Micah

 

She almost looked peaceful, lying like that in my guest bedroom. I'd doped her up pretty well with the mickey I'd spiked her drink with, enough so that I wouldn't have to worry about her wandering around my house while I tried to conduct business, or sleep.

 

Relax, I didn't have any plans to take advantage of Kaci. It was just that, whether she was walking the street or ending up in a hotel room with a dead pimp and a dead James, she seemed to have a knack for being where she wasn't supposed to. She proved that again when she showed up in the meeting room during the vote.

 

My hand still smarted from earlier in the night. Hopefully, I'd taught her a little bit of a lesson when I'd bent her over my knee. Of course, as I adjusted my half-erect cock, I also hoped she learned slow. There'd been something immensely hot about her form bent over my lap like that, having her submit to my hand the way she had. I liked the way she fought it, at first, but ended up relaxing and pushing back into it, by the end.

 

But, whether she needed another lesson later, or not, I had other work to do still.

 

I quietly closed the door to the guest room and headed back downstairs and into the small guest bathroom. I removed the lid from the ceramic toilet tank and reached inside to grab the bag, and the disposable cell phone it contained, that sat at the bottom.

 

When you do the kind of business me and the MC do, you get paranoid. You never use the same phone more than a few times, you always keep them rotating, and you certainly never use one that's registered under your name. You also follow the same rules when it comes to calling out on the phone. Just because your line ain't tapped, doesn't mean your buddy's ain't, too.

 

I dialed in the number for Gov's burner of the week once I'd pulled the phone from its waterproof bag and turned it on. As the phone began to ring, I pressed it to my ear and waited.

 

“Yeah?” Gov said when he answered on the fifth or sixth ring. We'd arranged the times before I'd left Hellfire, so I was a little surprised it took him as long as it did to answer.

 

I kept my concerns to myself, though, and tried to fight back any others I might have. Gov was my right-hand man, and questioning him would just lead to questioning myself. No good can come of that, no matter which way you looked at it.

 

“What'd we hear from our little buddy?” I asked. Gov was our point of contact for the guy in Petrov Arms. Early on, we'd discussed how it would be a bad idea for me to be involved on that side of things. When I'd brought Kaci home with me, and set Gov to putting Sydney to work, I'd also made sure Gov knew it was time to move on with our original plans.

 

Abram had been a bust, after all. But, you couldn't let a little kink in your plans fuck everything else up. It didn't matter if you got knocked down a hundred times, my old man used to say. What mattered is that you got back up a hundred and one times.

 

“One week, or thereabouts,” Gov said, his voice hollow and scratchy through the cheap speaker of the cell phone. “Got the numbers.”

 

“They gonna be what we need?”

 

“Mil-spec,” he said. Military Specification firearms, is what he meant, though. Full-auto, selective fire, high-capacity rounds, chambered for larger calibers. “Out on one of those bayou roads”

 

Those things would go for a pretty penny on the open market. A couple of the right deals, might even be enough to set us up good and pretty. Not enough for the rest of our lives, or anything, but enough that we wouldn't have to take such crazy risks going forward.

 

I looked at myself in the mirror, at the sleeves of tattoos covering my arms, at the beard covering my face, at the certainty in my eyes. This was what we needed, I reminded myself with a nod. This was what God’s Hellfire MC needed to keep moving forward.

 

“Good,” I said, my mind starting to formulate a plan. “We'll take ten guys. You, me, and eight others set a stolen truck as a roadblock. Guy pulls over, we stick the guns in the window and yank him down. Pull around our pickup and unload everything. Easy-peasy, man.”

 

“I dunno,” Gov said. “I don't trust this whole thing, man. This Abram guy that got in touch with us? How the hell did he know we were involved?”

 

“He never said he thought we were involved,” I reminded him, even though, in retrospect, it did feel a little strange. “Said he thought we might be interested in the idea when he put his feelers out. He knew something was going on, Gov, and wanted a piece of the pie same as anyone else. I bet they got tons of drivers seeing that action, right now, and wanting in.”

 

“Damnit, Micah, think. Why the fuck was he running a prostitution ring, if he was a trucker? What kind of trucker does that shit? If anything, he'd be one of the damned customers, not the pimp.”

 

“Nah,” I said, shaking my head. “Just the mark of another greedy bastard, that's all.”

 

Silence on the other end. I walked out of the small hall bathroom and headed out into the living room, cocked my ear to the side to make sure Kaci was still sleeping like a doped-up baby.

 

“You there?” I asked after a while.

 

“Sorry,” Gov said quickly, “yeah, I'm here. Turn on the news, channel six.”

 

“What for?” I asked.

 

“Something about our favorite corpse, Abram. Might find it interesting.”

 

I found the remote and turned the TV on. I wasn't in time to catch the beginning of the news story. I was treated, though, to two pictures on the screen.

 

The first, on the left, was a picture of a young man that was clearly related to the hooker currently asleep in my guest room. It looked like the picture was maybe a high school baseball photo, the kind they took for yearbook. He was decked out in his uniform and trying to look serious, like he really knew his shit. Poor kid couldn't have been more than sixteen. Under the young man's smiling face was the name Romeo Sizemore, with the word victim in parentheses after.

 

The second, on the right, was the photo of a man who could be a Russian mob extra in Hollywood. It was so stereotypical, I was amazed he wasn't wearing an Adidas track suit in the image. Under the picture of the mob extra was Abram Ivanovich. A voice over of a local crime reporter saying, “Authorities are still unsure why the young man was meeting with the Petrov Arms executive in the Hilton hotel room. If members of the public have any information that can contribute to the murder investigation, they are encouraged to contact local law enforcement.”

 

I wasn't exactly sure, but Romeo Sizemore there didn't exactly look like the type to be renting an hour or so with a family member.

 

“You watching?” Gov asked after a minute.

 

“Shit,” I breathed.

 

“Shit is right.”

 

I wiped a hand down my face. I couldn't believe I'd bought into any of that shit she was selling. I mean, I knew something was fucked up with her story . . . but that her own brother was involved? Of course the cops would come looking for her!

 

“How do we want to handle this?” Gov asked from the other end of the line.

 

I shook my head. “I dunno yet. I'll let you know tomorrow.”

 

Gov sighed. “Yeah. Alright,” he said before we both hung up.

 

Clutching the burner phone like my life relied on it, I let my hand drop to my side.

 

What was going on here? What had I dragged myself and the MC into? Whether this Abram guy had zeroed in on God’s Hellfire as his culprits, or not, it was clear they were looking for us. Whether they would find us, or not, was another matter. These were businessmen, after all, despite their looks. I was pretty confident they wouldn't go to the police, or try to make waves. Otherwise, they would have already.

 

But, still, to know I'd gotten played so far by some amateur that was crashed out in my guest room, and that Gov and I had been that close to walking into the same room with Abram Ivanovich. That was too much.

 

Suddenly, the stress and the bullshit of it all was too much. “Fuck!” I yelled, forgetting myself. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

 

When I'd stopped yelling, the silence of my house returned. Nothing stirred, nothing buzzed. No baby cried, no wife asked me what was wrong. Just solitude and emptiness.

 

Luckily, Kaci was drugged up enough to keep a horse down. Should have been plenty for even a foul-mouthed hooker.

 

# # #

Kaci

 

I woke up in a comfy king-sized bed the next morning, fully clothed. I was a little groggy from the drinks I'd had the night before, but could tell I was in a strange room. I wasn't sure how strong Micah had been pouring them, but I reminded myself that I needed to stick to beer next time. The Don had a heavy hand, it seemed, in more than one area.

 

I wasn't sure how I'd gotten to bed, but I was actually a little surprised to still be wearing everything. What with the Don being a big biker type, I kind of figured I'd wake up naked with cum dripping from all my holes. Bikers weren't exactly known for their respectability around pretty, passed-out girls.

 

Although, as I rubbed a hand across my mildly-sore tits, I did wish he'd at least taken my bra off before he shoved me in bed. But, no sense in complaining about it now. I climbed out of bed and put my bare feet on the cold hardwood floor. I did a big stretch and, after wiping a hand over my made-up face, groaned. There was one more item I could add to the list on things The Don needed to do before dumping me in bed: wash off my makeup.

 

I padded out into the hallway and found a bathroom to relieve myself. While I was searching the big upper floor, my mouth began to water as the fragrance of cooking bacon and eggs and fresh-brewed coffee hit my nose. I finished up and stopped before I left the restroom. I knew I shouldn't look in the mirror, at least not too closely, but I did anyways. My heavy blue eyeshadow was smeared off, my mascara was running, and my lipstick was rubbed off. I looked like a clown that had gotten into a back alley brawl, and lost.

 

After a few minutes' unsuccessful search for makeup remover, I settled on the liquid soap Micah had sitting out. It was basic, but it was better than looking like one of those bad crying clown velvet pictures my Mee-Ma had in her double wide.

 

Scrubbed up, I stumbled downstairs and found the kitchen. Micah was in there, humming along as he finished up breakfast. I stepped up behind him just as the toaster popped its cooked bread out of the top slots.

 

“You're awake,” Micah said in a deadpan voice, not bothering to turn from the stove. “Coffee cups are over there,” he said, gesturing with his spatula to a cabinet.

 

“Yeah,” I grumbled, my vocal chords feeling unfamiliar in my throat, and went to pull down one of the big ceramic mugs from the cupboard. I poured myself coffee.

 

“Food'll be ready in just a bit, Ms. Sizemore,” he said. “Have a seat at the table, I'll bring you your plate.”

 

I nodded, not even catching that he'd used my last name. The coffee hadn't kicked in yet. I went and plopped myself down at the dining room table and, soon after, the Don was bringing food out to me. A pile of bacon, a mound of delicious-looking eggs, and thick-cut toast arrived in front of me.

 

After a few bites of my food, and a few healthy slurps of coffee to wash it all down, I finally started to perk up.

 

Didn't matter, though, because Micah apparently wasn't much for breakfast conversation. He just sat there, scowl chiseled on that handsome face of his like he was the statue of some ancient king in the deserts of Egypt.

 

“So,” I asked, a forkful of egg halfway to my mouth, “what's the plan for today, Don? You gonna take me upstairs and make me pay rent, yet?”

 

He grunted and stuffed a piece of bacon in my mouth, chewing it with relish. His jaw worked like a wild animal. Not in a gross way, or anything, but in a manly way. Like that bacon was his enemy, and he was the barbarian hordes.

 

“No, then?” I asked, giving him a little smile as I leaned forward and, reaching below the table, put my hand on his knee.

 

He ignored me and brushed my hand away as politely as I'd ever had it brushed. Not that I'd had it brushed away very often, of course.

 

I frowned and picked up a strip of bacon, biting the end off it. This nut was going to be a tough one to crack.

 

We finished eating in silence, getting down to just our orange juice and coffee. I got up before he had a chance and cleared the plates. He didn't say a word, or try to stop me.

 

When I came back to the table, I stopped behind his chair and put my hands on his shoulders. If my less subtle overtures hadn't worked, maybe I needed to get even more slutty. I rubbed his thick, muscular shoulders a moment before leaning down close to his ear. “You sure you want to keep turning me down, Don?” I whispered, my lips close enough so I'd tickle his ear with my breath.

 

I felt him shiver a little, and saw the hair on his neck raise in response. He groaned a little, but I at least got a response. “We have errands to run today, Ms. Sizemore.”

 

He didn't get up, turn around, or remove my hands, though.

 

“Well,” I said, my lips still next to his ears, my fingers still kneading his rock-hard muscles, “all I've got is this slutty skirt to wear out, Don.”

 

He cleared his throat and abruptly pushed back from the table, throwing me off balance and making me stumble back a couple steps. “I've got some stuff that should fit you, from an ex. We'll see if it fits.”

 

Fucker. Turn me down three times in a row, would he? I didn't care if I wanted him dead, or not. Rejection still sucks. If I'd thought about it in the kitchen, I would have grabbed a steak knife so I could have planted it between his shoulder blades.

 

I frowned hard and realized I was pouting.

 

He got up and left the room, not even bothering to look my direction or meet my eyes.

 

I stamped my foot.

 

Mother. Fucker.

 

But, then, I had a bright idea. I'd show him. I grabbed his mostly-full orange juice off the counter and darted into the kitchen. As spotless as this big, fancy house was, he had to have cleaning supplies just piled up. I set the glass on the counter and dropped to my knees, began digging through the under-sink cabinets.

 

Bottles of counter cleaners, wood polishes, waxes were set up like rows of soldiers.

 

I ransacked through them, finding what I thought would do the trick: Drain-O. Good, old-fashioned poison. With a grin, I scrambled up and poured a healthy dose of the plumber-in-a-bottle into his OJ and tucked the cleaning product back under the counter. I grabbed the juice and nearly ran back into the dining room, setting it on the table as close to where he'd left it as I could remember. Then, I returned to my own coffee and orange juice and began to drink it down.

 

As the still-warm coffee made its way down my throat, though, I began to think about what I'd just done. Sydney was still with the God’s Hellfire MC, with that Gov guy back on Bourbon Street. And I didn't even know where I was. Hell, even if I did know, how was I going to get my friend out of there? It was crawling with bikers, who wouldn't likely take too kindly to me showing up without their boss.

 

Shit.

 

And they definitely wouldn't be too keen on me when they found out I'd poisoned the bastard.

 

Double shit!

 

I slammed my coffee back down on the table and went to grab Micah's poisoned juice, but stopped in my tracks as he came around the corner, clothes draped over one arm.

 

He glanced down at my outstretched hands for a brief moment, then his eyes came back up and locked with mine. “Here,” he said, dropping the jeans and tee shirt over the back of the chair in front of him. “I think these will fit.”

 

Triple shit.

 

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I grabbed the orange juice from the table and made like I was going to go pour it out.

 

“Throwing out my juice, Ms. Sizemore?” he asked my back.

 

I stopped in my tracks, took a deep breath. “No,” I said and shook my head. Then I thought better of it. Of course I was. “Well, yeah,” I said, with a nod. “Figured you were done with it, that's all.”

 

“Not yet,” Micah said as he came up behind me and took it away. “Waste not, want not. That's what my dad, old Jaws Marlow used to say.”

 

I laughed nervously, my eyes fixated on the glass in his hands. “My mom used to say the same thing.”

 

Time seemed to stop as I watched his hand bring the glass to his lips.

 

I held my breath.

 

His eyes locked on mine as his nostrils flared a little.

 

I bit my lower lip as I repeated the mantra: Please don't please don't please don't please don't please-

 

He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips. “Second thought, my stomach's feeling a little queasy. You were right, better pour it out.”

 

I exhaled a little and smiled. “Sure thing, Don,” I mumbled as I took it away from him and went into the kitchen. I sighed as I emptied its contents down the drain and ran the faucet afterwards.

 

The whole time I was rinsing the sink, though, I was thinking about that look in his eyes. Had it been realization about my poisoning his drink? Or was it something deeper?

 

“Come on, Ms. Sizemore,” he called from behind me, “better shake a leg. We gotta long morning ahead of us.”

 

That was when it hit me. I'd never told him my last name. So, either he'd gone through my purse and found my ID, or something else was up.

 

The question was: what?