Chapter 12
The time has finally come. I’ve watched this bastard for the last couple of months, ever since his release. I know his routine: when he comes and goes from the halfway house, if he is ever with anyone, where he goes on a daily basis.
I look at the clock in my F-150: 8:30 am. Dennis Yearly should be walking out any second. Right on time, he steps out of the blue two-story house, shuts the door behind him, and walks down the steps.
He has his normal dark blue coveralls on and carries the small cooler that he keeps his lunch in. He has a twenty-five-minute walk to work and there is a mile period where everything is deserted. The houses are empty, no one is walking on the sidewalks, no kids playing in the yards, and no cars parked in driveways or on the sides of the streets. It’ll be right at the fifteen-minute mark.
He walks down the sidewalk, takes the normal turns, and I follow behind him until I have to speed up. I have enough tint in my windows that he won’t be able to see me as I pass by, if he would even know who I was. Driving on, I get to the spot I need to be at, pull my Beretta out of the glovebox, and tuck it in the back of my jeans, beneath my t-shirt and cut. Now I wait.
Ten minutes later he starts strolling by, not even noticing my truck. I step out, leaving the driver’s side door open, and jog across the street, sneaking right up behind him. Pulling my gun out, I hold it to the back of his neck. “Get in the truck,” I command.
“Please!” he begs, putting his hands in the air and dropping the cooler. “I’m just on my way to work. I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t want your fuckin’ money. Pick up the cooler and get in the truck now!” With my free hand I grab his arm tightly, pushing him in the direction of my truck after he bends to get the cooler he dropped.
“Open the door.” He grabs the handle and opens it. “Get the duct tape, tear off enough to cover your mouth, and put it in place.” He does as told, but the fuckin’ bastard is shaking and whimpering like a little bitch. Letting go of his arm, I reach up, gripping the back of his neck tightly. I put the gun back in my jeans and grab the rope I have sitting on the backseat. I snatch the cooler from him and throw it in the backseat, then I hold both of his wrists behind his back and secure the rope around them. “Get in!” He steps up with my help. I push him down and begin attaching the rope around his ankles, hogtying him. Double-checking the rope and the tape, I shut the back door, which already has the child safety lock on, and go around to my side. I get back in the driver’s side, start the engine, and head for the Sinners’ compound.
The prospect knows my truck, so as I pull up to the gate he lets me through, and I drive up to the clubhouse, pulling up as close to the cellar as I can. All of us patched members have a key to the cellar, so I shut off the truck, take my keys, and go unlock the cellar door.
Leaving the door wide open, I go back to the truck, open the back door, and grab a hold of the rope. Untying it, I sit him up and pull him out of the truck. His foot slips and he almost goes down, but rights himself. I push him into the cellar, down the stairs, into the main area, and through the second door. I pull the gun out of the back of my jeans and rip the duct tape off his mouth. I lift the gun, shoving the barrel against his forehead. “You make one fuckin’ sound and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out right now. Understood?”
He nods. Tears streak down his cheeks, his body shakes uncontrollably, and the smell of urine invades my nose. I look down and, sure enough, he’s pissed himself. “Why are you doing this?” His voice is wobbly, matching his bottom lip.
My brows knit, and I tilt my head to the side. “Do you recognize me?”
“No.” He frantically shakes his head.
“Fifteen years ago, you drove drunk in the middle of a fuckin’ ice storm. You crossed over that yellow line and crashed into another car. That car had my wife and my son in it, along with myself. Because of the decisions you made that night, I lost my family.” I stare coldly at the man who killed my family.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m a changed man. I swear!” he pleads, but it will do nothing to help him.
“Apologies don’t bring them back. Do you know why I never went to any of your appeals?”
“No.”
“Because I have been waiting for this moment. I have been waiting for you to be released so I can have my revenge. You don’t get to kill my family and move on with your life. You don’t get to go about planning a future when I’ll never get to see my son have one!” I grind out the last words, bring the Beretta back, and then hit him in the side of the head with it. He stumbles to the ground. Turning around, I walk out of the dirt-riddled, cold, and isolating room. I slam the door closed, lock it, and leave the cellar, making sure to lock it behind me. I get back in my truck and set my destination for Stilettos.
Unlocking my office door, I turn the light on and look around for the first time in a while. Usually I don’t give a shit what it looks like, but goddamn, this is a mess. Boxes are stacked and lined up along one wall, papers are thrown around my desk, not leaving any empty space, and uniforms are cluttered in a corner for the bouncers and waitresses. I have a lot of work to get this looking right for Sierra.
I lock up my office, head back out to my truck, and drive to the nearest store that has office shit.
Walking around, I throw things that I think she will need in the cart. I also get a couple filing cabinets and find a nice mahogany desk. The cashier rings me up and one of the stockers helps me load the desk into the back of my truck.
When I get back to Stilettos I begin cleaning up my desk, unpacking the boxes full of papers, supplies, and more uniforms for the bouncers and waitresses. What the hell do I need with all these fuckin’ uniforms?
I unload the filing cabinets first, get the dolly we use here at the club, and unload the desk. I push the desk inside and place it parallel to mine so she will be facing me, and then set the filing cabinets where the boxes once were and begin filling them.
Two hours later, I’m done. I look around the office; it’s clean, organized, spacious, and ready for her to claim the desk.
I sit behind mine, do some research on my computer for Hanger, unlock the top drawer, and find my checkbook.
I write her a personal check, put it in an envelope, and set it right in the middle of the desk with her name on the front. I turn out the lights, go out to the bar, and start getting shit done for Dancer.