JAMIE
THREE DAYS ELLIE had been back stateside, three fucking days. The longest three days of my life, they felt like.
Since seeing that article, all I could think about was her. She’d taken over everything, consumed my every thought. And now she was back here, so tantalizingly close, and I’d been wrestling with the decision of whether I should go and see her, offer my condolences, ask if there was anything I could do to help. I’d almost caved a few times, but had managed to maintain my resolve. I wanted what was best for her—I always had—and I was almost positive that what was best for her wasn’t me. But there was still that selfish need, that incredible desire to be near her, touch her face, run my fingers through her hair, pull her body against mine, and hold her so tightly we’d never be apart again. It was one thing staying away from her while she was halfway around the world, but quite another making myself stay away from her now that she was just ten miles down the road.
I groaned and gripped the small knife in my hand tightly, looking up at the dartboard mounted on the wall. I needed a drink. I needed to get so shitfaced drunk that I couldn’t even stand; maybe then my chest would loosen and I’d be able to breathe properly. For the hundredth time in three days, I thought about how much easier my life would have been if I’d never even met that playful little redhead. She came into my life with an unexpected bang that turned my world into something I’d dared not even hope for. If I hadn’t met her, if she hadn’t made me fall in love with her so deeply that it devoured me, then I wouldn’t feel this emptiness inside me.
My heartache had gone beyond pain now, beyond loneliness, beyond grief; now it was just emptiness, which, in my opinion, was fucking worse. I could barely stand it.
I needed a distraction, an escape, something to take my mind off her. Seeing as it was barely eleven a.m. I couldn’t exactly drink myself into oblivion like I craved, so it would have to be something else. Closing my eyes, I thought of some of the more menial jobs that needed doing—there were a few emails that required my attention from the legitimate businesses I ran, I needed to sort out hiring two more security guards for a new contract we’d just signed, I had a couple of people I needed to call back—but I wasn’t inclined to do any of these things.
My hands itched to do something more exciting, to find some thrills. Maybe to steal some rich prick’s pride and joy and crush it into a cube at the junkyard, just for kicks. There was all sorts of depraved shit I enjoyed lately. I was constantly pushing myself, wanting—no, wanting wasn’t the right word, needing was more fitting—needing bigger and better.
“Go big or go home.” My mantra.
But daytime limited what distractions could be had.
Fighting was out. I was still recovering from the beating I’d received on Friday night, the yellowing bruises on my face evident. There were no gun or drug deliveries scheduled until the weekend. Stealing cars was one of my favorite pastimes—one of the only things that made me feel alive in this unfeeling, boring, pointless existence—but that was ruled out, too. I liked taking risks, but stealing cars in the daylight was for the brainless, uncouth, low-class thief who mainly just wanted the car radio or a little joyride.
So, all in all, I was pretty much useless today.
As if he knew I was falling down the black hole of boredom, Ray shouted my name from downstairs in the workshop. The sound of metal clanging against metal drifted through the floor. I blinked, thankful for the reprieve from my negative thoughts, and drew back my arm, throwing the knife, letting it fly across the room, and watching it find its target in the double-six slot on the dartboard, grouped nicely with the two others I’d thrown moments before my mind wandered to redheaded places. An acquaintance I’d met in prison had liked knives; he’d told me that to master a knife you first had to understand it, respect it. I wasn’t sure I’d quite become a master at throwing knives, but I was a pretty skilled shot now.
I pushed myself up from the black leather chair and headed out of the office that had once belonged to Brett. Downstairs was the workshop where I’d spent so many hours of my life, hiding from the beatings that going home would bring, earning money so I could save for plans that never came into effect. As I reached the bottom step, the smell of stale sweat and grease hit me. I smiled a half smile. This workshop was my favorite place in the world.
Ray was over to one side, perched on a stool working on some sort of circuit board, his array of tools spread all over the workbench. The radio thumped behind him while he sang along to some Kanye West shit.
Ray had been with me from the beginning. As soon as I had been released from prison, he’d sought me out, taking me into his home with his wife and daughter, trying to convince me to go onto the straight and narrow, something he had been doing for the year and a half while I was doing hard time. When it became obvious to him and everyone else that my mind was set, he quit his mechanic job and helped me take back the territory and business that Brett had built before he died. Ed and Enzo had also come on board, and I’d headhunted Dodger, convincing him to come work with me, too. Together, we’d streamlined the business, dropping the things I had never liked doing while under Brett’s charge—the robberies, the neighborhood protection racket, and the moneylending. We kept the bread-and-butter jobs, the real moneymakers—drugs, munitions, and of course, the cars. We certainly weren’t the massive enterprise that Brett had run, fingers in all the pies, but we were a formidable force within our three areas.
Go big or go home.
We went big.
Other local gangs and organizations despised us for it because we took all the best deals, leaving the scraps for them to fight over. I delighted in it. What else had I ever had to be proud of in my life?
“What’s up, buddy?” I called to Ray’s back.
“Hey, Kid.” He turned to me and smiled warmly, wiping his hands on a rag. “Thought that was your car outside. Here, I got you something.”
“Oh yeah, what?”
He pointed to a little white box on the workbench, so I picked it up and lifted the lid. Inside was a small metal object that made my heart leap in my chest. “Is this what I think it is?” I gasped, eyeing him hopefully.
He nodded, his smile smug as he folded his arms over his chest. “It certainly is. I called in a favor. Had it overnighted from China for you.”
I pumped my fist, excitement bubbling in my stomach. Now I had something to keep me occupied for a couple of hours. “You’re the best. Thanks, man.” I grinned, walking over and slapping him on the back.
He raised one eyebrow. “You might not thank me when you find out how much it cost.”
I waved a dismissive hand. Money wasn’t an issue for me at all. “I owe you big time. Buy you a drink later?” I offered. He nodded in response as I walked over to my pride and joy, parked in the corner. Grinning, I gripped the blue tarp that covered it and pulled it off, revealing my 2004 Subaru Impreza WRX, the limited Petter Solberg edition. A proud, dreamy sigh left my lips. She was a beautiful thing—when she worked, that was. Of all the cars I owned or had driven, this was one of my favorites.
She really was a piece of art, in my opinion—ice-blue paint job, 316 horsepower, zero to sixty in 4.5 seconds, limited edition too because they’d only made five hundred of them. I’d had her shipped in from Japan earlier in the year when I’d accidentally fallen into my new hobby—street racing.
I hadn’t driven her in two weeks, though; during my last race she’d snapped a clutch cable and had been unusable since.
“I got you new spark plugs too, I know you said she was a little sluggish so that should help,” Ray said, walking up behind me with another box.
I grinned over my shoulder. “Thanks, bud,” I said, digging in my pocket for my keys and unlocking the car.
“Want me to help you fix her up?”
I shook my head quickly. “Nah, I got it. Thanks.” Grinning, I popped the hood. A long, slow exhale of breath escaped my body as I looked at her beautiful engine. I could feel some of the tension leaving my shoulders, my mind now fully occupied on something other than a grieving Ellie.
Maybe I could race tonight. That would certainly make me feel better. I dug in my pocket for my cell phone, shooting a message to Rodriguez, one of the organizers of the races that I entered, asking if there was anything planned for tonight. There hadn’t been any whisperings of one on the streets, though, so chances were there wasn’t a race planned. Shame.
I’d make sure she was in perfect working order, just in case.
* * *
It took almost all afternoon to fix up the car and have her purring like a kitten. She was ready, raring to go, a thing of beauty. After I’d finished working on her, I’d hoisted myself up on the bench, and Ray and I were having a celebratory beer. I was halfway through the bottle when Ed walked in, his face stern and his mouth set in a tight line.
“Kid, I’ve been calling you. Why are you not answering?” he asked, frowning at the beer in my hand as if it were the sole reason I hadn’t responded to him.
I shrugged, glancing down at my cell phone on the bench next to me, seeing three missed calls from him. “Ah, sorry, I must have accidentally put it on silent when I took it out of my pocket.” I picked it up now, also seeing a text from Rodriguez confirming there was no race tonight, but he said to make sure I checked my messages again in the next couple of days. Meaning a race was on the horizon once they found the perfect venue.
Ed sighed, running a perfectly manicured hand through his slicked-back brown hair. I frowned, taking another sip of my beer, looking him over. He seemed more stressed than usual; his double-breasted suit jacket was even unbuttoned—something I rarely saw. Ed prided himself on image. He liked to wear expensive suits and a $30,000 watch to show everyone he had money and status. In all honesty, he was a douche who worked for me, someone who aspired to be number one but never would be. He was an ass-licking, smarmy prick who thought too much of himself. When he’d worked for Brett, he’d had more say in what went on—he’d been Brett’s voice a lot of the time, his number two in command. Under me, though, he ranked distinctly lower, but he still hadn’t given up his penchant for expensive suits.
“So what’s up, then?” I asked, cocking my head to the side, waiting for his reply.
His eyebrows knitted together, and his lips pursed in distaste as he spat two words. “The Salazars.”
At the name, I frowned, too. The Salazars were my biggest opposition in town. The two Salazar brothers, Alberto and Mateo, had arrived about nine months ago from Mexico, bringing some cheap-as-shit drugs with them, and had set up camp on my turf. At first they’d wanted a partnership, wanted us to start selling their drugs—some cocaine shit cut with God only knows what—and when I’d not so politely told them to take a hike, we’d become rivals. They were the lowest of the low, in my opinion. They didn’t care that their drugs were laced with rat poison or levamisole, a drug used to deworm animals that I’d heard literally rotted people’s skin off. They weren’t like us; they had no morals and didn’t care how many people they hurt or killed with their impure product. We’d had many a battle with them over territories and where they were “allowed” to sell their second-rate drugs. We had an agreement.
“What have those greasy punks done now?” I growled, tightening my hand around the bottle.
“They sent some of their little skank girls into one of our clubs last night, peddling their shit. One guy had an epileptic fit in the middle of the dance floor, and now the police are sniffing around to try to find where he got it from. I’ve been fielding questions all day; really could have done with you answering your cell!” he replied, his tone clipped and accusing.
“Motherfuckers! Why are they sending pushers into our clubs?” I snapped, shaking my head angrily. “Call Alberto, tell him I want to meet with him. Tonight,” I ordered, pulling my arm back and then launching my bottle across the workshop in anger, hearing it smash against the wall and spray glass everywhere.
I’m going to kill that son of a bitch!