I turn to Miles and pull him close.
“Tell him they let you out,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Tell him you want to talk about joining the Cobras. How you think he’s right. How you liked that he roughed up your father and brother. But tell him you want to talk outside. I’ll be waiting.”
Miles nods, but he fidgets with his hands and jams them in his pockets like he can’t decide on something.
I don’t know if it’s the best idea I’ve ever had, but Jayden is a dumb fuck. He’s also not thinking straight. If Miles manages this, we can get outside and away from the others, which is the only way we’ll pull this “kidnapping” off.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the back side of the building.”
He leans in close and I stop him cold. “Not here,” I growl. “Never in front of people like this.” They’re the enemy.
Miles takes a step back. “Right. Sorry. I’ll handle this.”
“Good.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE HOVEL of an apartment complex is nicer from the outside. No graffiti, no trash piles or rooms stuffed to the brim with garbage. It’s a pleasant sight if you give it a fleeting glance.
I wait out around back, missing my cigarettes and feeling the itch to flee the area. What’s taking Miles so long? He should’ve been right behind me. I try to relax, but I know what’ll happen if he doesn’t show up in the next five minutes. I’m going to march back in and get tied down all over again, this time in a more secure location with broken kneecaps. I don’t look forward to it.
The cops chase the firefighters away after they do some hasty investigations. No one stands to gain anything from allowing the authorities to rummage through the place. It’s a hive of drugs, scum, and illicit activities, giving this entire neighborhood its bad reputation even though I can see other apartment complexes just trying to make their way in life without trouble.
“We got a problem, Diver,” a man says, his voice demanding my attention.
I walk to the corner of the building and crane my head around. I spot the men talking—they’re gruffer than the rest and more organized to boot.
“What happened?”
The man speaking—the man I assume is Diver—isn’t what I thought he’d be. Unlike the others, who could throw down in a fight at a moment’s notice, Diver is missing his left arm. Sure, he’s muscular, but it takes away from the imposing aura to have a phantom limb.
I’ve seen guys without an arm before.
Heroin use. It’s always heroin use.
One night they’ll shoot up and miss their vein—next day they’ll have an infection that swells their hand and oozes pus from the needle mark. If you don’t get it treated, the infection gets worse until, at the final stages, the doctors have to amputate. I’d bet money it happened to Diver. I’m surprised he’s still an important member of the Cobras’ hierarchy, considering most druggies with one arm aren’t respected much on the streets.
I don’t catch any more of the conversation, however. They go to talking low and quick. I suspect they’re telling Diver the bad news about my escape.
I duck back around the building and attempt to blend in with the surroundings. Hiding in plain sight is often the best way to go about not getting caught. No one’s going to look for me leaning against the outside of the apartment complex. They’ll scour the darkest nooks and crannies before they try searching the groups of hobos out front.
The crunch of feet on gravel gets me tense. I bunch up my shoulders close to my sore neck and I tip my hat to cover most of my face.
To my relief, Miles and his brother are the ones to round the far corner. They’re in a heated discussion, but they don’t appear to be fighting. That’s good. Now isn’t the time for arguing. Miles should be saying whatever he needs to say in order to get his brother away from the others.
They walk along the narrow alley between buildings, their attention focused on each other. I don’t even know if Miles has spotted me yet, but I yank off my belt and prepare myself for a struggle. I’m in no mood to brawl, but it can’t be helped.
The moment they draw near, I lunge and wrap the leather strap around Jayden’s neck. He jabs his elbow back without warning, catching me in my bruised gut. I let go of the belt, but Miles is quick on the uptake and wrestles with his confused brother, betrayal on Jayden’s face as clear as the sun in the sky.
I attempt to restrain Jayden, but my efforts earn me a kick to the side and a boot to the inner thigh. I stumble back, reaching for my .45 and realizing I don’t have it.
I feel naked without my gun.
Miles’s grip holds firm as he wrenches his brother back by the neck. It’s an odd form of affection to choke another man out “for his own good,” and the thought causes me to chuckle. After a handful of stressful seconds, Jayden falls limp in his brother’s arms.
“We’re not gonna have much time,” I say. “A few minutes at the most before he wakes.”
Coated in sweat, Miles gulps down air and nods. “How’re we going to get him to the street?”
“I don’t know. I get his feet, you get his arms?”
My body is killing me. The thought of carrying this kid two blocks is a nightmare.
“We’re gonna get a lot of unwanted attention carrying an unconscious body,” Miles says with a sardonic expression etched into his exhausted features.
“Look. I’m out of ideas. You got anything?”
Miles glances around. His eyes go wide when he spots the large trash bins on the side of the road. He jogs out to one and wheels it back, nonchalant, before dumping the contents out in the alley. I give him a questioning stare, and Miles motions for me to lift Jayden and dump him inside.
I let out a genuine laugh. I love the idea of throwing this kid into a trash can.
With a grunt and huff, I heft the kid up and over. He falls to the bottom of the grimy bin with a thunk. I grab some of the loose trash bags and throw them over top of his body. I do it in part because I hate his guts, but also to disguise the fact he’s there, should anyone look inside. Once situated, we wheel the trash can out of the alley and down the street.
It’s odd to be taking a trash can far from its home, but not as odd as dragging an unconscious person out in the open. No one calls the cops, and we stop on Forty-Third Street without exerting ourselves.
Not a bad plan.
BRISKO IS like a family dog—he’s there when you need him, and he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying when you spill your soul and reveal your deepest woes.
He’s also a decent driver. It’s his one redeeming skill.
“Take us to Merrymore and Poppy Cotton,” I say. “That’s where my car is. I need something from the inside.”
Jayden and Miles are in the far backseat of the van. Jayden falls in and out of consciousness—not because of choking him out, but because he’s coming down from more than one substance at a time. He slurs his words and mumbles things in his sleep, but it’s too hard to distinguish. Miles keeps him close and offers reassurance. He’s too damn nice for his own good. Jayden doesn’t deserve the attention or affection.
Brisko keeps his eyes on the road, his head-sized hands choking the steering wheel.
The sun sets in the distance, disappearing behind a looming black storm cloud. Rays of red and purple signal the dying of the light, but it’s quick and depressing to watch. It reflects my mood well, considering everything I’ve been through. There are some days I wish I could wholesale forget. Today would be one of them.
I close my eyes, and by the time I open them, we’re halfway into town and near our destination. Where does the time go? Or maybe I’m more exhausted than I thought I was.
Brisko turns the van wide and parks it alongside my dark red Landau. I reach for my keys and realize Santiago, or some other thug in the Cobras, must have them. I let out a long and painful sigh. I’m gonna have to break a window.
I step out of the van and gather a rock from the edge of a nearby
property. I glance about, certain that Cobras must be in the area, and listen to the sounds of a sleepy city. Nothing. Once certain I won’t be attacked, I return to my task and pick the rear right window.
The glass breaks after the third strike, shattering into a million pieces and raining onto the sidewalk and backseat. My hand gets cut a couple times, but I don’t care. I’m more disappointed it took me three swings to break glass. My arm isn’t in the shape it should be.
With an exhale I snatch up my cell phone. I scroll through the messages—through the death threats left by Anita—and go straight to the more recent calls. I take note of a number I’ve never seen before. I dial it back and wait.
“Hello?” a man answers.
Rodger.
“Where are you?” I bark. I realize I should keep my voice down, and I clear my throat. “You’re not safe.”
“I walked to the hotel next to the country club, and I’ve been relaxing ever since.”
“Have you told anyone where you are?”
“No.”
What a crazy, lucky son of a bitch.
I guess the Cobras don’t know my vehicle. It might have something to do with the fact I switch between a handful on a regular basis, but still. If they had come for my car and found my phone, they could have found Rodger in a heartbeat. Why wouldn’t he seek safety?
I rub my good eye and shake my head. “What is your problem? You couldn’t think of a better place to go? Why not go home? Your father is looking for you as we speak. Your mother is calling me nonstop.”
“Oh, I’m not ready to see my parents yet,” he replies, his blasé demeanor shining through.
“Why not?”
“I need to find my fiancée before I return.”
It takes a life of luxury and leisure for someone to be so detached from reality. After a day of running from gunmen and hiding from gangbangers, he’s decided he needs to find his woman before seeking a place of safety—and by “find” I mean “wait until someone else finds her for him.” Rodger’s bank account might be impressive, but his mental debit card has insufficient funds.
“Which room are you in?” I ask. “I’m coming to get you.”
“I’m in room 1-A. It’s a lovely little thing with a bay window and a—”
I end the call.
Tucking my cell phone into my pocket, I walk back to the van and slide into the front passenger seat. Brisko turns to me, and I point to the road leading to the hotel. He takes off.
“You okay, Miles?” I call to the back.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just looking after Jayden.”
“All right. Let me know if you need anything.”
I DON’T want to go home. The Cobras have never hit my flat, but I’m nervous by default. I’ve slept in the same bed for months now; it’s not unreasonable to think someone could be staking the place out, waiting for their moment to pounce.
And, since I have Rodger in tow, I need a bigger place.
“Where’re we going?” Rodger asks.
I suck in a long yawn and motion to the road ahead of us. “I know a place. It’s a beachside house—those places that rich kids rent when they want to go camping but they can’t stand the thought of getting dirty.”
“A house on the beachfront of Lake Michigan? Beautiful. The lake is a mirror of the sky at sunset and daybreak.”
I grab Brisko by the arm and point to the nearest street corner. “Stop there.”
The beast of a man grunts and pulls the car up to the place I indicated. There’s a phone booth sitting idle. I grab a few coins and step out of the van, greeted by a chill gust of wind. I miss my jacket, but I carry on regardless. For some unknown reason, Rodger jumps out of the vehicle as well.
The pay phone booth doesn’t have a door. I step in, grab the receiver, plunk in a couple coins, and hesitate. Again, who am I gonna call? If I call Nick, he’s going to demand I return Rodger—and I know Rodger will fight the decision the entire way. Plus I don’t want to deal with his wife, and Rodger is safe with me for the time being.
I dial Jeremy. At least me and him have a side project going on, and I need to confirm everything is going down according to schedule.
The phone rings twice before Jeremy answers.
“Yes?” he says.
“Jeremy,” I reply, breathing a sigh of relief. “I need to talk to you.”
“Pierce? You’re… calling me? What a pleasant surprise.”
“Yeah. Listen. I found your brother. I’m going to hide out with him for the time being. Just until I can find his fiancée or I go to see Nick, whichever is sooner.”
For a moment all I hear is chortling. I’m not sure what’s so funny or why he would get a kick out of my irritated tone and terse speech, but whatever floats his boat, I guess.
“You’re always so impressive, Pierce. I guess it shouldn’t shock me anymore.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “Did you say fiancée? As in, my brother is getting married or has gotten married?”
“Do we really need to do this? You know the definition of words.”
I shouldn’t be so curt with him, but I’m in no mood for anything. Fuck everything and everyone that’s stopping me from recovering. It’s not worth it. In a week and a half, I’ll be skipping town anyway. What does it all matter? Jeremy can be pissed all he wants.
“Sometimes my brother is flighty,” Jeremy replies. “I just wanted to make sure he hasn’t married anyone without a prenup. Or, at the very least, without Mother’s approval.”
“Everything still a go for Harlan’s fight scene?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“Good. I’ll be taking care of it like we planned.”
“Pierce, can I speak with my brother for a moment?”
I turn on my heel and motion Rodger close. He ambles over, not a care on his mind, and I hand him the phone. “It’s Jeremy,” I say. “He wants to talk.”
I leave the brothers to their discussion and return to the van. Brisko is tapping his fingers to the music on the radio and singing a woman’s song with the voice of an orangutan. Its happy pop beat intensifies my already debilitating headache. Brisko doesn’t notice—perhaps he doesn’t care—and continues on as though he were the next sensational idol.
I hate being around so many people. This is why I live alone in a flat. Everyone’s got a tick, and they all rub me the wrong way.
It takes Rodger an eternity to finish his call. When he gets back to the van, Brisko stops his singing, and I glare at Rodger. “What took you?”
“I tried calling Luna at all her usual haunts, but she’s not there.” Rodger slumps back into his seat and stares out the window with a vacant expression.
Who names their kid Luna? They might as well have gone all the way and named her Moonbeam.
“Was she part of your cult?” I ask.
“She’s the Elder’s daughter. And it isn’t a cult. It’s a beautiful community that helps you understand the fabric of life.”
Yeah. Moonbeam would’ve been an appropriate name.
I signal Brisko to continue. He drives the van up the long road out of the city and heads straight for the “camping cabins.” I’ve rented one or two in the past, whenever I’ve felt insecure about the safety of my living quarters, and I appreciate the place, not because of the fancy view, but because few people are in the area.
When I leave Noimore, I’m going to find the smallest, most Podunk town on the map and live there for the rest of my days. Anyplace with a population of forty or less. Anything to get away from people.
I suppose I’ll have to go into a major city from time to time to get my rocks off, but that’s a trade-off I’m willing to make. It’s more acceptable to be out and open these days—I’ll find a gay bar and buy a couple drinks….
I laugh to myself when I imagine the scenario. I’ve never been a guy to go to a bar for a purpose other than getting shit-faced. That’ll be different.
Brisko pulls the
van into the cabin’s driveway, and I slide out, my legs weak. The camping houses are locked with codes instead of keys, and when I set up the reservation, they gave me this week’s numbers. I like this place. They have my info on file, and I don’t have to deal with anyone in person.
I get up to the front door, type in the code—twice, as my vision is blurred—and stumble inside. Brisko comes in after, and I take the man by the arm and pull him aside.
“Watch the Asian kid,” I say, my tone and posture weak. “Don’t let him leave no matter what.”
“Miles?” he asks.
“Not Miles. His brother. Watch his brother. I don’t care if you need to tie him down, just make sure he goes nowhere. Understand?”
“Yeah. I got ya. I’ll make sure he stays.”
With my last bit of strength, I walk to the back master bedroom and shamble to the bed. I toss off my stolen hat and shirt, disgusted with the aromas that linger on my body, but I can’t muster the giving a damn to do anything about it. I throw myself on the bed and roll into the covers, enjoying the soft caress of down-filled blankets.
Nothing beats the quiet of a house far from civilization.
Sometimes the natural music of the city can be pleasant, but lately it reminds me of gunshots and violence. All I want is to relax—to feel like myself again. Why am I never content? Something is off and I can’t quite fix it.
The coolness of the room envelops me. I think the bed has pillows, but I don’t need them. Everything is as it should be.
Except for the sun.
I cringe and roll over, shielding my face from the heat. The coolness is gone….
So soon?
I open my eyes and meet the afternoon light streaming in through the windows. I push myself up onto my arms and gawk, stunned that I somehow slipped into sleep and then back into consciousness without even realizing it.
How long have I been out?
I rub my eyes and feel the crustiness of a deep slumber. I’m starving. My body aches and trembles, urging me to return to the bed and sleep once more. The door opens and I flinch away. Miles steps into the room with a plate in hand.
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