This Is The Route Of Twisted Pain (Neither This, Nor That Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Good start. Now let’s see if the reality backs up that promise.” At a brusque gesture from Po’Boy, Chip quickly pulled his shirt up, turning in place to show a naked torso. Inked up, but otherwise blank. Club colors etched on the skin of his back; the man had planned on being a member for life. Fuck. Twisted clipped out, “Check his pockets and seams.”

  With a muttered, “Sorry, brother,” Po’Boy stepped in to conduct a search by touch on a compliant Chip.

  “Nothing.” That came nearly five minutes later as they all watched Chip pull his boots back on, wisely leaving his cut lying on the table where Po’Boy had placed it.

  Twisted ran a hand down his face, smoothing the beard he’d started growing when Papaw passed. At first, shaving had been just one more thing to do, and he only had so much energy. He’d cast aside the things that didn’t matter, and scraping his face with a bare blade had been one of the first to go. Now, his beard was a trademark. Intimidating to men, titillating to women. Part of him in a way he got off on.

  Looking at Chip, he took a breath. “Let’s see how much I get right, yeah?” Without waiting for a response, he powered on, “Heard your ole lady got pissed about you dippin’ your wick in club pussy. Heard she went to her sister’s house where they decided she was gonna scrape you off. Heard she started scraping you off, but wanted all your shit. Shit you rightly didn’t give her. So she started takin’, and how she started takin’ was by going to her sister’s husband. Pussy-whipped fella, hell bent on making his woman happy. And how he made her happy was by working his connections to help out her sister.”

  Twisted shook his head. “That man was a clerk at the courthouse who knows a judge. Aw, yeah, we’re getting to the meat of it now. That judge smelled himself a campaign opportunity that was liable to get him to Baton Rouge and doin’ that not by wearin’ a robe. And that judge knew a fed. This bit’s important, see. That fed was a fed who saw hisself an opportunity for advancement that meant he wouldn’t be takin’ the long-time career route.”

  Chip sucked in a breath to speak, but Twisted raised his voice, talking over him. “That fed spent hours talkin’ to your bitch. And her? She sat there, layin’ her mouth wide open, spewing every fuckin’ thing you’d ever told her. And you talked a fuck of a lot, Chip. Fuckin’ pillow talk was what it took to keep that pussy happy, so you had fuckin’ talked. That fed told her to work on gettin’ a meet with you, and you fell for her shit. Fuck yeah, that was you sitting down with her, takin’ that meet. Her layin’ her mouth wide open there, too, talking you into ‘lessening your sentence’ by rollin’ on us.”

  Voice changing to a sneer, Twisted swept his long hair back from his face and continued, “Us. Your brothers. The men who had your back when that bitch started takin’ your shit. The men who had your back long before you had the bitch on her back, takin’ your cock. Rollin’ on us, and tryin’ to fuck us in the ass, seein’ as you didn’t have pussy to fuck anymore.” Each sentence seemed to smack Chip hard, driving him into the wall, pressing him against the surface as if he were in a gigantic crusher, the sounds holding him in place while squeezing the life out of him. “So, Chip. Tell us. How’d I do? Did I get it right? Miss anything?” Leaning forward at the waist, he roared, “Tell us.”

  Nostrils flaring wide, the big man stared at Twisted. That was the only indication he was feeling anything, the only indication that Twisted had the right of it. Every bit of it, right, and damning. Time to move this forward, he thought.

  “I got it right.” Twisted’s whispered words dropped into the room, followed by chair legs scraping across the cement floor. “All of it. Every bit.” He felt men at his back when he stepped away from the table. “Disappointed in you, Chip. Scot would be pissed as fuck you turned. Snitches at the table? One sittin’ in his goddamned chair? Fuckin’ disappointed.” He took a step and heard the shuffle of boot leather behind him. “You didn’t think we’d have your back? You think we’d let you go inside for the club and not take care of you? Let you go inside at all and not take care of you? Was that your fear?” That was the crux of it all, the lack of faith Chip had in them.

  “Even a week ago, if you’d come to me and fronted that shit, we’d have worked it out.” Twisted shifted his hips sideways to get around a chair without blocking any of the men from advancing with him. “I’ll give you one thing because of who you’ve been for us in the past.” Chip stood straighter, pulling his shoulders back, that invisible vise still pressing him deep into the wall. “One thing. You call it. How you wanna go down?”

  Gazes never breaking contact, Chip hadn’t closed his eyes since this started, and Twisted’s own eyes had started burning. He took a breath and blinked, surprised to find wet gathering there. “Fuck, Chip. How the hell did you get so far off track, man? Huh?” Footsteps shuffled at his back. He knew every ear was tuned to his words.

  Reaching up, he smoothed his beard again, needing something to do with his hands. Stomach clenching, it felt like he was unraveling inside because what was about to happen would kill another part of his soul, and he was desperate to do anything to stop it, even turn the gun in his other hand on himself if it came to that. “Fucking shit.” He was within reach when Chip’s legs bent, knees giving way, letting the man fall heavily to the floor. Kneeling in front of Twisted, Chip bowed his head, finally ending their stare.

  As he moved behind the man he had called brother, Twisted tried to make sense of how they’d gotten here, to a place where his brother was surrendering to him, accepting. Before the traitorous pussy got her hooks into him, the man had been married, his wife dying birthing their second child. Like Papaw. Chip had gone off the deep end, his woman’s people taking in their granddaughters to raise, the club taking in their brother, but only in a perfunctory way. They hadn’t taken care of him, hadn’t lifted a finger to derail his shit, just watched as Chip imploded. Papaw had the club.

  “This is on me,” Twisted whispered. I failed my brother. He laid a hand on Chip’s back, resting his palm on the man’s neck, fingers digging into the sides and holding tightly. “On me.” He paused, lifting his head and looking at the men standing in the room. Men he knew. Trusted. “I coulda done better.” He looked back down, remembering Chip’s wife and ole lady, memories surfacing of eating at their table, seeing Chip’s easy and comfortable teasing of his woman, seeing the love for him on her face. “This is on me,” he repeated, and then continued, fingers squeezing hard as he lifted Chip back to his feet, pulling him into an embrace, hearing the sobs as disbelief and then relief hit Chip, “brother.”

  Chapter Seven

  Twisted

  “Three ball, corner pocket.” His muttered words were accompanied with a thrusting gesture of the pool stick, indicating the particular corner out of four at which he was aiming. Simple shot from where he stood, a straight lineup with the pocket. He just needed to pop a little lower right-hand English on the cue to pull it back to where he wanted so he could position for the next shot. Spin to win, folks. He straightened and took a step back, which rapidly turned into two additional half steps before he righted himself, killing the stumble’s momentum. Well, it should be a simple shot, he thought, tongue in the corner of his mouth as he tried to recover gracefully.

  Undrunk would equal simple. Drunk as he was right now? Not a fucking chance in hell he would be hitting that hole. His gaze crossed the two identically-dressed girls sitting on stools along the wall, tight tanks pulled low, crimson lips, shorts sagging around their hips. Or any holes. He squinted, the two women resolving into a single female form, wreathed in cigarette smoke. Or any hole, singular, he thought. Not that I’m lookin’ for skank, but pussy is pussy.

  Wrapping his hand around the edge of the corner closest to him, he bent and angled himself into position, bringing the stick down and resting it on his hand in the notch formed by his jutting thumb. Hold on. Stroking back once…twice…then forwards with a soft crack. The tip hit the white ball, careening it into the red ball, and he watched as both move
d exactly how he saw in his mind. Before the solid had finished falling into the netting, he called the next shot, striking the cue with the stick again just as it drifted to a stop. Shifting a half step to his left, he called the next shot. And the next.

  Surprisingly, he won, and that game turned into another. And another, which he also won, the wooziness slowly fading.

  “A man drunk as you are, how in the hell does he still win at pool?” Bills thrown on the tabletop were a contemptuous insult, but he didn’t care. Right now those bills were a tank of fuel, a good meal, and hot shower. A haven purchased by a little overlooking was still a haven. It wasn’t that money was a problem, just that his self-righteous little brother didn’t want dirty money. He didn’t know him well, but suspected that to Fred, earned would be acceptable, and it’d feel good to offer something to ease an unspoken burden. I’ll just have to convince him that hustlin’ pool is work.

  Leaning crookedly, he put his stick on the table for the next player. Pretend to be a little slow, promise ‘em a chance at recovery, he heard in his head and felt the grin falter on his face. That was a blast from the past he didn’t need. Papaw, go back to sleep, he thought, shoving down memories of bullet-riddled bodies falling around him, holes appearing in leather vests like movieland stunt props, but these had blood and bone, breathing souls behind them. Everything that mattered stripped away in a moment. Some lost to family crypts, some to a rift nearly as final. This trip the first accepted overture in over a decade of attempts, giving him renewed hope of restored connections.

  “No freakin’ idea, man.” His mouth moved without his request, but at least it had the right idea. “Same time, same place tomorrow? You can win it back?” He wouldn’t still be in town tomorrow. Not a chance in hell he would still have the money, so there wouldn’t ever be a rematch. Fred’s load was supposed to deliver in the morning, so they’d be out of here by six o’clock at the latest. As he scraped the cash together, pushing the thick fistful deep into his pants pocket, he glanced around and noticed the woman was gone. She'd escaped the stench of the smoke-filled atmosphere. Prolly already walkin’ the lot.

  Hand to his head, partly to hold the pounding thing together, partly to obscure his face, he made his way to the door. The giants standing there gradually resolved down into a single figure, and he was glad. It was hard enough to bullshit this one. There was no need to ask for trouble by bullshitting two of ‘em. “Fred,” said the man in the blue shirt, white patch with black letters spelling out “Paulie” over the pocket. “No.” Which he knew was giant-speak for “I can’t let you on the road like this. If troopers pull you over, it’s my ass in trouble.”

  Startled at the name the bouncer handed him, he wondered, Was Fred who I said? Responding smoothly, he shook his head, saying, “Paulie, my man. I’m not drivin’. Partner is behind the wheel next shift. I’m just sleepin’.” Giving up with a grunt and a lifted chin, Paulie reached out and opened the door for him, seeming to know the effort would have been beyond him at this point. “Thanks,” Twisted muttered, getting a second chin lift.

  And as easily as that, he walked out of the bar masquerading as a truck stop and into the lot, the occupants never knowing who they had hosted tonight. He shrugged, missing the leather vest that normally rode his shoulders like the voice of reason. That loss eased by the knowledge that tonight he could do anything without worry about dire predictions on the part of his officers. Twisted shook off the feeling, trying to beat back vertigo that threatened to upend his stomach. Might shoulda left the vodka off the menu. He grinned. Might shoulda left the tequila off the menu, too, stuck to whiskey. He shrugged, done was done, and tonight, as far as he was concerned was done.

  Standing in the glare of the sodium lights, his gaze swept the parking lot. Row upon row of gleaming paint and chrome. Amber and white lights gave the area a shimmering glow, red lights flashing at intervals, blue and green and purple under lights creating pockets of illumination amidst the hulking shapes surrounding him. Exhaust hung like a cloud over the oasis, the smell of diesel fuel thick upon the air, flavoring every breath. Now to remember where my ride parked. Oh, Freddy boy, ready or not, here I come.

  He made his careful, weaving way through the lines of massive vehicles, looking for the company logo on his brother’s truck, studying the windows to see greater than expected numbers of silent sentinels. Dark forms in their tall seats, living coals hanging from fingers propped on wheels sized to give leverage and advantage to a human, regardless of height. Searing brands carried from resting position to just below the glint of eyes in the darkness; countenance lit from underneath when the cigarette flared brightly for a moment, the inrushing air sucking back chemicals and flavor and nicotine given life with a troubled permission to rush towards extinction, the cigarette burning down to nothing in minutes. Reduced to ashes.

  Finally, he thought, seeing familiar territory ahead in the form of Fred’s truck. Cold and still, the engine wasn’t idling, but the creak of suspension spoke to restless sleep inside the cabin attached to the chassis. At least, I won’t be waking him up. Lifting a fist, he pounded lightly against the bottom of the driver’s door, glancing behind him to ensure there weren’t any pool-losing followers bent on retrieving their mistake by force. Creaking and shifting, then the sound of the window lowering. Surprised the door hadn’t opened, he turned to look up at the same time a soft, feminine, so-not-Fred voice sounded.

  “Interesting, but no thanks.” Short hair, ends going a hundred different directions. It was impossible to tell the shade in this lighting, but that unruly mop surrounded a tiny triangle of a face, petite and pleasing. She lifted a hand to rake the mane away from her forehead, scratching for a moment at a barbell piercing her eyebrow, then allowed the fall of her bangs to cover the exposed skin. Not much, in terms of body modification, but something curious to catalog. The only thing he really knew at this point was she wasn’t his brother. “Try the next truck over. He had something to smoke earlier, might be receptive.” The window began to raise back into position.

  Unexpectedly, because he was normally as tightlipped as a cop in lockup, his mouth blurted exactly what he was thinking, all his filters apparently having reached their capacity tonight. “You’re not Fred.” This round of ignorance brought to you by alcohol.

  She snorted, shaking her head and tilting it the slightest amount as the window stopped in place, halfway up and halfway down, committed to neither. He stared at her and decided to go with it. She evidently thought him a prostitute, might as well play the part. “Hell, for you? Half-price.”

  The window powered down to the fully open position, and she leaned an elbow on the metal frame. Amused, she asked, voice two octaves higher than previous, “Say what?”

  She’s curious. The remains of his drunken fog receding in light of this puzzle to solve. Curious equals interested. Interesting. “Half-price. I didn’t realize you were a chick.” Downplay everything. “My favorite kinda chick.”

  Chin to her palm, head tipping the other direction, she waited for a beat. Then, with that thread of humor still present, she asked, “What does that mean?” Nice fuckin’ voice. Nice package of pretty sittin’ here in front of me.

  “My favorite kinda chick? A hot chick.” He’d known whores in his life, knew one of them since he’d been birthed, since that had been his mother’s chosen profession. So he knew the patter they preferred and made a split-second decision to find an edge there to walk. Lowering his voice, he pitched it sexy-sweet for his spiel, letting the truth roll off his tongue knowing it would be more believable than anything else. “Hot chick like you, I’m surprised you’re not already laid up with a man. But you ain’t, and here I am. Give me a chance. I’ll rock your world, baby. Rock you all night long. Make you feel so good.”

  Lips he hadn’t realized were so generous stretched in a beautiful smile, giving her face additional dimension. His cock twitched, the first sign of life from that rat bastard all evening. Low and smooth, in a level tone,
she asked, “What’s the cost of this hypothetical connection?”

  Ho-lee shit, she’s goin’ for it. Chin up, he pushed his bottom lip up and out, creating that pouting, bearded smile the girls seemed to like so much. Confident for the first time since before he broke the last rack of balls, he held her gaze as best he could in these indifferent shadows on the edge of the lot. “Man’s gotta make a livin’, but you’re so pretty…” He trailed off and made a show of looking at what he could see of her. “…you name your price, and you got it, baby.”

  The rolling rumble of a hundred truck engines surrounded them, quietly vibrating the air, coiled power exploited for the drivers’ comfort, keeping the cabs cool or warm according to preference. Her truck was silent, the window already slightly open before he’d knocked on the door. She took things as they came, without forcing things into a mold. He wondered suddenly if she could take him the same way and felt a shiver of fear trickle down his back, not sure how far he should push this farce.

  He cast that thought aside as his chest settled, heavy with disappointment at her continued silence, and was a half breath from turning away when she spoke. “Payment after services rendered.” There was no way a whore would go for that arrangement, rightly assuming they’d be stiffed. The way it worked was payment up front, like what you get or not, the goods were the goods. No way would a whore climb up in a truck without seeing the green. “Got a condom?” she asked, giving so much away with her two short sentences.

  She couldn’t know how whores worked. He knew that tidbit for a fact, now that he was paying attention. The inside of her cab reflected a quiet femininity, more like an anti-masculine than anything specific or pointed towards the fairer sex. A quilted pouch on the dash to hold small things, the fabric would muffle any annoying rattles. Cute and functional, there was a ladybug-shaped air freshener clipped to the visor. Those things identified her truck in such a way that there’d be no whores for her. The typical truck stop lot lizards avoided female drivers like the plague, like sweetbottoms at club parties avoided ole ladies. Like cottonmouths and copperheads, knowing the other by the stench emitted, each giving the other a wide berth.