After I handed Jack my patch, I straddled my bike and took to the open road. I thought revenge would make things better, that it would give me some sense of peace, but I was wrong. I felt just as empty as I did before. Craving death or clarity, I wasn’t sure which one, but I found myself in Atlantic City. It was the closest and cheapest imitation of Las Vegas, where Oksana and I were married. Instead of holding onto the memory of our union, I burned it in shitty booze and cheap hookers.
I drank to numb myself from the pain.
I fucked to forget her.
I failed at both.
I woke up hurting and did it all over again.
The image of her laying amongst the ruins, maimed, her head barely connected to her body, destroyed the little that was left of me. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my life, most of it ugly as fuck, but placing her in that bag, having to let go as they wheeled her to the morgue, that fucking sent me over the edge.
There’s no coming back from that.
And leaving her shoes next to the door so they’re the first thing I see when I enter the house and the last thing I see when I leave doesn’t help at all. It’s the very reason I’m sitting in this noisy fucking bar, knocking back watered-down whiskey.
Draining my glass for the sixth time, I lift my head and peer behind the bar. The bartender who has been serving me walks away leaving her replacement staring at me. Familiar eyes lock with mine as surprise wears on her soft features.
In truth, I forgot about her.
A real wonder considering I’m sure she isn’t the forgetting type. No, I reckon one doesn’t forget a pretty face like that or a mouth so wicked, you live to punish it. In another place and time, I’d be all over that.
Pushing my glass forward, I watch as she makes her way toward me. Her hips sway and her tits bounce with every step. In all my years, I learned there are two things a man can spot a mile away; a fake rack and a phony smile.
Her tits are real for sure.
The smile she’s giving me, not so much.
Standing in front of me, she eyes my empty glass for a moment before speaking.
“So, we meet again,” she says.
Silently, I stare at her. All done up, her eyes call to me. I want to say they’re brown but there are so many flecks of gold buried in those irises they remind me of honey. She’s also got the longest set of lashes I’ve ever seen. Closing my mouth, I glance back at my empty glass.
“You going to refill my drink or did you want to test out those brass knuckles of yours?”
“I could probably teach you a thing or two with those things,” she replies playfully. The change in her tone forces me to look up and I realize I was right about her smile. The genuine one she’s giving me now is a showstopper compared to that saccharine bullshit she was wearing when she came up to me.
Raising her hands, she balls them into tiny fists and punches the air. A foreign feeling creeps into my gut and I shake my head, setting my lips into a thin line.
“Don’t underestimate me, killer, that would be a mistake,” I warn.
She drops her hands and the smile falters quickly as she grabs the glass from the bar.
“I seem to make a lot of those,” she mutters while refilling my drink. Curiously, I wonder what kind of mistakes a woman like her has made and if she regrets them as much I regret mine.
Pushing the glass forward, she sighs.
“It’s on the house,” she says softly.
“Everything in life has a price,” I retort with a shake of the head and slap a twenty next to the drink.
Angling her head, she furrows her eyebrows and contemplates my statement.
“True,” she says finally. “Did you want change?” she questions as she splays her palm over the bill.
“You lookin’ for an eight dollar tip?”
“I’m lookin’ for something other than a scowl.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she admits with a sigh. “It was a shit thing you did, yelling at my kid like you did.”
“Shouldn’t have been in my garage,” I sneer, taking a gulp of the whiskey. An ice cube falls into my mouth and when I lower the glass, I crunch it with my molars.
“As I was saying, you had no business yelling at my son, but I was wrong for how I came at you,” she continues, grinding her teeth as she pushes out the words.
“That’s big of you.”
“You’re an asshole, huh?”
“Yep.”
She nods as she swipes the twenty from the bar. Shoving the money into the back pocket of her jeans, she draws my attention to her round ass.
“Well played, killer,” I call.
“Layla,” she says over her shoulder, catching me in the act.
I raise my eyes to her face.
“What?”
“Quit calling me killer,” she orders. “My name is Layla.”
She walks away before I can decide whether or not I want to test her name on my tongue. The original bartender returns and continues to serve me while Layla works the other end of the bar. The longer I watch her, the more I learn about her. Body language is a powerful thing and if you’re fluent in it, it can reveal the qualities people try to hide. She smiles a lot. Most of them are fake as fuck but the ones that a real, well, they’ve got the power to fix all the lonely people in the world.
Well, maybe not all the lonely people.
That smile, as fucking beautiful as it is, reminds me of every other smile I got attached to and how each one of them faded away from me.
Smiles aren’t something I collect.
They’re something I destroy.
Ruin.
Kill.
That realization is enough to make me peel my eyes away from her and get lost in my next hazardous mistake. Beside me two girls catch my attention. The brunette smiles before she seductively slurps on her straw and her friend winks at me. That’s all the invitation I need to get lost in the same vicious cycle that’s got me by the balls.
I buy them both a few drinks, promise them a good time and then I ask them to come home with me. Thinking if I busy myself with them I’ll forget about the fucking shoes next to the door, the tomb that’s full and the smile that’s got my head reeling. It’s a temporary fix, a dull high, but when you’re drowning every second above water counts.
I close out my tab and as the band takes the stage, I glance across the room at Layla. Her eyes lock with mine. Uncertain as to why, I stand idly and wait for her to give me something.
A scowl.
A glare.
A smile.
Anything.
She gives me nothing and it’s clear I’ve collected all she’s willing to give. It’s more than I deserve and a hell of a lot more than I gave her. A look of disgust covers her face and she turns her head. I find it hard to take my eyes off her and even when the two willing bitches lace their arms through mine, Layla keeps my attention.
Needing to bleach her from my brain, I lead the two giggling slobs out of the bar and order them back to my cabin. Avoiding the red shoes, I don’t glance down when I walk through the door and head straight for my bedroom. It’s not long before the three of us are naked and I’m watching the brunette finger fuck herself as she keeps her eyes pinned to the blonde riding my cock. My fingers curl into the blonde’s hips and I lift her off. She whines as I reach for the brunette, pulling her fingers from her pussy.
“Your turn,” I growl, as I roll over and settle between her legs. My eyes dart to the blonde as she brings the whiskey to her lips. Before she can get a taste, I reach over and snatch it from her. A phony pout works her lips as she watches me take a swig of the alcohol.
“Don’t share my booze, bitch,” I sneer as I lean over and set the nearly empty bottle on the nightstand. I grab another condom and replace the one already covering me. “Now, sit on her face and fuck her mouth,” I command as I spread the brunette’s legs wide and position myself between them. I slam my cock deep inside without any regard. The bitch can take it, her fucking pussy has more mileage than my Harley.
The obedient blonde matches my stance and straddles the brunette’s mouth. She grabs my hands and places them on her fake as fuck tits. Twisting her nipples between my fingers, I continue to pound into the other bitch. I close my eyes and forget who I am and what I lost.
I let the whiskey take me away.
The blonde wails as she comes.
The brunette claws my ass as she does too.
Then just when I’m about to join them, the world’s most genuine smile flashes before me.
Layla’s smile.
The mouthy broad who I know hardly anything about.
Her.
Her fucking smile fucks with me.
It makes me feel worse than I already do.
Vile.
Filthy.
Shameful.
Things a brutal motherfucker like me has never felt before.
And more than that, I feel the loss of everyone I have ever loved. Everyone I’ve ever attached myself to. My mother, my wife, and the men I called my brothers. I suppose when you get a glimpse of something good in the world, you wish for all the good you were blessed with to miraculously return to you.
Tears well in my eyes and I push myself off the girl wailing beneath me. The weight on my heart wins and I’m reminded of every disgusting thing I’ve done in the time since I laid Oksana to rest. I’ve killed, fucked and desecrated my liver. I’ve abused myself and her memory.
Pulling my limp dick out of the cunt, I scramble off the bed. That’s when I hear the distinct sound of blaring pipes. Knowing they’re not mine and pairing it with the knowledge that there isn’t much chrome around these parts, I grab my gun from the top drawer of my nightstand and head toward the window. Pushing the vinyl blinds out of my way, I blink through my watering eyes and watch as a bike turns into my driveway.
“Are you going to finish?” the brunette pants.
Blinking, I focus as the engine dies and the headlights dim. I lift my eyes to the man straddling the bike and watch as he throws his leg over. Peeling off his helmet, the man dressed all in black shakes out his long hair and peers up at my cabin.
Fucking Blackie.
Grinding my teeth, I turn to the two bitches in my bed playing with one another.
“Party’s over. Get your clothes and get the fuck out,” I order as I lower my gun and pull the rubber from my cock before tossing it into the wastebasket.
What the fuck am I doing?
“You’re replacing us?”
“I said get your shit together and get the fuck out. That’s not an invitation to ask questions,” I clarify as I pull on my jeans. I forgo buttoning the top button and open the door. Padding through my house, I glance at the gun in my hand. I pull back the safety as Blackie’s knuckles rap one final time. My eyes dart down to the mat covering the worn floorboards, to the red heels resting neatly next to my boots.
“Open the door, Pipe,” Blackie demands. His voice echoes as I stare at the shoes and my wife’s lifeless eyes assault my memory.
Trying to erase the image from my mind, I swipe a hand over my face and scratch at the scruff lining my jaw before I open the door. Combing his fingers through his hair he looks me over.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “What’re you doing to yourself?”
Slowly killing myself.
“You judging me?” I growl.
“No,” he says earnestly.
He pauses and glances over my shoulder at the two girls stumbling down the hallway.
“Never mind,” Blackie grunts. “Looks like you got that covered.”
Red hot anger pulses in my veins and hammers against my chest as I step forward and narrow my eyes at him.
“That’s pretty rich coming from you especially considering it wasn’t all that long ago you would’ve been looking for an invitation to join the fun,” I growl. Silently his eyes penetrate through me as he shoves his hands in his pockets and takes a step back.
“That was a long time ago,” he finally replies. “But it was also you who had a part in me seeing the error of my ways.”
He’s not wrong but the times have changed.
Brotherhood no longer means respect and wearing a patch isn’t a thing of honor but a thing of destruction.
The brunette and the blonde slide beside me and stare between me and Blackie.
“Hi, handsome,” the blonde croons.
Paying them no mind whatsoever, his eyes don’t waiver from mine.
“Not interested,” he dismisses automatically.
“That’s right,” I snarl. “Blackie here has a good woman at home waiting for him to fuck her senseless.”
“Overstepping, brother,” he warns, his jaw ticking with anger.
Hearing him call me his brother causes something inside me to snap and I step forward, poking my finger into the brick wall of his chest.
“You don’t get to call me brother,” I grind out.
Remaining completely still, his eyes drift toward the girls next to me.
“Time for you two to leave,” he orders.
“You don’t get to come into my house and demand shit,” I growl, poking my finger harder against his chest. He remains perfectly composed and it’s unsettling that I can’t get a reaction from him. It’s proof he’s healed and I’m never going to.
“Get out,” I tell the girls.
“Will you call?”
Call? I don’t even know their fucking names.
“No,” I answer honestly as they step over the threshold and purposely brush against Blackie. With a wink and giggle, they stumble down the front porch and I look back at the younger version of myself. The difference is he rose above the death of his wife. Me, I’m not meant to do that. I’m destined for misery.
Ignoring the concern etched on his face, I turn around. There isn’t any point in closing the door in his face, the motherfucker will only take it off the hinge. When Blackie’s determined to do something, he moves heaven and hell to get it done.
Making my way into the kitchen, I open the fridge and grab myself a beer and damn myself for wasting my whiskey. Listening, I hear the front door softly closing and Blackie’s boots pound against the worn floor as I twist the cap off and slam the fridge closed.
“After you stormed out of Jack’s and went off the grid, a call came through,” he starts as I bring the bottle to my lips. Pausing, I drop my hand and slam the bottle down on the counter. “Victor Pastore died.”
Lifting my gaze to him, I stare at him expectantly, trying to figure out what he came here for. Surely, he didn’t come to tell me the gangster died.
“What’s your point?”
“Something came to light in the weeks since his death,” he says, leaning against the counter.
“Not my concern anymore,” I sneer.
“I think it is.”
“If you came here to dangle some bait in my face, don’t waste your fucking time. Nothing you say or do is going to change my mind. I’m done with the club, Blackie.”
“You’re hurting and at the crossroads, man, but you’re not done,” he says. “You’ll never be done and don’t think for one second Jack will ever let you walk away.”
“You can tell Jack to go fuck himself, Black,” I tell him. “Now, this conversation is done. Don’t make me kick your ass to the curb, leave like a man and stay gone.”
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he silently swallows my words.
“We’ll always be your family, Pipe.”
“I got no family, Blackie. My family is in a tomb in Green-Wood.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly with a nod. “And on Saturdays when I visit Christine, I make sure I pay my respects to yours because that’s what family does.”
I don’t respond and he turns away, disappearing out of my line of sight. The door clicks closed and a moment later I hear his engine purr to life. Turning back to my beer, I empty the contents into the sink and chuck the bottle into the trash. I make my way out of the kitchen and to the front door. Leaning against it, I slide my body down until I’m sitting on the floor staring at Oksana’s shoes.
It only takes a second before I’m transcended back to her death.
Climbing the debris to get to her, I find her shoes.
Then I spot her.
I try to cradle her body against mine but I’m not sure where to touch her. Knowing the simplest touch will leave her decapitated, I sit beside her and stare into her lifeless eyes.
They come to remove her from the scene of the crime.
I hear the zipper on the body bag.
I feel my fingers slip from the gurney as they take her from me forever.
There are things in this world a man can forget.
Things he can forgive.
Losing his heart isn’t one of those things.
For when a man loses his heart, he’s left in ruins.
He’s broken and nothing will fix him.
Not revenge.
Not booze.
Not pussy.
Sure as fuck not a smile.