Dreams in the Dark (Destroyers Book 2)

by A. R. Case

  “That’s not a very nice thing to do.”

  “Let’s put it this way, say he was an insurance con man. Would you block his number then?”

  “Hum ... one of those credit card calls.”

  “There you go. He’s one of those.”

  “Honey, he isn’t.”

  I was in my bedroom now, sitting on the bed with lots of pillows behind me, but still managed to bang my head into the wall on principle. “Mom. Just do it. Or have Dad do it. That way you won’t have to feel guilty.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Just do not, whatever you do, do not give him my new number. Not him, his family, or anyone besides Dad gets this number. Don’t even give it to your sister.” There were other reasons for that, but I wanted it clear that she wasn’t to share it.

  “Does your boyfriend have it?”

  No, he didn’t. But he was next on my list of calls.

  Indy

  It was a fucking shit day.

  Normal shit days suck, but fucking shit days are the kind where you truly consider why the planet has so much population. That kind of thinking isn’t a good thing when you’ve the will and means to lessen that burden.

  Las Vegas had good, legal money changing hands at rapid speed. When money moves that fast, you jump in and invest, pulling five percent out here, seven there. Then keep reinvesting until your money triples.

  So why the fuck was I at a church meeting where the main topic of conversation was fucking moving Meth? I swear, no one had an imagination in this whole fucking club.

  “We’ll send Hagerstown down for it.”

  My ears perked up. “TomTom ain’t no mule.”

  “Fuck you, then you go down if you insist on keeping your recruit squeaky clean.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. There was no less than three things wrong with that sentence. I looked over at Mayhem, the fucking president of this chapter. “What is the percentage on this one?”

  “Fuck percentage, it’s ours, it’s profit.”

  “So, you don’t know how much you are paying the cooks.” It wasn’t a question, because I knew the answer.

  “None of your goddamn business.”

  “It is my fucking business when you come up short on national.”

  “Who told you that?” Mayhem was getting defensive.

  “None of your business. I just know if you aren’t clearing thirty, you’re going to lose money by the end of the year.”

  “Who the fuck is this guy again?” Some asshole at the table stuck a thumb at me.

  The VP, the only one of this outfit with a brain, punched the last person who spoke. “He’s national. Shut the fuck up.” He stared at me. “We get forty on good days. But our regular runner is a fucking junky which is why we need your guy.” He followed up with one word. “Sixteen.”

  Jesus Christ that was bad. “Why the fuck are you letting him live?”

  The president slammed his hand down hard. “Two kids.”

  “Sentimentality will fuck you every time. Drop him and get someone else to fuck his old lady. Someone with some fucking sense.”

  “Dude, his ol’ lady O.D.’d last year.”

  Whoever this numbnuts was, he needed to figure out how to keep his yap shut in church. “Then the kids go into the system and problem solved.”

  “That’s cold, Indy.” Mayhem said.

  “Living with a fucking junkie who is also fucking over the Destroyers, I’ll add, fucking over the Destroyers as a pledged member, is about as low as those kids can get. If you are so worried about them, find a fucking hanger-on who will adopt them out. But lose the fucking baggage.”

  I’d seen exactly one person get clean and sober from drugs in my life. Every day was a new test for him. He stayed with it, though. Even stayed in the brotherhood, and that shit can’t be easy. I also knew that every day that man would take time out to be grateful for the sunset. Every sunset, every day. Gratitude like that fills a person up. He had nothing, was untethered to this world, and fought back to see one more sunset. Someone who had two kids to live for and chose wrong, well, they had no gratitude for the good in life. That meant he had already written himself, and those kids off. That meant he was a fucking piece of shit.

  “Still need the runner.”

  “Five percent for the runner and I’ll get you fucking forty.”

  I would, too. TomTom needed it, God help him. Because five percent of shit is still shit. This was the wrong path. Every man in this room was going to go down, eventually. I planned not to be with this room that long.

  Before I left, I tacked one last shot onto my demands. “Rehab for your guy. And if he relapses, send him off the same way as his ol’ lady. You have three months.”

  Neither Mayhem nor his VP looked happy. Fuck them.

  I wasn’t happy either.

  My phone was in the stupid lock box, and I’d missed four calls. Legitimate, paying calls.

  One number was new. I took that one first, seeing as I was in a mood to fuck with a wrong number.

  “Hi Indy, it’s Edie. I changed my number. Would you call me back, so I know you got it?”

  It took me a minute to find the gratitude for myself. She’d taken my advice. That was good. It was a step forward. Eddie would not be able to reach out to mess with her. Eventually he’d get bored of fighting a one-sided game and find a new target. It was a good thing.

  But the nagging blackness inside me whispered, “It got bad enough, she changed her number.” Yeah. One less person on this planet might make a bit of a difference.

  I saved the number, and dialed it.

  “Hi Indy.”

  “Damn, woman, you sound good.” I didn’t care at this point if the whole club heard me talking. If they had someone sweet to listen to, they’d understand.

  “You sound tired.”

  “Missing the fuck out of you, and Maryland.”

  “I’m missing you too. Don’t miss Las Vegas though.”

  I snorted. “Wish I could say the same. How’s things there?”

  “Wet. Been raining for three days.”

  “Could use some of that here.”

  It was so quiet on her end, I could hear the crickets.

  “You on the porch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fin leave a shotgun for you?”

  “You know that’s illegal for me?”

  “A fucking shotgun isn’t illegal.”

  “If I don’t have a permit, it is.”

  “You’ve been looking into guns?” Now she had me scared.

  “Mary has been taking me to her gun dealer. You know the one with the outdoor range?”

  I knew that guy well. He didn’t know me, per se, seeing as how I had another ten years to prove myself a pillar of society before I could frequent his establishment. “I know that one. Good shop. Walt swears by it. Now, tell me why you are thinking about guns.”

  “Well, Mary pointed out I’m alone out here. You did also.”

  “And?”

  “And, there may have been some horrible comments on my website.”

  “You save them?”

  “No, I deleted them. Vile people.”

  “People?”

  “Yes, seems like I have been discovered by a troll farm or something.”

  “How many people?”

  “I don’t know, Indy.”

  “Guess.”

  “Indy.”

  “Edie, dammit, more than twenty?”

  “I think so.” Her voice was small. I hated that.

  “When did it start?”

  “Right after Vegas.”

  “So, Eddie.” That wasn’t a hard guess.

  “It’s more than one email though.”

  “Is it the same domain name?”

  “What do you mean?” She asked.

  I explained, “The name before the dot com or dot net. Is it the same?”

  There was a slight pause. “I think so. I turned off commenting because it h
ad gotten so bad, but I can turn it back on, if …”

  “Naw, leave it off. Thank God you don’t have Twitter, or that shit.”

  “I’ve been meaning to look into Twitter.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You’re being bossy tonight.”

  I read that entirely wrong, in hindsight. “Do not compare me to Eddie right now, babe. Don’t think I could handle that.”

  The phone in my hand went dark.

  Fucking shit day.

  Edie

  One good thing about being pissed off, is that I work more pointy things into my designs. It’s subconscious. Maybe all those points are there to stab big dumb jerks who can’t see that I’m not comparing them to an ex-husband.

  However you cut it, I had twenty awesome, edgy designs to pick from to send to the investor. I had high resolution copies made from my sketchbooks. The same place packaged them up for shipping. While I was there, I made copies of all the armor sketches I’d made while imagining Eddie strung out on a rack. Indy was shoved off in a corner of my mind in an oubliette or something. Whatever it was, it had a ball gag and maybe some soundproofing because I was finally feeling a bit more myself.

  With that clarity, I could think about how tired he sounded. It must have been a rough day for him, and I’d hung up rather than being empathetic.

  Yeah, old Edie wasn’t gone after all. Maybe I’d shove her in the iron maiden tonight.

  I stopped by Betty Jo’s to drop off the armor copies. It was a roaring Saturday, and because of the rain, there were trucks and cars up and down the block by their house. The porch was lit up and a couple of younger members of the club were hanging out with beers in hand.

  “Hi. Is Betty Jo inside?” I asked.

  “Hey pretty lady. She’s manning the margaritas I think.”

  The other one elbowed his friend. “You’re Indy’s old lady, right?” Under his breath, he stage whispered, “Show some respect.”

  “I called her pretty, not fat, asshole.”

  My plastered smile fell just a smidge. “I think I can find her.”

  “When you’re done, come back out. You must be lonely.” The first one called at me.

  I heard the whap of a hand, or fist, as the door shut. It was cute and so wrong, but also funny. Betty Jo, Mary, and at least four other women were at the living room bar. There also was a back deck bar, where the men held court, but in here, where there was soft seating and multiple outlets for blenders, Queen Betty Jo reigned.

  A red, slushy drink was handed to me. The chorus of greetings felt almost as good as the cold on the back of my throat. Despite the rain, it was hot. You didn’t dry out in this kind of weather, just melted and got squishy. The air conditioning and controlled mayhem were a balm tonight.

  “What brings you out?” Betty Jo asked.

  “I mailed off my shoe line today.”

  “Woot! That calls for more of a celebration than just this shit. Move your butt, Cherri, Edie gets the throne of honor tonight.”

  One of Betty Jo’s bar stools had soft arms with built in cup holders. There were two other stools, but this one was the so-called princess throne. Lately, Mary had been claiming it.

  Tonight, however, she moved aside and let me sit. It was pretty awesome. “You do have a couch or something I can sleep on tonight, right?”

  “Oh hell, yes. Edie’s getting drunk tonight, break out the paints!” Betty Jo hollered, and the others joined in the fun.

  I took a long drink of red fruity mixed something and rubbed my hands together. “Who’s my first victim?”

  Later, the crowd thinned out, and I finished drawing a dragon on one of the prospect’s shoulders. He swore he was going to get Fin to tattoo it on him the next day. Mary was waiting on an Uber.

  The counter in front of me was cluttered with glasses, a couple of ballpoint pens I’d discarded because they’d stopped working, and a box of face paints I’d left the last time I was here. My sketches were safely deposited upstairs in the spare bedroom. I was beyond the “is it hot in here” phase by about three room spins.

  “I can’t find my purse.” Mary was in my face.

  “The orange one?”

  “No, I think I had my black Gucci one tonight.” She wandered off, and I blinked to focus on something other than the space she’d just vacated. I spun back to the counter, which was a mistake, because the chair went too far, and I had to catch myself from doing a full turn. On the back turn I noticed her orange Michael Kors clutch.

  “Mary! Is this it?” I held it up.

  No one else had an orange designer purse, so I wondered why I’d asked such a stupid question. My phone was under it. There was something sticky near it, so I handed off Mary’s purse in haste. After wiping it down, I had to check to see if it worked. There was a call from Indy. No message.

  He picked up on the third ring, or maybe the eighth. I don’t remember.

  “Hey gorgeous.”

  I sighed. His voice was rich and deep. There was more southern in it tonight. “Hi baby.”

  “Where are you at? It’s noisy.”

  “Betty Jo’s.”

  “Oh shit. I mean, really now? What’s the occasion?”

  “I mailed off my designs.”

  “That’s my girl. Proud of you, babe.”

  Just then Mary, who hadn’t been handed her purse, was in my face again. “Have you seen my purse?”

  “I gave it to …” I couldn’t remember who I gave it to. “I think the short little one that’s a good gnome.”

  “Short and brown or short and red?”

  Honestly, I didn’t know. “Look for a gnome with an orange purse.”

  “I brought the black one. I swear I did.” Mary wandered off.

  “A gnome with an orange purse. Betty Jo throws a hell of a party, girl.”

  That was so funny. “Indy, you are hilarious.”

  “And, you’re pretty drunk.”

  “I think I am.”

  “I should fuck with you and get some phone sex going. You down?”

  “You know I’m not good at that. I can never figure out if I’m supposed to be really touching myself or just saying I am. And if I’m just saying I am, then it really isn’t sex, but if I am, then I forget to talk and it’s just me masturbating while you listen to me pant.”

  “Aw Hell, woman. I need you to do that for me sometime.”

  “Pant?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “How about now?”

  “You in the living room of Betty Jo’s?”

  “Yes, I’m in the princess seat tonight!” For some reason I sounded like a second grader who’d just won the first round of a spelling bee. But I was also damn proud of being the guest of honor tonight.

  “Are there prospects running beers for everyone?”

  “Oh yes.” I saw Mary’s gnome. “Hey! Mary needs her purse.” The gnome looked at me, and turned the direction I’d pointed with the phone. Because of that, I caught Indy near the end of the sentence.

  “... to catch one of those numb nuts ogling you while you slip a hand down your panties.”

  “What?”

  “I said…” There was an interruption on the other end. “Well who the fuck told him to go do that?”

  “Indy? Are you talking to someone there?”

  Then, I heard a woman. I can’t remember what she said, just the tone, and a breathy, “Indy.” Damn it. “Is there a woman there?”

  “Four, maybe forty. Chapter is having a party.”

  My blood went cold. Somewhere in my lack of self-awareness, I was jealous because Indy was at a party. “They’re not hitting on you, are they?”

  “Babe, it’s a party. Where are you tonight?”

  “Betty Jo’s.” Still completely unaware.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Babe. How’s your mom?”

  “Don’t change the subject on me. I need to know who these women are that are hitting on you, and if any of the
m give you better phone sex. Oh God. They do, they have to because I suck at phone sex. Do you want me to put my hand down my pants now?”

  “Sweetheart, is Fin around?”

  “I don’t know, somewhere, I guess. Maybe if I talk real breathy,” I adjusted my voice, “like this. How is that baby? You like it like that?”

  “Edie, love, light of my darkness, find Fin for me.”

  “Okay baby.” I got up, then realized he didn’t like my lame attempt at phone sex, and lamented my ineptitude. But I found Fin, on the back porch, where he hangs out when not in his shop. “Fin, Indy wants to talk to you, and tell him I’m sorry for bad phone sex.”

  The men standing in the vicinity roared in laughter. Fin yelled at them to shut the fuck up because he needed to hear, and one ear was deaf, and he couldn’t hear out of the other one. It stopped some of the louder laughter. I was handed another drink. Before I could take a sip, Fin took it out of my hands, and put it on a crate made out of old pallets. “No more. Indy says you’re too drunk.”

  “I’m not too drunk.” My stumble told a different story. So of course, Fin took that as gospel. “Maybe a little drunk. But, no one tells me what to do. If I want a drink, I’ll drink.”

  Fin was not impressed by my independence.

  “Water. From the tap, and you drink it all down and don’t touch anything else.” He got back on the phone, which I realized was my phone. “Yeah, I’ll watch for that too. I don’t think anyone would spike her drink here. If they did, I’d sic Betty Jo on their stupid ass.”

  He walked away with my phone in hand. Dammit.

  The gnome came back. “Mary got her purse. She thought she’d brought the black one.”

  See? I was right? Too drunk, my ass. I yawned, and plopped my ass down on the swinging couch they had hanging from chains. That made the night spin.

  Fin got me on my feet, and fed me water. After that, I stumbled upstairs to the spare bedroom. I was beginning to live here on weekends. I vowed to myself I shouldn’t do that. Then passed out.

  “Edie, wake up.”

  My head hurt.

  “Edie, I need you up. You’ve got to come with me.” Fin was shaking me. Betty Jo was hovering, her face normally pale, was white, and she looked like she was going to cry. She never cries.

  “What is it? Did someone…? Oh my god, Indy? Is he okay?”