Brock

 

Three days later, Brock sat on the bed in the hotel room, drinking the tiny bottles of liquor from the mini-bar. He looked down at the stacks of bills that had been fanned out across the blanket. In the corner, Crack was slumped over in a chair, snoring heavily. It was almost midnight.

 

Oh, the hand-off had gone smoothly, all right. Turo showed up with Adamo, still apologizing and insisting on his own innocence as he gave Brock the valise with the ten million dollars in it. He'd invited Brock to count it to make sure everything was there, but Brock imperiously stated he was sure it was—with the vaguest hint of a threat in his voice—and dismissed Turo, saying he'd be in touch within the week about his father's release.

 

And now here it all was. Ten million dollars—and if the five million had been more money than Brock had ever seen before, then ten looked like someone else's dream coming true before his eyes. He had to reach out and touch it just to confirm that it was real.

 

Combined with the previous payoff, it was fifteen million. Split seven ways, that was over two million dollars per involved party. The biggest score of Brock's life and it was his, free and clear.

 

They'd pushed their luck, and it had paid off. Turo would have had to liquidate most of his personal cash reserve to pay this off, as well as about a third of his mob businesses. Between that and the sudden loss of his only heroin connection, he wouldn't be in much of a position to retaliate once he realized he'd been conned.

 

Now it was time for the loot to be divided and for Brock to split, laughing all the way.

 

So why didn't he feel happy about any of it?

 

He wished the answer were elusive, but unfortunately, he knew exactly what it was and he loathed himself for it.

 

It was Maggie.

 

He couldn't get her out of his mind. He hated the fact that the last time he'd seen her, he'd made her cry. He couldn't bear the thought that every mile he put between himself and New Orleans was also a mile he put between himself and her.

 

So what? his brain sneered at him. You've left behind a hundred crying girls in a hundred other towns, and you were always mighty sure they'd get over it. Why not? You always did, right? You can break some other girl's heart in the next town, and the next. Isn't that part of the adventure?

 

It always had been before, but this time, it felt different. Part of it was the way Maggie had smiled at him during the end of their first date—the happiness and trust and wanting he'd seen sparkling in her eyes, and all of it just for him. Based on his previous sexual encounters, Brock had come to believe less-experienced partners generally weren't much fun. Too much fumbling and hesitation and uncertainty.

 

But with Maggie, it had been different. She'd welcomed him into her and embraced him completely with a fierceness he'd never known before, as though she'd been waiting for him her whole life.

 

Or maybe he'd been waiting for her?

 

Deep down, though, he knew there was another reason he was having trouble with the concept of leaving her. The way her parents tried to control her and dictate every aspect of her life, right down to who she'd marry—it had reminded him of something before, but he hadn't been able to put his finger on it until tonight. And now that he had, he wished he hadn't.

 

He reached into the mini-bar for another bottle and twisted the cap off, drinking it without bothering to look at the label first.

 

Once upon a time, there'd been a little boy named Brock Summer whose parents lived in Grosse Tete. Their family wasn't nearly as wealthy as the Riccis—Brock's father was a surgeon, and his mother was a software designer—but they were still firmly ensconced in the upper middle class, with an emphasis on the “upper.”

 

And they'd had such plans for their beloved little boy, hadn't they? That was how they'd always said it, in hushed, eager tones: Such plans, as though they could wrap up their son's entire future in a shiny gift box and present it to him with a big bow, pre-assembled, batteries included, nothing required of him except to take it and say “Thank you.”

 

Such plans meant sending him to a private school, far from the playmates he'd had when he was younger. Such plans meant no meat, no soda, nothing sweet, nothing fried. Such plans meant piano lessons three days a week, baseball practice all weekend, and church every Sunday. Such plans meant he'd go to whichever college they chose for him, and such plans meant forced dates with Serena, the glum, pimply girl who came from the only other family in town that was even close to the Summers in wealth and status.

 

And then came Hammer, and heavy metal music, and motorcycles, and teenage rebellion. Then came the fledgling Twisted Saints, and blowing town at age 17 without ever looking back.

 

And if Hammer hadn't come into Brock's life at just the right moment to save him from his parents' tyranny, what then? Would he be working in an office, doing a job he hated for people he couldn't stand? Would he be married to Serena? Would he visit his mother and father for bland brunches every weekend so they could nag him about when he'd give them grandchildren? Would his parents have such plans for them, too?

 

Hammer had saved Brock from that life. And if Brock didn't do the same for Maggie, who would?

 

Crack let out a particularly loud snort, farted, shifted his position, and started snoring again.

 

He was staying in Brock's room to keep up the appearance of being his bodyguard, but Brock knew there was another reason, too: he'd been tasked with keeping an eye on Brock, to make sure he didn't do anything else the others wouldn't approve of.

 

So all this speculating about Maggie's future without him—or with him, for that matter—was moot, wasn't it? His co-conspirators had almost drawn and quartered him when they found out he'd had sex with Maggie. Even if he could somehow see her again, the rest of them would be furious when they heard about it.

 

Unless...

 

Brock stood up slowly, setting the small bottle down on the nightstand and thinking hard.

 

Unless he could somehow make his rendezvous with Maggie into a guarantee of even more money for all of them. Unless he could turn it into part of the score itself. They couldn't be too angry then, could they? Sure, maybe they'd yell and curse at him a little for changing the plan again without telling them, but, ultimately, they'd want that extra cash. Who wouldn't?

 

You're drunk, his brain informed him sourly. You're horny, you're lovesick, and you're making stupid excuses for a bad decision.

 

It's a brilliant decision, his heart shot back. Who wants to see Turo Ricci taken down even more than Hammer and the others?

 

Maggie, that's who.

 

Brock crept across the hotel room, keeping his eyes fixed on Crack. He made it to the door and stepped out, closing it gently behind him. When he got down to the lobby, he ducked into the bar and ordered a cup of strong black coffee.

 

For this next part, he'd need it.