Adri gives her head a small shake. “I don’t know for sure. The one in my class will likely be suspended, but I don’t know for how long.”
Lee fixes her in a hard look. “I’m not going to send him back there if he’s at risk of getting beat up every other day.”
The worry lines around Adri’s eyes deepen. “I won’t let that happen.”
“You let it happen this—”
“Stop it! Leave her alone!” Sherm grabs Lee’s hand and starts dragging her out the door.
I hold Adri’s tormented gaze for a second longer, then follow them out.
Ulie already has dinner on the table when we finally get home. Grant takes all the credit when Sherm says he broke the other kid’s nose.
I miss most of what’s going on at the table because my brain is already on overload. The whole day: the meeting with Buchanan, the interview at Spencer Security, what happened to Sherm, what didn’t happen with Adri, specifically how much I wanted to pull her into my arms and tell her it wasn’t her fault … it’s all spinning through my head. I just need some space to think.
Or maybe I need to get drunk so I can’t think.
Either way, I stand from the table before we’re through eating. “I’ve got some things I need to do. I’ll pick up Sherm’s prescriptions while I’m out,” I tell Lee, grabbing the key to the Lumina off the hook. I ignore the concern in her eyes as I slam out the door.
After driving aimlessly through dark streets for I have no idea how long, I stumble across a pharmacy on the mainland, not too far from the hospital we spent all afternoon in. I wait there for Sherm’s prescriptions, then, instead of going home, stop into a bar just up the road.
I find a table in the darkest corner, order a double gin and tonic when the waitress comes, then proceed to get drunk. I’ve been here an hour and I’m on my fourth G and T when my phone buzzes on the tabletop indicating a text. I’m expecting Lee, wondering where I am.
But it’s Adri.
I programmed her number in after she forwarded the text from her friend about the job at Spencer’s with only a skull and crossbones to identify her.
I open her message. How’s Sherm feeling?
I know she blames herself for what happened to him. I wish I could too. It would be so much easier if I could project this guilt onto someone else. Sherm has always been the kind of kid others flock to—outgoing and funny, with a personality that people can’t help but like. If he were himself, those boys never would have singled him out. He’s a shell of that boy now, and that’s nobody’s fault but mine.
Fine, I text back, then down the rest of my drink and flip my hand palm up on the table.
Candy’s number is smudged, but still readable through my beer goggles. I’ve got to burn some of this tension out of my system with someone who doesn’t matter to my family before I do something stupid with Sherm’s pretty blond schoolteacher and screw us all to hell. I start to dial.
“This seat taken?” A leggy brunette slides into the seat across from me before I can answer. “Drinking alone?” she asks, leaning forward onto her elbows.
The first thing that draws my attention, by design, is the skimpy top that her enormous tits are trying to escape. Most guys would drool over them, but it generally takes more than a great rack to hold my attention. Slowly, I let my eyes roam over the rest of her. She’s long and slender, tanned, with dark brown eyes set in a thin, overly made-up face. Reasonably hot, at least through the blur of gin. If this were Chicago, we’d have our fun and be done with it. I’m not sure of small-town Florida protocol. My eyes flick around the dim room, assessing the risks. No one here knows me. I’ll never set eyes on any of them again. This could work.
“Not anymore,” I say, turning off my phone and flagging down the waitress. “What’s your poison?”
She flashes me a suggestive smile. “Long Island iced tea.”
I order for both of us. The waitress twitches off toward the bar, and the brunette shifts into the seat next to me.
“I’m Brea,” she tells me, and already, I have too much information.
“Jeff,” I tell her.
“So, Jeff,” she says, the tip of a long red nail tracing the lines of the back of my hand. “You look like the weight of the world is trying to crush you. Want to talk about it?”
Definitely no. I arch an eyebrow at her. “I’m not much of a talker. More of an action guy.”
Her eyes flare with want as her hand dips under the table to my thigh. “I definitely got that strong, silent vibe from you.”
I lean back, letting my knees spread as my dick twitches to life.
“So, I’m not from around here. Anything I should see while I’m in town?” she asks, her fingers tracing circles up the inside of my thigh.
“Nope.” Through my blurred thoughts, I realize I have an opportunity. “Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“Listen, Brea. I could use a favor. My battery died,” I say, lifting my phone, “and I’ve got an important call I need to make. Mind if I borrow yours?”
She fishes it out of the immense shoulder bag she’s hooked over the seat back and hands it to me. She doesn’t let go right away when I take it. “This means you owe me.”
Our drinks come, and I down mine in a shot and order another. “Whatever you want, doll. I’ll be right back.”
I take her phone into the hallway to the bathrooms and dial. When the line connects, I blow out a relieved breath. “Jonny, buddy! It’s Rob. You, me, and a few other guys can set this right. We need to—”
“Is this a joke?” a woman’s voice shrieks into the phone. “Who is this?”
“Give the phone to Jon,” I growl. “I need to talk to him. Right now.”
“He’s dead, you asshole! He’s dead. They killed him!”
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck! I disconnect and bang my forehead into the wall. “Fuck!”
I breathe a few times, dial the next number on my list.
“Whoever the fuck you are, leave me the fuck alone,” Mason’s gravelly voice answers.
“Mason! It’s Rob. Did they get to Jon?”
“Rob?” he says after a beat. “Jesus. Where the fuck are you?”
“I need you to focus. What’s going on there?”
“Jonny’s gone, man. Gino too.”
Shit. I press my forehead into the wall. “Who? Who’s taking the guys out? Is it Savoca?”
“Who the fuck knows? Not me. And I’m not sticking around to find out.”
I fight to keep my breathing even. “Who’s running the business, Mason? Who’s got the reins with me out of the picture?”
“Fuck, Rob. It’s a fucking mess. Jimmy D’s still on top of the Bienville, and so far no shit’s gone down there. I think your pop is trying to hold the rest together from inside. But fuck, Rob. It’s like a fucking B movie. Guys are dropping or vanishing, Savocas are crowding the docks, the Russians are making a grab for the underground. Anyone who’s smart is skipping town till the dust clears.”
At his words, everything sharpens to a point and becomes crystal clear. The organization is in chaos, which means the Savocas are behind the hit. Everything counts on finding enough guys to make a stand. I just need to get to Oliver Savoca. We take him out, and maybe a few of his lieutenants, the rest will fall into place. Savoca’s head on a spike in front of the Bienville will show everyone that the Delgados can’t be squeezed out. We are the Chicago mob.
“Mason, you need to calm down. We can set this right. I’m coming back as soon as we can set some things in motion, but you know what that’s going to mean. It’s going to get ugly, but if we can pull together the right—”
“You’re out of your fucking mind, Rob. The whole house of cards is caving in. I’m getting the fuck out of here while I still can.”
“Mason, be serious. Just think about this for a minute.” But the line goes dead before I even finish. He’s apparently thought about it, and he’s a fucking chickenshit.
So I
make my final call … the one I was hoping to avoid.
I half expect it to go to a disconnect recording, or forward through to a guard desk. But three rings later, it’s picked up by the man I need to talk to.
“Delgado,” my father’s voice says from the other end of the line.
Prison has gotten cushy, but the WITSEC wing of Clark County Penitentiary may as well be the Ritz. They get whatever they negotiate in their plea deal. In Pop’s case that includes a private phone line, lunch and dinner brought in from Serafina’s, his favorite Sicilian restaurant, and his Civil War library on a shelf in his cell.
“Pop? It’s me.”
There’s a moment of silence and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected, but then he says, “Where are you?”
“On my way to the party. I need to know who else is invited.” Translation: I’m coming and I need to know who to take down.
Yes, he has a private line. And yes, there’s every probability the Feds are listening in. Everything is in code, not that they’re so stupid they can’t figure out what we’re saying. But it’s harder to enter into evidence this way.
“Where are your dance partners?” Translation: Where are the kids?
“They were tired. Stayed home.” I take a deep breath. “Listen, Pop, I’m almost there. Should I bring tiger lilies, or daisies?” Translation: Am I looking for Delgados (tiger lilies—Mom’s favorite) or Savocas (who we like best when they’re pushing up daisies)?
“What the hell do you think, Rob?” he roars. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Use all those fucking brains you got from your mother and figure it out.”
“You’re sure?” I ask, because I have to.
“You’re implying I don’t have my finger on the pulse?” His tone is softer now, more deadly. “That’s the respect you have for your old man? Chop the head off the snake and everything will fall into place. My son would know that without me having to say it.”
So much for code.
“Yes, Pop,” I answer, because that was a directive. Oliver Savoca is going down. “You got any dance partners you can send my way?”
He barks a laugh, then there’s a click. He’s gone.
End of our touching family reunion.
I lower the phone, take a deep breath. There’s no one I can trust. Even he knows it.
Blood pounds in my ears over the bad bar music. I hang my head as my whole world swirls down the toilet like a giant turd. “Fuck!” I say again, pounding my fist through the wall.
“Hey,” someone says. I look up to see the brunette at the opening to the hallway. “Everything okay?”
No. Everything is totally fucked.
She saunters up the hall toward me and hooks a finger into one of my belt loops, pulling me toward her. “I can think of a better way to relieve stress.”
I grab her ass and yank her toward me, but when I seal my mouth over hers, I realize I need to be a whole lot drunker before I do this. Three rounds later, she hasn’t stopped talking about her shitty job and pregnant sister, and I’m regretting my decision to let her stay.
I knock back the last of my drink and rub my fingers at the waitress, who nods and goes to the register. “I’ve got to hit the road.”
The brunette’s hand slips between my legs and finds my package, flaccid now from all her jabbering. “You got a car in the lot, big boy?” she slurs.
“You need a ride somewhere?”
She leans in, pressing a whole lotta silicone up against my arm, and whispers in a cloud of alcohol, “I’ll ride you anytime.”
I pay the check and stand, striding for the door, not really caring one way of the other if she follows. She does, and when we get to my car, she’s got my fly down before I even have the door closed.
“Holy shit,” she groans appreciatively.
I adjust the seat back and let my knees fall open, giving her all the room she needs to do what she’s doing with her hands. I’m zoning out, but my fuzzy thoughts come to a sharp focus on my dick a minute later when she goes down on me.
I drop my head back into the headrest and forget everything except what’s happening between my legs. This is exactly what I needed to put things in perspective: a mindless blow job. I keep my eyes wide open and fist a hand into the hair on the back of her head, pressing her deeper.
Maybe it’s because it’s been a few months since I’ve been with anyone, or maybe it’s because I’m fucking bursting with stored-up sexual tension from all those trips to a certain untouchable blonde’s classroom, but it’s over pretty fast. As I unload down her throat, despite my best effort to stay right here with this girl I don’t know or give a shit about, the face I see in my mind has wide-set ocean blue eyes that pierce straight into my soul, and the name on my groan is “Adri.”
The brunette says something to me. I have no fucking clue what it is, but she leaves in a huff.
I zip up and crank the ignition, but then realize the storm in my head and the alcohol in my bloodstream make driving impossible. I cut the engine and tip my head back into the rest. It’s the better part of forever later that my head starts to clear. I shoulder out my door and take a lap through the parking lot to test my sobriety. Getting picked up on DUI right now sure as fuck wouldn’t help my cause or my family.
I’m passing the back of the bar when I hear a high-pitched whining from near the Dumpster. Next to it is a cardboard box. I peer inside and see the source of the whining—two gray puppies huddle in the corner of the box, shaking against the cool night air.
I drag a hand down my face. “Christ.”
I stick my hand in. One of them sniffs it, hoping it’s food, no doubt. The other one backs deeper into the corner. I stroke my finger down the nose of the one checking me out. “Who the hell left you here?”
He whines, licks my finger.
I scoop up the box, carry it back to my car, set it in the passenger seat, and know I’m going to regret this in the morning.
*
“What the hell are you thinking, Rob? They could carry some disease, or have fleas,” Lee says as I overflow the cereal bowl on the floor with dog food.
I’m thinking we’re never going to get our life back. I’m thinking if they’re taking out the few guys who were loyal to me, they’re coming after us next. Which means I’m thinking we’re screwed seven ways to Sunday. We can’t go back and it’s only a matter of time before everything goes sideways here.
My head pounds. I’m still in the clothes I was wearing yesterday. More than anything, I want to shower the bar stench off me, but everyone was asleep when I came in last night. I sat on the kitchen floor with the puppies trying to keep them quiet until they finally fell asleep. And when I dozed against the cabinets, what came to me was the memory of the last time I brought home a stray dog.
It was the fall after Mom died. I thought Pop might be mad, but he told me we could use a guard dog if I could train it—make it obedient. It was aggressive and used to living on the streets, so Lee wouldn’t let it in the house for fear it might hurt Sherm. But I was determined to gain its trust. I bought it toys and fed it from my hand, getting bitten in the process more than once. But little by little it became less feral. Over the next few months, I taught it to sit and roll, to fetch and shake. I loved that dog.
Until the day Pop came home and saw it in the backyard, chewing on the rawhide bone I’d given it as a reward for learning a new trick.
“That’s your idea of a guard dog?” he sneered, the vein down the center of his forehead swelling as his face reddened.
“He’ll chase off strangers,” I said, even though it was a lie.
Pop pulled his piece, pointed it at me. The dog sat up with the bone in its mouth and tipped its head curiously. Pop cocked the gun, held it to my forehead. I tried through sheer force of will to make that dog bare its teeth at the threat and growl. Instead, it padded over and dropped the bone at my shaking feet, its tongue lolling out, waiting for a pat on the head.
What it got instead was a hole in th
e head when Pop jerked the gun downward and shot it.
“I told you to train it and instead, you broke it,” Pop said as I stood there staring at my dead dog and swallowing pain that I couldn’t show him. He tucked his piece away and started for the house. “Love makes you vulnerable,” he said without looking back. “Never forget that.”
That’s where my mind was when Lee kicked me awake when she came down to make coffee a few minutes ago.
It turns out the thing I regret about last night isn’t the puppies, despite Lee’s look of consternation. It’s the fuzzy recollection of a brunette in my car that turns my stomach.
“Listen, I could have left them there to die, or I could bring them home. I thought they might do Sherm some good. I’ll take them to get checked out at the vet on Monday.”
Her expression softens as she surveys the two balls of gray fur, one dark and one light.
I picked up a variety of dog food on the way home, hoping they’d be able to eat something. I tipped the box on its side and put a bowl of water on the floor for them. The darker one, who’s the more curious of the two, ventured out to explore the kitchen, then lapped at the water. The other one hasn’t left the box. I moved the water into the box, but he still hasn’t taken any. I also put out some canned food, which the bolder one ate.
“Maybe,” she says, reaching out and scratching the dark one’s head. But then her gaze lifts to me and hardens again. “But I swear to God, Rob, if I’m the one who ends up scooping poop, you will find it in your bed.”
“You and Sherm doing okay sharing a room?” I ask, leaning into the counter.
She nods. “He’s sleeping all night in his own bed now.”
“Good.”
She goes to the coffeemaker, gets it fired up. “Do they have names?”
“They’re both male. I got that far. Thought I’d let Sherm handle the naming.”
She looks at them again. “They’re probably a Sheppard mix. They’re going to get big.”
There’s a shuffling on the stairs. I look up to see Sherm making his way sleepily down with his cast cradled to his chest. As he stumbles into the kitchen, the curious pup charges at him, crashing into his legs and making him stumble.
Outside the Lines Page 13