THREE
ZETH
She falls asleep on me, her fingers twitching as she slowly slips into unconsciousness. She barely seems to sleep at all these days, which is perplexing. Doesn’t she need extra sleep because of the baby? Shouldn’t she be really fucking tired all the time? I’m not saying I spent any time on Google, researching how she should be behaving at the moment, or how her body should be reacting to the changes its going through, but…fuck it. So what? I did Google it. Sue me. I’m not a goddamn mind reader. I don’t know the first fucking thing about pregnant women. Aside from the fact that the one I’m currently living with seems to be losing her mind, of course.
I carry her to bed, careful not to wake her. She’ll be waking up for work in a couple of hours; the hospital have cut her down to four eight hour shifts a week, which Sloane considers a grave injustice, but I’m secretly glad she’s not spending thirty-six hours at a time on her feet, forgetting to eat, running around a trauma center like nothing has changed with her. I’d never say that to her face, though. She’d probably lynch me for trying to wrap her in cotton wool when she’s perfectly capable of doing whatever the hell she damn well wants to. She’s so fucking stubborn. It’s hilarious, and worrying, and intensely fucking sexy all at the same time.
I never thought a chick with the beginnings of a baby bump could be a turn on to me. Never. Turns out I was wrong. Turns out, the woman just needed to be Sloane, and she just needed to be knocked up with my child. I place a sheet over her and I sit in the chair by the window, listening to the rain coming down outside. I try not to stare at her stomach. Sometimes it feels like the motherfucking walls are closing in around me, all of the air suddenly sucked out of the room. I’m going to be a father. Me. I am going to be someone’s father. It just doesn’t make sense. It’s a terrifying prospect. I’m worried a lot of the time these days, which feels shitty. My head isn’t in the game. I just can’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the obvious: how am I going to be a stable, worthy role model for an infant? Am I going to be able to keep him or her safe? Am I going to drop the poor kid on its head the moment Sloane gives birth and hands me our child? And then there’s the most worrying of all the questions that are constantly ricocheting around the inside of my head: Am I going to be able to love it?
Loving Sloane is easy. It’s as simple as drawing breath. My feelings for her were an unstoppable force of nature I couldn’t have held at bay even if I’d wanted to. She started out as an enigma, and then an addiction. After a while she became a part of me, and there was no me and her. There was just us. But this baby… God. This baby is an unknown entity. I already know I’ll die for the tiny soul forming little by little, day by day inside of the woman I love. I am certain of it. The strength of my conviction is actually a little fucking frightening, because it’s so unexpected.
Dawn arrives, pale, weak sunlight spearing through the clouds down into the valley, the forest below the house coming alive with color as the light touches it: orange, green, brown, yellow, all blending together to create one bright, bold tapestry of autumnal color. Sloane stirs, but she doesn’t wake. Carefully I get up out of the chair and cross the room to her, looking down on her as she sleeps. Her skin seems lit from the inside, glowing and warm. She refuses to see how extraordinarily beautiful pregnancy has made her, but I see it clearly. She’s stunning. Slowly, I reach out a hand and allow it to hover her stomach, just an inch above the tiny swelling that’s only just recently started to protrude.
“You’re in there. You’re really in there, huh?” I whisper. I don’t know who this baby will be, or how it will affect our lives for the better or the worse, but I know how its existence makes me feel, and it’s not what I would have expected. Not even close. I’m glad he or she is slowly growing, getting strong, forming one cell at a time inside of Sloane. I’m glad. It seems beyond right.
I hold my breath, lowering my hand even further, so that I’m almost touching her stomach. My fingertips brush the soft cotton of her Snoopy nightshirt…
Vrrrrrrnnnn vrrrrrrn vrrrrrrrn. Vrrrrrrnnnn vrrrrrrn vrrrrrrrn.
I jerk my hand back, adrenaline crashing through my veins. On the dresser, my cell phone vibrates angrily as a call comes through, a cold, pale blue light washing up the walls. I cross the room quickly and grab it, checking the screen to see who’s calling so early. It’s Michael. Normally I’d ignore him, but he wouldn’t be trying to get a hold of me at this time of the morning unless it was super important.
Sloane hasn’t woken yet, hasn’t even stirred, so I quietly slip out of the bedroom and down the stairs, holding my cell to my ear. “What is it?”
“Insurance adjustors,” Michael says. “They showed up at the warehouse in the middle of the night.”
The warehouse. My former residence. The building the Italians burned down not too long ago, because I refused to work for them. I had Michael set up a perimeter alarm in the hollow shell of the building shortly after the fire gutted the place. The alarm must have been tripped or something.
“What are they looking for?”
“I don’t know.” Michael sounds pensive. “Could be they suspect arson. They were grumbling that the place wasn’t coded for habitation.”
“Good thing no one was living there then.” This is actually true. With Lacey gone and me spending nearly every waking hour with Sloane here at her place, the warehouse was sitting empty for a while there. Still, all of my belongings were there. I’m sure it would be easy enough to come to the conclusion that the place was being used as a residence.
“If they do find out the fire was set on purpose, they’ll open a full investigation. They’ll want to interview you.” Michael obviously knows how little I am going to enjoy the prospect. He sounds apologetic, as if this is all somehow his fault. “I’m going to go and pay the fire chief a visit later on this morning,” he advises. “I just wanted to check in, make sure you were okay with that?”
A visit from Michael isn’t something most people ever wish for. He’s a charming motherfucker with a killer sense of style, but he’s also stone cold when he needs to be. He gets the job done. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t flinch. He’s basically an extension of me.
“I don’t mind. See if you can’t persuade the guys down at the firehouse that this was an electrical fire after all. Rats chewing at cables.”
Michael grunts. “There’s something else.”
“What?” I don’t really even need to bother asking, though. I already know what it’s going to be. We’ve had the same, repeating problem for a while now, and it’s getting really fucking old.
“Mason,” Michael says tightly. “Found him drunk, asleep in the middle of the cage just now. He threw up all over the canvas. He was covered in blood. I think he’s been street fighting again.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, groaning. “Fucking idiot. All right. Make him fucking clean it up. Do not cut him any breaks. I’ll be down there in an hour. Make sure he waits there for me. Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Okay, boss. You got it.”
******
“Goddamn, Mase. What the fuck?”
Michael wasn’t kidding when he said the kid was covered in blood. He’s not just covered. He’s absolutely soaked in crimson. It’s in his hair, down the back of his shirt, his knuckles, his forearms, his entire goddamn face… Some of it belongs to someone else, I’m sure, but by the looks of things most of it is his. There are three or four open cuts and scrapes on his hands and face that are still bleeding freely, not to mention whatever he has going on on his torso. Great, round patches of blood have soaked through his grey t-shirt, forming black, ominous Rorschach patterns all over his clothes.
“Urggghhhh. I told him not to call you,” Mason groans. He’s lying on his back on the linoleum floor just outside the door to the men’s locker rooms, as if he was headed in their to clean up but couldn’t quite make it before he had to lie down and pass the hell out. “You guys are the worst,” he says, slurring.
Ever since the funeral, this is how it’s been: Mason drinking too much. Mason starting fights. Mason being too fucked up to subsequently defend himself, and Mason getting his ass kicked.
“We’re the worst?” This claim deserves some thought. We are the bad guys. He’s the one constantly breaking into the gym and fucking shit up, and me and Michael are the bad guys. Sounds about right.
I crouch down beside Mason, studying the bloody, bruised mess that is his face. “You have less than thirty seconds to get your ass up and off this floor, motherfucker. Then you and I are going to have words.”
Mason blearily cracks an eye. “You want me to move?”
I don’t say a word. I let him take in the look on my face. He needs to see how fucking pissed I am, and I don’t need words to demonstrate that. One glance at my expression is enough to do that just fine.
“Zeth, I—”
“Thirty seconds. I’ll be waiting in my office.” I get up and I cross the gym, flicking on light switches and ceiling fans as I go. It’s a strange life, being a small business owner after so many years of breaking the law (along with other people’s bones). I never thought I’d end up following a ritualistic routine each morning, putting the coffee pot on, starting up the AC, sitting down in front of a computer to respond to emails. Okay, so most of the time I don’t deal with that part of the gym’s day-to-day operation, but sometimes, when I have a second, I’ll take a run at replying to messages. There are five in my inbox when I open it up, killing some time before Mason can drag his carcass up the short flight of stairs to come talk to me.
The emails aren’t anything that exciting. Some kid wanting to come train and learn how to bulk so he can, and I quote, “severely beat the shit out of my nazi asshole brother.” Another girl, asking if we did women only classes (we do not), but then…
“What the actual fuck?” Lowell? Lowell’s sent me an email? Well there’s a surprise. She’s been notably missing since Millie died, and Mason hasn’t mentioned her once since before the funeral. I click on the subject bar, and the message opens.
Ernie’s shots are due, specifically Bordatella and rabies. Please make sure he gets them.
She doesn’t use my name. But then again, I’m sure my name is like a stone in that back of her throat, toxic poison on the tip of her tongue. She probably couldn’t even bring herself to type out the four letters required to address me. I stare at the weird message, growing more and more annoyed by the second. With so few words she’s managed to make me feel like a complete asshole. Ernie’s been just fine with us since I decided we were going to rehome him. He’s been happy as fuck. The last thing we need is Lowell coming along, griping at us about his fucking shots. The last thing we need is any communication from Lowell, period.
“What’s the problem?”
I look up and Mason’s standing in the doorway. His head is hanging low, like it weighs a metric ton and there’s no way he can possibly hold it up on his own. “What’s the problem?” I ask.
His eyes glint, filled with defiance as he meets my gaze. “Yeah. You’re all bent out of shape about something, I can tell.”
I sit back in my chair, stacking my hands on my stomach, staring at him. I don’t reply. I just sit there and wait. Eventually his shoulders sag and the look of pure fire in his eyes gutters out. He drags himself across to the chair on the other side of my desk, and he sits himself down in it. Rather, he collapses in it. Leaning forward, he covers his face in his hands, breathing deeply. He speaks, his words are muffled. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, man. I’m just…”
“You’re just…?”
“I just want to fucking die.”
“Fair enough.”
His head whips up, eyes bloodshot and shocked. “So I should just kill myself, then? Is that it?”
“I didn’t say that. I said fair enough. As in, I understand that you feel that way.”
“Goddamn it, man. You’re supposed to try and cheer me up or something.”
“Why the fuck would I do that? You just puked all over my canvas. Plus,” I narrow my eyes at him. “Your sister just died. There is no ‘cheering you up.’”
I should know. When Lacey died, I was shrouded beneath a black cloud so dark and impenetrable I don’t think I even knew what was going on for a couple of days. Admittedly, I had to get my shit together because people were relying on me. That’s the problem here; Mason is used to having someone rely on him. Now that no one needs him to be strong, needs him to hold them up and support them, he’s just fucking adrift. Lost. Completely without cause or purpose.
“You’re coming to work for me fulltime,” I inform him. “I’m gonna need you here at eight every morning. You’ll get thirty minutes for lunch, and you’ll clock off at six. You can have Sundays off.”
Mason’s eyes widen. “No way, man. I can’t.”
“Did I give you the impression your new job was voluntary?”
“You can’t just make me work for you.”
“If we’re talking, physical coercion, then I absolutely can make you. I can make you do anything if I hurt you enough. But that’s beside the point. You have rent, don’t you? You have bills to pay? You aren’t working across the street for Mac anymore, and I don’t see you hitting the streets looking for other work. So congratulations, Mason. You are now gainfully employed at the Blood & Roses gym. Don’t turn up fucking late. And if you arrive here drunk, for any fucking reason, I will make you wish you’d never been fucking born. Do you understand me?”
I expect him to balk. At least kick up some kind of fuss. He just sits there for a second, mulling this over, and then he closes his eyes, relief washing over his tired features. “Okay. Okay, sure. I understand.”
******
I’ve been putting off my flight to New York. I’ve been fucking dreading it, in fact. Leaving Sloane behind is such a bad idea, but fuck. What am I supposed to do? Take her with me to confront one of the biggest mafia crime bosses in the country? There’s no way. No way on earth I would ever put her in that kind of danger, especially now that she’s pregnant. I’ve avoided the trip for an entire month, but now the time has come for me to show my face over in Hell’s Kitchen. Torching my warehouse wasn’t a one-off event. If I don’t go and handle these motherfuckers and soon, they’ll come back and rain down even more chaos on my doorstep, and I will not have that. These bastards need to know. They need to fucking know that I won’t be strong-armed, pressured, bullied or threatened into doing what they want me to do. Comply with that sort of behavior and you’re setting a very bad precedent. The next time they want something from me, they’ll simply burn down the gym next time. Or Sloane’s house. Or the hospital.
So. I book my flight, and I text Sloane. She’s not going to like this. Not one little bit. She’s going to beg me not to go, and I’m going to have to make her unhappy.
Me: I’m going away for a few days. I won’t be long. Michael’s going to come stay at the house with you.
The text bubble appears with three dots, meaning she’s replying. I wait for her response to come through, but then the bubble disappears along with the dots, and it appears that she’s stopped typing. Fucking great. I’ve made her that unhappy. Not ideal in the slightest.
Michael shows up at the gym at around ten am, with a black duffel bag in his hand. He turns it over to me, and I take it, placing it on the table so I can unzip it and check inside. Knuckle-dusters. Duct tape. A set of pliers wrapped in clear plastic. A bowie knife in a heavy-duty black Kevlar sheath.
“All TSA friendly items, I see.”
Michael just shrugs. “You’ll be fine. Make sure you see Sandra Wilder when you check in. She’s going to take care of it.”
Who the fuck is Sandra Wilder? Who fucking cares? If she can get my tools onto a flight without me being arrested, she’s my new best friend. It would be easy enough to go buy what I need once I land in New York, but I don’t plan on hitting up Home Depot. In and out. I’m not hanging around.
“Don’t kill anyone,” Michael says.
I remain focused on the bag in front of me, studiously ignoring him.
“Zeth.”
I throw the bag’s strap over my shoulder, turning and heading for the door.
“All right,” he shouts after me. “If you do have to kill people, just make sure you don’t get caught!”
******
Michael’s like that overweight eunuch guy from Game Of Thrones. He has spies and accomplices dotted all over Seattle (and the rest of the country, for that matter), ready and willing to lend assistance whenever he calls on them. They’re never who you’d expect them to be, either. Sandra Wilder isn’t a skinny, sexy twenty-three year old flight attendant. She’s not a drug addicted meth fiend, desperately trying to keep hold of her job, either. She’s a middle-aged mom with a plain, brown bob haircut and stylish pink glasses. There’s a picture of Jesus tacked to the corner of her computer screen; I see it when she turns the computer monitor around to show me which seats are still available on the flight.
“Aisle or window, Mr. Mayfair?”
“Aisle.”
She nods sagely, as if this makes perfect sense. “I’ll put you at the very front of the plane. You’ll be able to disembark quickly that way. Sounds like you have important business to take care of in the Big Apple.” She laughs, as if her off-the-cuff comment means nothing, but I stare at her, wondering how much she knows. Michael wouldn’t have told her what’s in the duffel. He wouldn’t have.
“You can go ahead and place your bag on the scale, Mr. Mayfair.” She smiles broadly at me, gesturing to the conveyor belt to the right. “I’ll make sure this is delivered to you at the gate personally once we reach our destination.”
There’s something a little off about Sandra. She’s a little too peppy. Is she medicated? Maybe she does have a drug problem after all. Nothing so pedestrian as meth or heroin, though. Coke, perhaps. More likely it’s pharmaceuticals. Clonopin. Percocet. Demerol. I’m usually really fucking good at picking up people’s tells and figuring out what their deal is, but Sandra’s confusing the shit out of me.
I place the bag onto the conveyor belt, and she laughs a little too manically. “Well, well! Fifty pounds for such a small duffel bag, Mr. Mayfair. What have you got in here? Bricks?”
I flash her a grimace of a smile. “I left the bricks at home this time, Sandra.”
She wags a finger at me. “Well, that’s probably for the best. I can just about manage with this. Don’t you worry now. Here’s your boarding pass. Your flight is leaving from gate 32 in fifty-five minutes. I hope you enjoy your trip.”
I take the boarding pass she slides toward me, slipping it into my back pocket. “Oh, don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’m gonna have the time of my life.”