King's Ransom: South Side Sinners MC

by BT Urruela

  When she had fully donned her pointe shoes, Annalise took a look around her dressing room before heading out to the stage. There, or in the studio when the music began, she could let everything else go. It flowed through her like the waters of a raging river. The power and the beauty became a single force and for once in her life, there was no holding back. She could be one with the pure adrenaline the body only gave up in moments of fight-or-flight. Drug addicts sought it with the aid of chemicals, pro athletes and endurance runners did it with extreme stress on the body. Just past the point of maximum pain, the body released dopamine in a flood, like waves after a storm that crashed onto the shore. Annalise pushed and pushed until her body ultimately rewarded her.

  When they finally landed their move to the director’s satisfaction, Annalise was on such a high that nothing could bring her down. She was beaming when the lights came up … until she saw them. There, in the second row, were her parents and their guests. Great, time for the dog and pony show, Annalise thought as the director dismissed them to their dressing rooms. She cringed, picturing the gown that awaited her. The back was low-cut and the thought of him placing his hand on the small of her back at each opportunity made her skin crawl.

  She returned to her dressing room and sat for what felt like an eternity, looking at the small piles of blue, yellow, and red pills—five in each—she had arranged before going out this morning. She had an entire bottle of her mother’s skittles laying before her. Surely enough to end this charade and bring the final curtain down forever. Annalise had never taken drugs and she reasoned her tolerance would be low, but allotted triple the amount to overdose her body weight just to be safe. The last thing she wanted was to wake up in an ER with a plastic cheese grater shoved down her nose pumping out the assorted cocktail from her stomach. She had a bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay ready to wash it down. Since she didn’t drink either, she guessed the whole thing would have to be done fairly quickly so the alcohol would not impede her ability to follow through.

  The last three weeks she had been preparing, collecting a few pills here and a few pills there. She had planned to wait until the grand debut of her performance of Gisele, making it her first and last, but seeing them out there in the audience, she considered just getting it over with. Annalise couldn’t stand the thought of going home with them tonight. Tears threatened to escape as she silently wished for some kind of deliverance.

  A knock at the door startled her and she quickly covered the tray with her robe, then stashed the bottle of wine in her closet. “God,” she implored silently, “I don’t know if you are there or where the fuck you have been all my life, but if you are real, please, please, get me out of here. One way or another, on the night of my debut, I am done.”

  Annalise looked forward to her debut night now more than anything. She didn’t fear death half as much as she did life and she was ready. She would train with every fiber of her being so this performance would be one to top all others, it would be her legacy.

  “I’ll be right there,” she called to the banging at her dressing room door.

  “Hurry up, Annalise!” her mother slurred through the wooden barricade. “Our guests are waiting and we are all hungry. For God’s sake, just put the dress on and let’s go. I don’t want to hear one thing about those heels, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Annalise replied with a smile on her face as she carefully tucked away the tray. Knowing this would all soon be over gave her a sense of freedom … almost joy. She donned the dress and pressed her swollen toes into the heels, swallowing the torment. A quick redo of her long dark hair and she was ready to go.

  “Gary, Kim, this is our daughter, Annalise. Isn’t she lovely,” Ronald Hale gloated in his most charming voice to the stout couple in their mid-sixties. “Annalise, Gary is a general at Fort Benning, and his lovely wife Kim has been heading up one of their family support units for over a decade. They were very generous supporters of the campaign.”

  “Very nice to meet you, sir … ma’am,” Annalise responded as programmed and shook their hands. She knew her role well. Remain silent unless spoken to. Answer all questions politely and engagingly but always remain positive and noncommittal. Annalise hated every minute of it. She hated the fake smiles and the hugs. To be fair, Annalise hated human contact at all. She inwardly tensed every time someone touched her. Her mother was never overly affectionate and her father, well, that she didn’t even want to think about at the moment. Right now, she just had to survive this dinner and hope some miracle would keep him from cornering her later.

  Her complete distrust of others and intolerance to contact was probably the reason she had never had a boyfriend. Nineteen years old and she was yet to be on a single real date. She had, of course, been on a few forced group dates, with her parents and campaign contributors and their fine young sons. Thankfully, with the campaign over, those were starting to dwindle. The whole shebang was demeaning and vile.

  Throughout dinner, her father and the general were very much engaged in their own conversation. He almost seemed beside himself with upset and Annalise couldn’t figure it out. He had acted like they were good friends but now, as the little vein popped out in her father’s temple, she could tell something was very wrong. Secretly, she hoped this would mean he would be too preoccupied to bother her later, but she knew that too was a toss-up. Sometimes when he was really angry, he made her pay.

  That was the worst. She turned to her mother to gauge the alcohol intake. There had to be a way to keep her sober at least a little until they got home. Her mother chatted up the general’s wife and ordered another round of drinks. That was a sinking ship and Annalise knew it. Her mother laughed much louder than appropriate. The situation deteriorated fast.

  “Mother, would you like to have some ice water?” Annalise urged gently. Perhaps if she could just slow her down a bit, she would make it through dinner. Annalise glanced around the exquisite Italian ristorante, as if some white knight would appear from between the pillars and help her escape. Instead, the waiter returned and happily refilled her mother’s glass.

  “Annalise you are such a card. Kim, you shhhould see her train.” Her mother’s words were already reaching a point of incomprehension. “Day in and day out.” She swirled the glass around and the waiter had to chase it with the bottle. Annalise shot him a warning glance.

  “Annalise, how long have you been dancing?” Mrs. Campbell turned her attention to Annalise. “I’ve been fascinated with the ballet since I was a little girl. But with these weak ankles, sadly, it just wasn’t for me.” She held her foot out and rolled it around slowly, wincing as if the slightest movement caused her pain.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Campbell,” Annalise answered politely. “I’ve been dancing off and on since I was three, but really got into it when I was nine.”

  “Oh! I read that! Please, Annalise, call me Kim,” she exclaimed and clapped her hands as if she had won some kind of prize. “I read that your dancing took off around age nine and that you showed maturity beyond your peers,” she recites proudly.

  “That’s what they say.” Annalise fiddled with her fork, pushing food around on her plate while doing her best to keep a smile and make eye contact.

  “So, what changed? How did you find your passion?” the general’s wife cooed and leaned in for the exclusive tidbit.

  “I guess I learned to work through the pain of practice and use it in my dancing. Dance became my life.” Annalise gave the practiced answer, one she had used many times. She would never dare tell the truth. She couldn’t bear to think about it, let alone say it out loud.

  “I can’t fucking believe this!” her father blurted out suddenly, spilling his drink. Annalise looked at the two men with fear in her eyes. Shit, this was worse than she thought. Embarrassed, her father laughed off the incident as if they were only joking.

  Her mother barely noticed the outburst. She was already past the point of no return and would be retiring soon. Annalise w
orked double time, entertaining Kim and keeping her mother upright and in the conversation. She felt like a cook and every pot was boiling over at once. Her father was occupied completely in his conversation with the general, not that he was ever any help with her mother anyway. The waiter approached to refill her mother’s wine and Annalise waved him off discreetly before her mother noticed his presence. It was a move she had practiced as many times as a simple plié. Annalise never missed a beat in the conversation, keeping Kim’s eyes on her instead of her mother’s deteriorating condition. She described in detail the new move they had worked on all day and how it would be incorporated into the performance.

  “We debut in two weeks,” Annalise added with a smile as she ground the ruby slipper into her mother’s toe beneath the table in an attempt to wake her up. Her mother’s head jerked up but she was too far gone to yelp in pain.

  “Thiiiiisss willl be the bestesist purrrrrformace St. Louis has ever seen,” her mother attempted.

  “I’m sorry, Kim, my mother’s blood pressure medication sometimes makes her a bit sleepy.” Annalise shifted quickly to Plan B. Blame the thyroid or blood pressure medication. She searched the room for the waiter; surely it was almost time to get the check.

  “Oh, I understand,” Kim responded, sympathetic eyes falling on Annalise. “I sometimes have to take a muscle relaxant for my back and that just knocks me out cold.” The woman nodded in understanding toward Victoria before turning back to Annalise. “After hearing all about what you are doing and seeing you practice today, I can’t wait for your debut performance. That night is going to be magical.”

  “Me either. I’m really looking forward to it. It’s definitely going to be a memorable night for everyone,” Annalise replied and for the first time in their conversation, genuinely meant every word.

  Kim beamed back at her. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world! We’ve already reserved our private box. I do hope your parents will join us.”

  “I’m sure they would enjoy that,” Annalise replied, but looking at the deepening lines on her father’s face, wondered if it was indeed the truth.

  Relief flooded Annalise when the check finally arrived and her father announced he and the general were going to go for after dinner drinks, as they had some things to discuss. He added he would have the car drop Kim to her hotel and take Annalise and her mother home.

  This was music to Annalise’s ears. Hopefully, her father’s meeting would go very late and she would be fast asleep with the door locked before he got home. Miles would help her get her mother to bed as usual. Just a few weeks to go and this would all be over.

  One night down.

  Kim and Annalise sat in the back of the car, her mother nestled between them, hibernating in a chemical haze. Kim went on about life as a general’s wife as they rolled through the streets of St. Louis toward the Four Seasons Hotel. Annalise listened to her talk and wondered if the general’s wife could be as lonely as she was.

  “Look at that!” Kim exclaimed as they drove closer to the Gateway Arch. It was illuminated an iridescent blue against the backdrop of the city. Annalise had to admit that as much as she hated this town, the arch at night was breathtaking.

  “All lit up like this, St. Louis doesn’t seem so bad,” Annalise said wistfully, without realizing she was talking out loud.

  “Aww, honey,” Kim said softly, and looked from Annalise to her mother and back. Her eyes brimmed with pity as the realization struck her. “I always wondered why you didn’t take the position in New York or Paris.”

  Annalise quickly realized her error. She stammered, trying to recover, but it was too late. The car pulled into the Four Seasons and a valet opened the door. Before getting out, Kim squeezed Annalise’s arm. “Take some time to live a little. Get out there, let your hair down once in a while. Believe it or not, you don’t always have to be perfect.” Kim stood and took a couple steps before turning and motioning toward the slumbering lumberjack currently drooling on the seat beside Annalise. “Remind Sleeping Beauty, when she wakes up, that we have a spa appointment here tomorrow. You should join us.”

  “That sounds lovely, but I have rehearsals tomorrow,” Annalise offered, still embarrassed for her earlier slip-up. While a trip to the spa did sound wonderful, an entire day with her mother complaining and then drinking herself into oblivion would be anything but relaxing. As the car pulled away, Annalise waved goodbye.

  Rolling through the Streets of St. Louis, each time they passed a club, the dance music called to her. What would it be like to go into one of those clubs and dance like there was no tomorrow? She looked down at her sleeping mother and knew she would never have the chance to find out.

  Five

  It had only been a day since the funeral, and the two enforcers found themselves working again. No rest for the wicked, as they say.

  After only a few hours of sleep—he had no clue how much—Dimitri woke with a splitting headache and a naked stranger in his bed. The night had been a bender. Beer bottles littered both nightstands, the TV stand, and the dresser, and the square piece of glass on the nightstand beside him still had a line on it. He shrugged, snatched up a rolled-up hundred beside the glass, and snorted the line before he went to wake Knuckles on the couch.

  Preach had told them not to worry about working, the debt collecting could wait. He told Dimitri to take some more time to himself, but Dimitri had no time to give. Every bit of it was taken up by thoughts of his father being lowered into the dirt, of his mother lying dead on the gurney, only his cries and those of his father filling the quiet room. And, of course, his thoughts belonged to what could’ve been. A happy family. The ability to continue on the legacy of his name. The end to all the hurt.

  If he weren’t working, he surely would’ve been drinking, probably would’ve had sex with the stranger again too, so better to stay busy, better to pretend he wasn’t losing his fucking shit by doing what he did best … hurting and killing. Oddly enough, the violence had begun to soothe him as much as it turned his stomach. He couldn’t figure out why the duality existed, how he could kill a man and feel power from it in the moment, but in the next, he’d be wracked silly with guilt over the dead, so bad he couldn’t sleep at night. Almost felt as if every man he had ever killed stuck with him like disease, something he couldn’t ever shake, couldn’t ever forget, not even if he tried. And then, once more, the killing relieved him in a way nothing else could. Satisfied him in a way other things just couldn’t, outside of the whiskey and the drugs.

  And back around he went in a vicious cycle.

  Of course, he wasn’t of sound mind, but he didn’t tell anybody. Didn’t trust his own thoughts enough to speak a word of it. Preach didn’t know the state of it. Neither did Knuckles or Jacoby. Not Trigger or Charlie either, his two protégés. He kept the horror in his head to himself, and he quieted the demons with a stiff drink and oftentimes a stiffer line.

  They could never know he was back on the stuff either. They’d never be able to trust him again after the last time.

  After Knuckles and Preach had to talk him off the MacArthur Bridge.

  There was a stillness in the van, which idled along a quiet suburban St. Louis road. A morning dew collected on the ground and windshield as the sun had just begun to crest the horizon. Knuckles fidgeted in the driver’s seat, with Dimitri overthinking things as always in the passenger seat, his focus on a house down the road—their target—and on how he was about to add one more ghost to the mix.

  The van was filled with the sterile smell of cleaning products, as it had been used by the enforcers many times before to deal with many different people, and it worsened Dimitri’s throbbing headache. He rubbed his temples out with each thumb.

  Trigger Morris finger drummed his knee as he sat cross-legged on the floor in the back, which had been cleared of all its seats, Charlie Cumberland across from him, with a book in his hands as usual. Despite the violence that was to come in a moment’s time, Charlie’s mundanity persisted.
He was no more moved by puppy videos than he was by watching a man skinned alive … or doing it himself. Just another day to him. Just killing time between books. He abused the spine of The Kite Runner on that day, a peculiar choice for a sci-fi fan such as he.

  “I’m bored as fuck,” Trigger alerted them. His massive tattooed shoulders were slumped over his equally impressive tree trunk thighs, his blond hair held back by a hair tie, and his lengthy beard swayed along with his shaking head. “And I’m ready to fuck some shit up.” His excited eyes met Dimitri’s. He was in his mid-twenties but acted twelve.

  Dimitri grinned, thinking then as he had a hundred times before it, that Trigger looked like he just walked off the set of Erik the Conqueror. Like a Viking ready to pillage and plunder.

  Knuckles glanced back with a grin of his own, his shiner now more yellow than purple, but still the butt of every joke. “You miss your meds this morning, Trig?”

  Trigger passed him a look of guilt. “Didn’t wanna fuck with ’em. I told you I don’t need that shit. Takes away my edge.”

  Dimitri cracked up laughing. “Who the fuck are you kidding, Trigger?”

  “I can’t come on that shit, man. My junk gets numb!” Trigger whined, grabbing at his crotch.

  “Better a numb dick than your trigger-happy ass getting one of us killed,” Dimitri said, only half-kidding.

  Trigger shrugged. “I mean, I should probably live up to the name.”

  Charlie glanced up from his book, his soft eyes peering over his black-framed glasses at Trig, and he said, “Yeah, and you’re driving me fucking mental.”

  Trigger placed a hand over Charlie’s book, and ruffled his messy brown hair with the other. “Hey, it’s not reading time anyway, Charlie Boy. It’s time to get into the killing fuckin’ mood,” Trigger growled, flexing his thick biceps, and then swatting again at Charlie’s book as he jerked away.

  “I can’t tell if it’s the lack of medication or an increase in injections,” Charlie said sarcastically, freeing the book from Trigger’s hand and he held it up to his face. “This is how I get in the killing mood, my friend,” he said, before setting the book back in his lap and attempting to read.