though bringing it up while Grit was scolding her for her stupid decisions would’ve been somehow manipulative. Or worse, that his mind wouldn’t have changed at all, that she would be gone from his life, baby or no baby.
Honey needed to talk to someone. Pulling out her phone, she fired off a text to Bethany. But there was no response. Honey decided to stop by a diner and have a cup of coffee while she thought everything over.
A half-hour later, the coffee in front of her and her heart feeling ripped in two, Honey realized that she was alone in the world, utterly alone.
Then, the phone buzzed on the cheap, white diner table. It was a text from Bethany.
Hey, girl. I’m with Charlie right now, and I’m honestly feeling like I just can’t keep my eyes open. He’s about to leave, but I think I’m just gonna have to go to bed. But I promise we’ll talk tomorrow.
It struck Honey as a little strange that Bethany would be spending time with Charlie, but she knew that Bethany and Charlie were often the last ones to leave Fantasies, and they’d usually head out for a late-night drink when they did.
Sure. Sleep well. Talk to you tomorrow.
Honey fired off the text and returned to her coffee. Resting her head on her chin, she looked around at the low-lifes around her at the diner, a mixture of druggies, punk kids, and thugs. She’d tried so hard to avoid living lives like them, always saving a little money when she could and doing her best to stay away from the drugs and seedy living that came with her line of work. But she knew that when the baby came, if she didn’t have any sort of support system, she’d be screwed. She imagined having to break her rule about sleeping with clients in the back room, spending her evenings screwing strange men for diaper money, no better than a common streetwalker.
Honey wanted to cry right then and there. Instead, she finished her coffee and headed home, where she fell into a restless sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
She woke up the next morning from strange dreams. During the night, Honey imagined walking through dark woods, leading a child by the hand. And though she couldn’t see through the shade of the trees, she could see and hear the movement of wild animals among the trunks. She remembered being gripped by an intense fear and a certainty that the animals were closing in by the second. And there was nothing she could do.
The first thing did when she sat up in bed was place her hand on her stomach. She still had trouble with the idea that she had a life growing inside of her, and the thought was enough to cause a small tremor of terror to grip her. Suddenly, her dream made much more sense.
Picking up her phone, she checked it, hoping for both a text from Grit and from Bethany. Instead, there was neither. Honey knew that it was silly to expect an uncompromising man like Grit to contact her and apologize, but she still held out hope. Bethany, on the other hand, would normally wake her up with a text asking to get breakfast, especially after a night when she’d had to take a raincheck on plans.
Honey needed to talk. She fired off a quick text to Bethany and decided to take a shower. Once she was done, she picked up her phone and saw that there was still nothing from her friend.
This is fucking weird, thought Honey. That girl’s phone is practically attached to her hand.
Honey pulled up Bethany’s number and gave her a call. It rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail.
“Hey, girl,” said Honey, twirling her hair with her finger. “Um, just seeing if you’re still down to hang out and chat. Sorry to bother you, but I just had a really rough night last night. Call me when you get this. Bye.”
Honey hung up and realized that she’d never once had to leave a voicemail on Bethany’s phone. Bethany was usually so quick with the texts that even phone calls were never really needed.
Honey prepared herself a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, picking at the food and forcing it down. She wasn’t hungry in the slightest, but she knew that even something as simple as what she put into her body wasn’t her call anymore.
Now you’re eating for two, she thought, looking in the mirror across from her kitchen table and imagining what she’d look like with a full, pregnant belly.
When she was done, she cleaned up and checked her phone. Still nothing.
Okay, this is fucking strange, thought Honey. Is she with a dude or something? No, she said she was with Charlie, and unless those two are knocking boots, which I seriously doubt, then she probably went to sleep early.
Honey thought about how tired Bethany had sounded on the phone, and wondering if maybe she was just sleeping in. She came up with a handful of rational explanations for what was going on, but none of them sat right with her. Something was wrong.
Throwing on some simple clothes, Honey grabbed her keys and phone and headed out. She spent the drive over to Bethany’s doing her best to ignore the anxiety that was building in her stomach by the moment. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but something about this whole thing seemed off.
Once she arrived at Bethany’s place, Honey strode up to the front door and knocked. Moments passed, and there was no response. She knocked again, and just as before, nothing. Honey pulled out her phone and called, and again received no answer.
What the fuck is going on? thought Honey.
She looked around the porch for the fake rock where she knew Bethany kept a spare key. Opening the door, the smell of something vile, like old garbage, hit her right in the face.
“Whoa!” shouted Honey, waving her hand in front of her.
The first thing she noticed was just how dim the place was. The lights were all off, and the curtains were pulled shut. It was like walking into a cave.
“B?” called out Honey. “It’s me!”
Honey stepped into the living room, deftly moving through the garbage that Bethany still had yet to clean up. She walked over to the nearest curtains and pulled them open, casting light on the dingy living room. And as soon as she had a little light to work with, she spotted something on the coffee table.
There were two needles, two spoons, and a small amount of drugs.
Shit, shit, thought Honey. She was fucking using again.
“Bethany!” called out Honey, her heart now racing, a sense of dread taking hold of her. “Please! Where are you?”
Honey darted around the place, trying to find any sign of her friend. Finally, she came to the bedroom door, which was shut tight. Her stomach tightened into a hot ball as she placed her hand on the knob. She knew that whatever was on the other side wasn’t going to be good.
Taking one final breath, she opened the door.
The bedroom, like the rest of the house, was dark and devoid of light. But there was one difference: on the bed, sprawled out, her limbs limp, was Bethany.
Honey rushed over to her, checking her for any sign of life. Bethany’s eyes were open, her mouth was slack, and her skin was cool and clammy.
“Bethany!” cried Honey, trying to shake her friend to consciousness. “Wake up! Please, wake up!”
Hot tears formed in Honey’s eyes and her heart pounded as she looked over Bethany. All around her she saw the signs of what had likely happened—drugs. Honey pressed down on Bethany’s chest, doing her best to imitate the CPR she’d seen on TV. But t
o no avail. Bethany stayed as limp as she’d been when Honey entered.
She was gone. And all Honey could do was scream.
Chapter Twelve
Grit
Grit was tired of fucking around. Sitting at the bar of one of the Vandals’ usual haunts a day or so after the farewell party for Pitt, he realized that he’d been spending far, far too much time with his thumb up his ass, waiting around for some stripper to give him the information that he needed to make a move.
Why the fuck am I being so hesitant? he asked himself, shaking his head as he rolled the glass of whiskey by the bottom of the glass on the bar. I’m acting like a fucking pussy.
To that end, he’d called up some of the men in his crew to meet him at the bar and figure out a plan. Part of him wanted to just break into the place with guns blazing, so to speak, and rip that fucking strip club out of the ground by its foundations.
Patience, he told himself. Revenge is good, but I gotta keep a clear head. Getting emotional and making decisions in that state of mind is a good way to make some serious fuck-ups.
Before he could give the matter much more thought, the doors to the dingy bar flung open and the men from his crew strolled in. There were Stone, Razor, and a couple of others who were new to the Vandals. Grit liked to give the new guys opportunities to ride along with the more seasoned members of the club for serious ops, to give them a chance to show what they were made out of. He hoped that wouldn’t be a mistake tonight.
Grit stood up from the bar to greet his brothers, throwing back the rest of his whiskey and ordering another as he directed them to a table in the back corner. The men ordered their drinks and headed over. Once everyone was seated, Grit looked over his crew. They all seemed ready, all with the same steely look of determination in their eyes. They were as ready for revenge as he was.
“What’s the plan, chief?” asked Stone, his hand wrapped around a tall glass of beer. “More recon?”
“I say we fucking shoot first and ask questions later,” said Razor, anger lining his voice.
Grit knew that as much as he wanted revenge, Razor was likely itching for it even more. That could be a powerful weapon going forward, Grit understood, but he knew he had to make sure that Razor’s emotions didn’t get the better of him.
“I got some news about the strip club,” said Grit. “Found out that the bartender there’s been handing out free dope to the strippers, trying to get them to sample it or some shit. Sounds to me like he’s using them as guinea pigs to get his recipes down.”
Razor slammed his fist on the table.
“That’s it then,” said Razor. “What more proof do we need than that? We need to wipe this fucking place off the map before anyone else gets killed.”
“I’m with Razor,” said Killian, one of the newbies, a tank of a man with a shaved head and tattoos covering his neck. “I don’t know what better evidence we’re gonna get than that.”
Grit liked to run ideas by his men, just to see what they thought of given situations. He always had a plan in mind for what he wanted to do, but asking for opinions was usually a good way to check morale, and maybe pick up an idea of something else he hadn’t considered.
“We need to be fucking careful,” said Stone. “This sounds like it’s the place, but we can’t just go barging in there. Good way to make a huge fucking mistake. Maybe even get killed.”
The fourth man, Gray, a slim-bodied man with one of those worn faces that gives a man an appearance of being ten years older than he really was, took in all of the conversation in silence.
“Maybe we need to wait a little while,” said Stone. “Wait until we’re sure.”
Grit knew well by this point that Stone was a cautious sort of guy, the type who liked to have all the angles worked out before making any drastic actions. That was useful, but often had the result of hemming and hawing until opportunities slipped by. And Grit was certain that this was one of those times.
“Fuck sitting around!” shouted Razor. “How many more of our brothers have to fucking die before we make a move? I didn’t join this fucking outfit to do goddamn recon!”
Grit raised his palm to silence Razor, and he knew that the time for discussion was over.
“We’re moving in tonight,” said Grit. “We’re not a hundred percent sure that the lab is there, but if we wait for total certainty then they’re gonna get this place locked up so tight that the only way we’ll get in there will be a surgical fucking airstrike.”
Grit looked around at the men and saw from their faces that they were good with his plan.
“And we’re moving out now. We’re gonna get in there, confirm that it’s the lab, and do whatever it takes to shut that fucking place down. The time for screwing around is over.”
More nods from the men.
Gray chose that moment to speak up.
“I’ve been doing some recon on the place,” he said. “At two a.m. the guards take off for a half-hour to make a drop of something—probably supply. If we move in then, we should be able to break into the place without too much resistance.”
Grit was pleased to hear that. He appreciated men taking initiative and going above and beyond.
Might want to keep an eye on this guy, he thought, could be a man to move up in the crew. But let’s get this shit taken care of before I start thinking about shit like that.
“That’s in an hour,” said Grit. “Let’s kill these fucking drinks and get geared up.”
The men did just that. Moments later, their drinks were drained and they were back on their bikes, riding to one of the warehouses where the crew kept their gear. There, they located a black van they used for raid ops like this, situations where rolling up with roaring motorcycles wasn’t the most tactical decision to make. Grit and the men grabbed some guns and explosives—everything they’d need to wreck the hell out of the strip club and handle any asshole stupid enough to get in their way.
Soon, they were loaded up into the van and heading out. Grit gazed out of the window at the neon lights of Vegas off in the distance, the bright glare of the Strip a contrast to the ink-black sky above. It’d been a while since he’d been on a raid like this, and he hoped that he hadn’t gotten rusty. Tonight, he knew, wasn’t just about wiping out the competition—it was about saving the lives of whoever else might get their hands on the poison.
Eventually, they arrived at the club, and it seemed to be closed down for the night. The gaudy lights that normally washed the front of the place in a hard glow were turned off, and not a single car was in the parking lot. Stone parked the van a few blocks off, and once they were ready, the men strapped on a pistol underneath their leather vests and grabbed a bag of supplies.
“Listen up,” said Grit, speaking clearly but softly. “No room for error with this shit tonight. Not one of you makes a move to do anything drastic unless I give the direct say-so. But if anyone in there looks like he’s out for blood, take him out. No more of our brothers are dying because of this shithole. Got it?”
The men nodded in understanding and slipped on their masks. Moving silently across the road, the crew came up to the back entrance of the club in the rear alley. Stone opened up his bag and pulled out a small explosive while Razor disabled the camera above the door. After getting his gear ready, Stone slapped the small device onto the heavy-duty lock of the door, activated it, and gestured for the crew to back off. The device beeped a few times, then with a muffled “pop,” made a small flash of smoke and orange. Then the door opened a few inches.
“Nice,” said Grit. “Now let’s get in there.”
The men moved in through the door and entered into a dark hallway. Grit remembered just where the door down to the basement was and he directed them with careful steps towards it. It was strange to Grit to see the strip club after hours; what was normally a bustling den of seedy men, naked girls, and loud music was now as silent and still as a graveyard. It all struck Grit as eerie.
They soon arrived at the door, pisto
ls in hand. Stone did his thing with another explosive, and after a few more moments, the door to the basement was finally open; Grit would at last be able to see just what the hell was down there.
“All right,” said Grit. “Stay fuckin’ frosty. If there’s anyone down there, then they know now that someone’s here. Could be anything.”
The men nodded, guns in hand.
Grit took point, opening the door and heading down the steep flight of steps beyond. The stairs led down to another hallway, with one end terminating in a heavily-secured door and the other leading to a large room that was aglow with bright, sterile lights.
“Stone, you and Gray get to work on that door over there. You two, come with me.”
The men did as Grit asked, and he headed down the hallway to the large room. Stepping into it, his jaw nearly hit the floor. It was a drug lab, all right—one of the most advanced that he’d seen in his life. The room was brightly lit, with three rows of tables packed full of drugs and drug manufacturing gear. It was like an industrial chemical lab down there, and Grit almost couldn’t believe that such a place was right below some regular strip club.