The Perversion Trilogy: Perversion, Possession & Permission

by T. M. Frazier

  Six

  Five Years Later, The Present

  Tricks is gone.

  Tristan Paine is dead.

  I slip my phone into my pocket, having finished my daily Google search for Emma Jean Parish, with the same results that have shown up for over five years now.

  Not a damn thing.

  “You done swiping right on some hot cock so we can play now?” Haze goads, downing a shot of whiskey. He flips his black baseball cap to the back and racks the balls.

  “Don’t be jealous, you homophobe. Besides, I was swiping right for you. Don’t worry. I gave him your number,” I reply with a wink. My cigarette hangs from my lips as I take my shot. Two balls bounce off each other and roll right into their intended pockets.

  “Fuck off,” Haze barks with a laugh. “I’m confident in my heterosexuality, and for the record, I could probably pull a much hotter guy than you. If I wanted to. But if you decide you want to start crossing swords with dudes, you should know, I’m not a homophobe, and as your brother, I fully support you,” he says, placing his hand over his heart.

  “Good to know, fucker,” I mutter with a laugh.

  “He was looking for HER again,” Sandy explains, taking a sip of his beer.

  “Anything?” Haze asks, raising his eyebrows.

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Fuck, how long have you been looking for her now? Like three years?” Haze asks.

  “Four,” Sandy replies.

  “Five,” I correct.

  I don’t want to talk about Tricks. I already spend too much time thinking about her. More so now than when she first disappeared. I especially don’t want to talk about her tonight because I’m feeling restless. My knuckles are aching for action. The truce has toned down the violence in Lacking, but it hasn’t lessened the need for it.

  I down a shot of whiskey; the amber liquid barely burns my throat. It’s watered down cheap shit, but then again, the same can be said for the entire bar. Pieced-together furniture is strewn haphazardly around the two pool tables in the center of the room. Mismatched wall hangings, posters, and neon beer signs that either don’t work or aren’t plugged in litter the walls. No rhyme or reason for any of it.

  I set the shot glass down on the side of the table, then glance around. It doesn’t take long to sort through the patrons and notice that who I’m looking for isn’t here yet. There are only a couple of dozen people in BB’s Bar tonight, but it doesn’t take a lot to make the small space feel crowded. The muffled sounds of conversation hum all around me along with the occasional burst of laughter. The smell of fried pickles, stale cheap beer, and cigarettes fill the hazy air.

  “Three shots in a row?” Sandy asks, his mouth hanging open so that his jaw, if it could, might drag along the sticky ground. He snaps it back shut when he sees me looking at him. He ruffles his mop of reddish-brown hair which is a few weeks overdue for a cut. “Why do I even bother playing with you, Grim?”

  “It’s gotta be better than playing with yourself all the fucking time,” Haze puts in. He holds his own pool stick in one hand while he uses the other to pretend to jerk it off. He bites his lip and humps the air theatrically.

  “Fuck off,” Sandy replies, giving him a middle finger.

  Haze sits on a high stool with his eyes locked onto the door. He turns his ball cap backward his long black beard in stark contrast to his otherwise all-American looks.

  “Not here yet,” Sandy muses, following Haze’s stare.

  “You don’t fucking say?” I ask sarcastically. “Staring ain’t gonna get them here any fucking faster, so do me a favor and stop. You look like a fucking pit-bull, waiting for someone to drop their steak.”

  “Maybe, I am,” Haze replies.

  “What’s crawled up your ass?” Sandy asks.

  Haze blows out a breath. “Just got other shit on my mind tonight, is all.” He suddenly stands from his stool. He gives me a curt nod just as the bell over the door of BB’s Bar rings out. I don’t look over. Not yet.

  I wait for Sheila, our usual waitress and part-owner of the bar, to finish refilling my shot glass. She does it slowly, bending over as much as possible to put her ample cleavage on display. I make a show of looking and appreciating at what she has to offer because if I don’t, she’ll only try harder to get my attention, and I don’t need her to try any harder right now.

  I need her to leave.

  I return her wink as she finally walks away. Only now do I allow myself to glance over my shoulder where I see Memo and Gil strutting up to the bar with their yellow Los Muertos bandanas in full view. Memo’s got his wrapped around his forehead while Gil’s got his hanging from his back pocket.

  NOW, the night has truly begun.

  I crack my neck, and Sandy stubs out his cigarette

  When Haze pretends to be interested in our game for the first time all night, I know we’ve been spotted.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Bitches of Bedlam,” Memo sings as he approaches the table. His gold front tooth gleams under the yellow fluorescent lights.

  “You know what would be awesome? If you could live up to your name. Los Muertos. The dead. If you could just really BE dead, that would be fab,” Sandy says, holding his pool stick in front of him.

  Gil sneers. He leans over the pool table, scattering the balls around the table. “Heard you boys are missing a shipment,” Gil says with a knowing grin on his scarred-up face. “Shame you can’t keep better track of your shit.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Sandy asks, straightening his shoulders and walking around the table until his chest is almost touching Gil’s.

  Gil places his palms up in mock surrender. He shakes his head. “Of course not, brotha. Haven’t you heard? There’s a truce between Bedlam and Los Muertos. Peace. As much as I would love to be the one who ripped you faggots off, we ain’t jacked your shit.” His lip turns up at the corner. “Well, not this time anyway.”

  Sandy lets out a long whistle.

  “Then, how come your boys were spotted selling weapons that looked an awful lot like the ones we were expecting in that truck?” I ask, re-racking the balls.

  Memo shrugs. “Just because we got ‘em don’t mean they’re yours. Weapons all look alike.”

  “Hold on there. No need to be racist about it,” Haze chimes in.

  Memo snarls.

  Gil shifts from one foot to another, sizing up Sandy, who fakes a yawn. “You ain’t foolin’ no one, homes. I can see in your eyes how much you want to throw a punch,” he taunts. “Go ahead. Do it.”

  Sandy remains still with a knowing smirk on his face.

  “Oh wait,” Gil jabs his finger into Sandy’s chest. “You can’t. That would be breaking the treaty. You can’t fucking touch me, white boy.” He spits on the ground. “Fucking puta.”

  “Where exactly were you and your boys last night? I mean, since you weren’t jacking our shipment and all.” Sandy asks, his patience wearing thin. His eyes narrow on the shorter man in front of him as he leans forward against his pool stick.

  Gil adjusts his bandana. “We were taking turns with your fucking sister,” he snickers to Memo. “What’s the fucking truce say about that?”

  Sandy’s head turns my way asking a silent question.

  One I’m about to answer.

  “You know, I learned something new about our little truce recently,” I begin, rounding the table with my pool stick in hand. “Something even Marco probably doesn’t know. But I’m going to do you boys a favor and share it with you so you can go back and school your fearless leader on the finer points of Lacking gang politics.”

  “Oh yeah, Grim?” Memo steps up to me, rolling back his shoulders and sticking out his chest. I want to rip the little star tattoo off the corner of his eye and shove it up his fucking nose. “Educate us, then. What, exactly, is it that you learned about our little agreement?”

  I look over Memo’s head to each of my brothers and jerk my
chin.

  “Go ahead, Grim,” Memo hisses. “Educate us.”

  So, I do.

  I break the pool stick over my knee, and smash the half in my right hand across Memo’s face then backhand him with the half in my left, sending him crashing into the tables behind him. There’s a scuffle behind me. I turn around just as Gil sails by me, joining his brother in the pile of hurt, courtesy of my brothers.

  I lean over the two moaning and bleeding thugs and wink. “Bar fights don’t count.” I toss the broken pool stick on top of them.

  Haze laughs. “Now that’s the kind of education that can’t be bought. You’re welcome.” He pours the rest of his beer over them and then drops the bottle itself. “Oops.”

  “If I find out it was you or your boys who jacked our truck, I won’t be beating you with a pool stick. I’ll take my time shoving every inch of the broken ends down your fucking throats until your insides come out of your assholes,” I warn. “Are we fucking clear?”

  Two garbled groans bring all the response I need.

  I pull out a wad of cash from the pocket of my leather jacket, peeling off a several hundred-dollar bills. I toss them onto the bar. “For the trouble,” I tell Sheila.

  Sheila smiles at me seductively, stuffing the bills into her bra. “Always great to see you, Grim. You guys have a good time?”

  I push open the door.

  “Always.”

  We step out onto the concrete sidewalk. I tug a smoke free from the box. The lighter is out of my pocket, but the flame never gets a chance to reach its destination because we’re suddenly surrounded by a swarm of men in armored vests, blinding us with flashlights. The sound of guns being cocked echoes through the alley.

  I don’t know who the fuck these guys are, but they aren't locals. I know all the locals. Most of them were either on the Los Muertos payroll or mine.

  Or both.

  “I swear, officers. They kicked their own asses,” Sandy laughs as the three of us are spun around and thrown up against the brick wall of the bar.

  “We aren’t here about a bar fight,” a man says, stepping into my line of sight. He’s the only one of the dozen or so officers not wearing a protective helmet or a vest. He’s got a military-style haircut and beady eyes shining with amusement.

  “A little to the left,” Haze says in his thick southern accent. “Now stroke up and down and don’t be afraid to get a little rough.” He grunts when the reply is a sharp kick to the back of his knees.

  I glance over at the man who I assume is the one in charge. “Then, what the fuck do you want?” I hiss as another officer digs his knee firmly into my lower back, holding me still so he can fasten a familiar pair of steel bracelets around my wrists.

  Fucking prick.

  “You and I are going to have ourselves a little talk,” he explains.

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. “And who the fuck might you be?”

  He produces a badge and holds it up so I can read it.

  Captain Marshall Lemming. Lacking County. Gang Task Force Division.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I’m hauled off the wall and pushed into an awaiting van while my brothers are patted down.

  “That’s right, Tristan Paine. Say your prayers,” Captain Lemming says, standing by the open door. “‘Cause you’re gonna need ‘em.” Slamming the doors shut, he slaps the top of the van. The driver takes off.

  I silently recite the oath I took when I pledged myself to Bedlam.

  My Life.

  My Death.

  My Loyalty.

  My Honor.

  For Bedlam.

  For Brotherhood.

  For Always.

  I chuckle to myself. I don’t know what Agent Marshall Lemming of the Gang Task Force wants from me, but what he doesn’t know…is who the fuck he’s messing with.

  Seven

  Gabby and I run our biggest cons at night because that’s when the biggest scores are had.

  Under the cover of darkness, I work best. I find comfort in the shadows. In being wrapped within the night like a warm wet blanket of nothingness. I can breathe easier. My chest feels lighter. I’m calm. Focused.

  In the vast emptiness between sunrise and sunset, I become invincible. Resilient.

  At night, I’m all instinct. I smell, feel, anticipate.

  What I don’t do is overthink. Dwell.

  Or, worst of them all: hope.

  In the darkness, I just exist.

  I am free until the sun rises…when I’m a prisoner once more.

  When I was younger, I fell in love with magic. I learned every card trick there was from library books and unmasking magic TV specials. I used to put on shows for Gabby that included escaping from complicated knots and trick handcuffs. But what’s magic besides a sleight of hand?

  It’s a lie.

  And lying is what I’m damn good at.

  My ability to spin a tall-tale or two lead to stealing wallets and conning people into taking stray pets for the thrill of it. Now, I’m using it to earn for Marco. The thrill is there, but it’s muted, hindered, lost under his pile of mounting threats.

  The inside of the casino smells like stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and burnt coffee. We’re not supposed to be in here. It’s Bedlam territory. But that’s also why it’s perfect.

  It isn’t like anyone would recognize us here.

  We’ve made friends with a few of the cocktail waitresses by giving them a small cut, and they don’t ask questions or ring any alarms when they see us working. I’ve also been straightening my hair over the last few years since my crazy curls stand out like a reflector on a dark highway. I’ve dyed it a few shades darker than my normal honey blonde to help blend in.

  Tonight is starting off well. Gabby and I are working a con we’ve run a few times before.

  Gabby walks away, her long dark hair swooshing behind her. She gives me a nod as she passes me by on the slot machine I’m pretending to play. She’s just faked losing an expensive engagement ring at another slot machine. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she frantically looked around for it, then loudly announced a thousand-dollar reward would be waiting at the casino cage for whoever returned it.

  She is flawless. She should be an actress. And in another life, she would be.

  But we don’t live in another life.

  We live in Lacking and belong to Los Muertos.

  Our lives are not our own.

  A few people casually look around the area, then return to their machines when they don’t find the ring Gabby was ranting about. They won’t either. Because it’s not there.

  Yet.

  It's go time.

  I strut over to the area Gabby just left and put a dollar in the machine. While the wheels spin, I pretend to pick up the dime store ring I already have in my hand. By the time the machine dings to tell me I’ve lost my dollar, I’m turning the ring over, inspecting it like I don’t have half a dozen more just like it in my drawer back at the apartment.

  “Would you look at that?” I mutter to myself loud enough so others around me can hear.

  A man in an Adidas jumpsuit with a potbelly taps me on the shoulder. “I’ll take that. I saw the woman who dropped it. I’ll go return it to her.”

  Liar. You just want the reward.

  “That’s so nice of you,” I say. I hold it out, about to drop it into his hand when I pull it back. “I bet there’s a reward for something this valuable.” I start to walk around the man. “I’ll take it up to management. Maybe, they know…”

  “Here,” the man says, holding up a hundred-dollar bill. “Take this. I’ll take it to her. I just…you know, as I said, I want to make sure it gets back to the right person.”

  You’re not even a good liar.

  Sometimes, it’s just too freaking easy. And this scam wasn’t even an Emma Jean and Gabby original. We saw it a long time ago in a movie starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. Doesn’t anyone else watch movies?

  I shrug and pass him the ring. Plucking th
e bill from his hand, I tuck it into my bra. “Thanks,” I say before quickly making my way toward the large glass front doors. It’s Thursday. Marco’s money is due in two days, and we’re short this week.

  Really short.

  I walk slowly and wave goodbye to the valets with a smile on my face. “Any luck, tonight?” One asks me.

  “I think so,” I answer with a smile. Once I’m down the sidewalk and out of view, I scramble to the side of the casino where I kick off my heels and change from the sequined dress I’d stolen from a dry-cleaners into a pair of cut-off shorts and my yellow Keds.

  Now, all I have to do is wait for Gabby.

  I don’t have to wait long.

  “Run!” Gabby yells, darting from the doors of the casino with two large men wearing tight black security t-shirts close behind. Running from security is terrifying enough, knowing that we’re running from members of the Bedlam Brotherhood kicks it up a notch.

  I grab my backpack and sling it across my shoulders. I move as fast as I can until I’m running right alongside her. We race through the gates, cross the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by two cars. We duck into a hole in a fence and run through one backyard after the other.

  “One of those cunt waitresses must have tipped them off!” Gabby says, through shallow breaths. She’s barefoot in a black mini-dress hiked up to her ass to give her long legs room to run. Her long thick hair is wrapped around her face, sticking to her mouth.

  We hit the sixth backyard. Without another word, we separate behind a clothesline. We’ve mapped out this escape plan a thousand times, but this is the first time we’ve ever had to use it.

  When I make it into the central part of town, to the Los Muertos/Bedlam border, I can no longer hear the shouts of the security guards. I lost them.

  Hopefully, Gabby did, too.

  I use a tower of stacked-up wooden pallets on the sidewalk like a ladder to scale a concrete wall, then drop down into the alley.

  I grow more panic-stricken the longer I wait for Gabby. I bite the inside of my lip, pacing back and forth along the high wall. The Bedlam Brotherhood runs the security at the casino. If they catch her and find out who she is? Or worse? Who her brother is? They'll... I shake the thought from my mind. She’ll be fine.