Diver holds a girl close to his side—a different girl from last night—this one the youngest yet. I don’t know how old she is, and I’m not gonna ask, but whenever she turns to me I feel obligated to help her. She’s quiet and motions to a glass without uttering a word. She’s thirsty. I flag one of the many waiters.
“Water,” I bark.
The man scurries away and returns moments later with a cool cup in hand. I take it and slide it across the table. She thanks me with a reserved smile.
Diver doesn’t appreciate my actions. He eyes me like the jealous and insecure man he is. I don’t even fuck women, yet he’s gripping her side tighter than before.
He nudges Jeremy and motions to me. “Didn’t you have your little toy tattooed?” He forces a laugh and turns to his girl. “You’re gonna like this. Jeremy’s bitch got marked.”
Diver likes calling me that. Jeremy’s bitch. I don’t feel anything anymore when he says it, but for a short while it got under my skin.
Jeremy points to my jacket sleeve. “Show them,” he commands. “As a matter of fact, why don’t you keep your sleeve rolled up? It’s better that way.”
I roll up my sleeve and flash the tattoo. It’s nothing fancy—six inches of stark black text straight to the skin—but I guess the font has a nice old-world feel to it. It reads: VICE HOUND. I keep my sleeve up and return to my cigarette without commentary or reaction, much to Diver’s displeasure. I think he wants a rise out of me, but I don’t have enough fucks to give in order for that to happen.
“I let him pick the spot,” Jeremy says. “He wanted it on his left forearm. Isn’t that right, Pierce?”
I exhale and nod. I got the tattoo right over that scar I hate so much—the baked beans can scar. I laugh to myself remembering the event and conversation with Miles. This isn’t the tattoo I would have picked first to cover it, but it’s not bad, I guess. My life has been defined by my service to the Vice family. This is just the visual representation of that.
But Miles….
Miles.
I slide out from the booth, and Jeremy glares. I motion to the restroom. He waves me away, his permission granted for a leave of absence. With my half-smoked cigarette, I shuffle into the men’s restroom and close the door behind me.
Miles….
I wonder about him every day. My fear for his safety has gripped every part of my body like I’ve never experienced before. I worry that if I try and find him, Jeremy will hurt him. I worry that if I kill Jeremy, Diver or the others will come after me or Miles. I worry that if I just run, Jeremy will find Miles and use him to lure me back out.
Miles. Miles. Miles.
All my fuckin’ thoughts and concerns and fears revolve around Miles.
Sometimes I think I should wait until Jeremy gets tired of me and then slip out in the dead of night but…. Does Miles even think of me? Would I be doing him a favor by running to him? I’m some criminal through and through. He needs my presence like he needs the plague.
I pull my Colt .45 handgun and turn it over in my hand.
I’ve also thought about just shooting Jeremy and then shooting myself. Of course, that doesn’t ensure that someone won’t go fuck with Miles anyway. I mean, why would they—I’d be dead—but maybe they would, and the irrational fear halts my actions.
What is this? He’s all I can think about.
I sigh and toss my cigarette into the dirty sink. Maybe I can talk to Guinevere… maybe she can help me with this somehow. Or, maybe—
Movement outside the bathroom window catches my eye. I turn and stare. The frosted glaze over the tiny rectangle window makes it impossible to see outside, but the shadowy blur of movement is distinct enough. Once upon a time this would get me paranoid, but now I regard it with a mild amount of curiosity.
Odd.
The door to the restroom opens, and Brisko ambles in, his massive body almost too much for the tiny doorframe. I didn’t know he would be here tonight. I nod to him. He nods back.
“We should go,” he says.
“Go where?” I drawl. What a lovable doof. Doesn’t he know Jeremy is here? He’s not about to let me leave.
The restroom window shatters inward and a tear gas grenade hits the floor, exploding into a cloud all around us. I stumble back, caught off guard by the event, and soon my vision fails me.
“This is the police!” I hear past all the commotion. “We have the building surrounded!”
Holy shit. Since when do the police do raids on Vice family territory? I cough and hack as I stagger to a stall. My eyes are on fire and my lungs constrict as though they’re incapable of taking in air.
Brisko grabs my shoulder and forces me out the bathroom door. The patrons of the Crystal Floor Nightclub are on their feet, guns in hand, ready to fight the cops—at least that’s what I think I see, but my vision is a blur of water and pain. There are so many higher-ups here I’m surprised more precautions weren’t taken.
If the place really is surrounded….
Heh. I always thought I would die long before going to prison.
Brisko continues to manhandle me. He guides me through the nightclub, and I allow it, but I can’t see shit. Where are we going? At one point someone tries to stop us, and all I can do is cough.
“Pierce?” Jeremy asks.
I could detect Jeremy’s voice from a mile away at this point. God, I hate his grating tone.
“Pierce, what’s going on? Get me out of here!”
The ensuing scuffle is between Brisko and Jeremy—which ends in a powerful huff from Brisko and a sick crunch of bone from Jeremy. I pull my handgun and hold it out. Brisko takes it.
“Shoot him for good measure,” I say.
“This way,” he replies, ignoring my command. He pulls me to the back and, just when I think the excitement couldn’t get any more thrilling, he lights a match and catches something on fire—something extremely flammable. The whoosh of flame echoes in the room, and everything gets hot.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Chemistry,” Brisko says.
“What?”
“You need to leave your blood here.”
“What?”
He punches me across the face. I hit the concrete flooring.
Everything is black.
I WAKE several times, each instance clearer than the last, but still confusing.
I’m on a bed. Under covers. My head throbbing.
What’s going on?
I open my good eye and tense when I realize I’m not in a familiar setting. I close the eye and try to imagine what happened. What did happen? Brisko… fires… chemistry… the police….
“You awake?”
“Miles?” I croak.
“Yeah.”
I get up on my elbows despite my spinning head and glance around. Sure enough, like a lucid dream, I spot Miles sitting on a chair next to my tiny bed. It’s a hotel—the place is plain and the smell of overused cleaning chemicals is high.
He gets off the chair and takes a seat on my bed. The squeak of the mattress hurts my ears, but I don’t give a damn.
“How did you get here?” I ask in a rusty voice.
“In a car,” he replies with a smile.
What a smartass. Is now really the time?
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. We both are.”
Before I can ask more questions, Guinevere comes into my vision from the far end of the room. She smiles down at me, her long black hair pinned back, revealing the entirety of her face and emotions. I’d say she’s close to tears, but her smile cuts through it all.
“I’m so sorry about Brisko,” she says. “We gave him a set of instructions, and I guess he went with punching things instead.”
“He had chloroform too,” Miles chimes in. “He didn’t have to punch you.”
I glance between them, my thoughts a wreck. “What happened?”
Guinevere rests her cheek in the palm of her hand. “Miles called me and told me what happened.�
��
“He called you? How? He didn’t know where you were.”
“You gave me her number, remember?” he asks. “You had it on an index card. I kept it… just in case.”
Guinevere continues, “And I set up a meeting with my poor, stupid younger brother and convinced him I knew the ins and outs of the business he didn’t. I told him I wanted to meet the men in charge, and he complied.”
“I called Detective Ambers,” Miles says as he turns away from me. “I told her I knew about you, and she had a team of people stake out the Crystal Floor Nightclub. When you got there, and the other Cobras guys got there, she had enough to get some SWAT members together and… raid the place, basically.”
Guinevere claps a single time. “And Miles here called in a favor with Juliet. You remember Juliet, don’t you? The nice old mortician?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “What kind of favor?”
“We needed you to look dead from a distance and, well, she helped us get a corpse to look like you. Long story short, the Noimore police think you’re dead. It turns out you don’t have dental records on file, and with enough DNA evidence and some fire damage, it’s a case no one wants to bother investigating further.”
“She does that?”
“That’s all she did for my father back in the day. Well, that and be an honest mortician.”
I smack my chapped lips and turn to Miles. “You set up the fire?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “There are plenty of gases and chemicals that spread fires. I tried to explain it to Brisko, but he just kept repeating it back as chemistry.” Miles laughs and then quiets himself with a melancholy expression. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get you out of there. I should’ve gotten a plan together faster, but Jayden… he was in critical condition for a while. I… I’m sorry.”
I shake my head.
He thinks he has a duty to save me? I never thought he would—I never even imagined it. I just assumed he would take off and… live a better life.
“Why did you come back for me?” I ask.
Miles turns to me, confused. “You were there for me when I needed it. I told you. I owe you a debt I don’t think I can ever repay, Pierce. I’ve got your back. From here on out.”
Guinevere turns away and walks from the room, no doubt thinking her presence had somehow diminished the moment. I wait until the door shuts before I speak.
“I didn’t do anything significant for you, Miles. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Pierce… I can’t count the number of times you went out of your way for me. The amount of times you took the beating for me… the times you got the money for me… the times you gave me the confidence… or helped my brother….”
He turns away and glares at the floor. I remain silent.
“You really are the only one,” he whispers. “No one else even compares. It’s not nothing. It’s my life.” His last few words come out with a crack. “And… even if I don’t owe you anything… I want you in it.”
The statement almost breaks my composure.
“Miles…,” I say in a weak tone that betrays my floundering. “I….”
He moves his hand over to grip my knuckles. It’s like we never parted—like a piece of me returns and I feel things again.
I take in a deep breath. “I got your back.”
He smiles. “And I yours.”
S.A. STOVALL grew up in California’s central valley with a single mother and little brother. Despite no one in her family having a degree higher than a GED, she put herself through college (earning a BA in History), and then continued on to law school where she obtained her Juris Doctorate.
As a child, Stovall’s favorite novel was Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell. The adventure on a deserted island opened her mind to ideas and realities she had never given thought before—and it was the moment Stovall realized that storytelling (specifically fiction) became her passion. Anything that told a story, be it a movie, book, video game, or comic, she had to experience. Now as a professor and author, Stovall wants to add her voice to the myriad of stories in the world, and she hopes you enjoy.
You can contact her at the following addresses:
Twitter: @GameOverStation
E-mail: [email protected]
By S.A. Stovall
Vice City
Published by DSP PUBLICATIONS
www.dsppublications.com
Published by
DSP PUBLICATIONS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
www.dsppublications.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Vice City
© 2017 S.A. Stovall.
Cover Art
© 2017 Aaron Anderson.
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Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact DSP Publications, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dsppublications.com.
ISBN: 978-1-63533-663-4
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63533-664-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017901542
Published June 2017
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America
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