King: A Power Players Novel

by Leo, Cassia

Coming around the corner slowly, I fall to my knees and clutch my chest with relief when I see Steve digging a hole in the dirt next to a fallen rake. She runs toward me and begins licking my face and grinding her ear against my shoulder.

  Automatically, my hand gravitates toward my neck, to grab the pendant my father gave me. Something I always do when I’m scared or overwhelmed with emotion. But the necklace isn’t there.

  Tears stream down my face as I get to my feet. “Come on, girl. You’ll be sleeping inside with me from now on.”

  Steve may be covered in dirt, but I can wash my bedding and give her a bath tomorrow. And I’ll just have to deal with it if she has a potty accident.

  I’m nearly at my back door when a dark figure rounds the back of the house toward me. “Stay back!” I shout, pointing my .380 at him.

  “Don’t shoot!” the guy says as his face comes into focus. It’s Colton.

  “What are you doing here?” I squeal as I lower my weapon. “I nearly shot you!”

  “Jesus Christ, woman. I was coming to check on you. I heard a loud noise. Then, I saw you creeping outside in your PJs, and I thought that was probably not a good idea. But apparently, I was wrong.”

  “You heard a loud noise?” I reply skeptically, not lowering my weapon a single millimeter. “Are you normally awake this late?”

  He looks confused. “It’s not even midnight.”

  “It’s not?”

  He shakes his head. “You must have just fallen asleep. Unless you keep senior citizen hours.”

  I narrow my eyes at him as I lower the gun. “Don’t try to make me feel bad just because you keep serial killer hours.”

  He laughs. “Whose dog is that?”

  I glance at Steve, who’s lying quietly at my feet. “That’s odd. The lady at PetSmart told me Steve barks at strangers.” I can’t help but smile as she gets up when I mention her new name, then she immediately heads over to greet Colton. “She seems to like you.”

  Steve moves in slow figure-eights through his legs, aggressively grinding her ear against his crotch as she lets out a series of low groans.

  “Is she…?” he stares perplexed at the dog as she continues to rub her ear on his jeans and moan with pleasure. “Is she orgasming?”

  I let out a hoarse cackle. “You must have a very comfy crotch.”

  Colton cocks an eyebrow at me, and even in the dark, I can see the mischief burning in his icy eyes. “I don’t think I’d be a gentleman if I didn’t at least offer you a seat on my comfy crotch.”

  I roll my eyes. “Can I have my dog back?”

  “Please, take her or I’ll be buying her an engagement ring soon.”

  I move to tuck the gun in my waistband, but I stop when Colton holds up his hands.

  “Put the safety on!” he shouts, sounding more like a drill sergeant than a friendly neighbor. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell at you. But, please, don’t ever slide a loaded gun into your waistband without first putting the safety on. Especially the waistband of some flimsy pajama pants. That’s an easy way to take out a toe…or worse.”

  I shrug as I slide the safety switch on. “Yes, sir. Happy now?” I ask, holding the gun up as if he can see the switch from where he’s standing six feet away from me.

  “Never point a loaded weapon. Is—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, as if he was about to say something else. “I mean, are you trying to kill me?”

  I try not to laugh as I realize he was about to say, “Is you trying to kill me?”

  Then, it dawns on me; I haven’t been using my new Southern accent during this entire conversation.

  Shit!

  I ignore his question as I’m compelled to get as far away from Colton as possible. “Come on, Stevie,” I call out to the dog, but she doesn’t heed my command. “Steve-Bella, come.”

  She sneaks in one more rub against Colton’s thigh before she comes back to me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks as Steve and I climb the back steps.

  “Just gotta get used to life with a new dog, that’s all. I’ll be fine,” I reply, opening the back door for Steve to enter ahead of me.

  Acknowledging my lack of experience with dogs makes me think of the last dog I had, a Belgian Malinois named Bender. He was my father’s second service dog. He helped my dad with anxiety attacks and angry outbursts brought on mostly by post-traumatic stress disorder.

  My mom gave Bender away shortly before my father passed because my dad had stopped remembering to feed him and take him on walks. Bender, being a high-energy breed, was quickly becoming frustrated, and he started trying to escape his enclosure in the backyard.

  After my dad OD’d, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between my mother and me that I would never ask for another dog to replace him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Colton asks again. “You just drifted off for a while there.”

  “Sorry. I was just… Well, anyway, thanks for checking up on me. That was…sweet.”

  “Sweet?” he replies, seeming a bit confused by this characterization. “Lady, I am anything but sweet.”

  I chuckle. “If you insist. Good-night, Colton.”

  “Good-night, Jolene,” he replies, waiting for me to close the door before he sets off toward his cabin.

  I grab a glass of water and beckon Steve into bed with me.

  My mind wanders through my memories of Bender and my mom and dad. I want to call Tiff and remind her of the time Bender ripped her menstrual pad out of her panties while she was changing in my bedroom.

  I want to laugh with my best friend.

  Instead, I cuddle up next to Steve’s warm body and wrap my arms around her as I sob into her wiry fur.

  “You’re my family now,” I whisper to her as I scratch her soft belly. “We have to protect each other, okay?”

  We have to protect my property, too.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t stash all the money in one location. And with my new neighbor just three hundred feet away, I sure hope I hid that suitcase well enough.

  8 King

  August 1st

  I slip into Smoky’s Bar, the local dive aptly named for its hazy atmosphere, and I immediately find an empty stool tucked away at the end of the bar. Despite North Carolina’s smoke-free restaurant and bar laws, several patrons puff on cigarettes and vape pens. I order a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and pretend to watch the baseball game on the television above me as I survey the pub.

  Izzy’s playing darts with a group of men near the other end of the bar. She’s outnumbered three-to-one: a beanpole who appears to be in his late-twenties or early-thirties; a fat guy wearing a baby-blue University of North Carolina Tarheel baseball cap; and an older guy who looks at least forty-five.

  The older guy keeps stealing long glances at Izzy’s backside, and I want to pistol-whip the fucker’s eyes out. But I have to keep a low profile. I’ll only step in if she needs me to.

  Since Izzy left Vegas, she’s gained about ten to fifteen pounds and dyed her blonde hair a mousy brown color that doesn’t make her blend in as much as she probably thinks it does. The pictures I saw of her in Vegas were cute. But with the extra weight, the woman is fucking beautiful.

  The light emanating from the bar behind her reflects off her dark hair, creating a halo effect. She’d look angelic if it weren’t for the profanities spilling from her mouth.

  Izzy and her companions down shots of whiskey while she rambles on about her friend who “died.” Knowing that her friend is alive and well in Vegas makes me listen closer.

  “Tiff was crazy,” she says way too loudly, not bothering to change her friend’s name. “When she was thirteen, she asked her mom for a cell phone for Christmas. When she opened her present, she found a pair of mittens. So she called 9-1-1 to report her mom for child abuse.”

  I chuckle to myself, thinking of the girl I interrogated a few weeks ago and her refusal to give up Izzy’s location until she was certain she had no other choice. Santos and I didn’t rough
her boyfriend up too badly. We left Tiffany unscathed. But only because she gave us all the information we needed. I wonder if Izzy would be singing Tiff’s praises if she knew her friend had turned on her faster than a Taliban soldier can flip a switch.

  “Sounds tough,” the old guy replies, moving closer to Izzy. “When Greg here was thirteen, his dad died, and his family didn’t have no food, so his fat ass had to eat his mom to survive.”

  Izzy cackles loudly until she notices how close the old guy is getting. “Back off,” she mutters drunkenly, then she sets off to collect her darts from the board.

  I contemplate whether I should join them. Then, I immediately question why I feel so protective of Izzy.

  Part of me wants to believe she let Garrett die. It would make this mission a hell of a lot easier if that were the case. But in my heart, I know Garrett has had a death wish since that IED took half his face.

  From everything I’ve learned about Izzy, I don’t think she’s a bad person. Just a bad combination of lucky and unlucky.

  As she grabs her darts off the board, the old guy presses her against the wall. I slide off my stool, ready to step in. But she swiftly elbows him in the gut, making the other two guys howl with laughter.

  “My dog would rip you apart, and so would these incisors!” She bares her teeth at him and barks like a rabid dog, which only makes the guy’s laugh even louder.

  She’s only able to join in the laughter for a couple seconds before she vomits all over his leather cowboy boots.

  Without a care in the world, she swipes the back of her hand across her lips and heads toward the bar in search of more alcohol. The old guy’s face is stoplight-red and contorted with rage as he follows after her.

  I’m up from my stool and racing toward him, but I don’t get there fast enough. He grabs a fistful of Izzy’s faux brown hair and yanks her backward.

  She yelps and reaches for his hand as her ass hits the floor. The guy pulls back his fist, ready to deliver a blow to her face as if she’s a man. But my fist is in the guy’s jaw before he can even finish that thought.

  A loud crack breaks through the lousy music, and I can actually feel the bones in his face shift under the weight of my right hook. I tackle him to the ground and pin his arms behind his back.

  “You knocked him out cold,” the fat guy laments as I get to my feet.

  “You should take your friend home before he gets himself into even more trouble,” I reply.

  Fatty reaches for something behind his back.

  “That’s not a good idea,” I warn him.

  “Listen to the man,” Izzy says, casually pulling a gun from her waistband and pointing it at his round face.

  This girl is a maniac. She pulls that damn gun out every chance she gets. I should tell her to put it away, but it’s a bit late for that.

  Besides, with my right hook and her trigger-happiness, I think we make a pretty fearsome team. Something out of a Tarantino flick. Damn, I wouldn’t mind going on the run with her if it meant I could bury my cock inside that gorgeous ass.

  The guy holds his hands up. “I don’t want no trouble,” he says as he stumbles back a few steps.

  The jerk I just knocked out begins to stir, and I nod at Izzy. “I reckon we should get going,” I say to her before turning back to the angry drunks. “Y’all have a nice evening.”

  “Stay out of trouble, boys,” she says with a shit-eating grin.

  I pull her towards me and wrap my arm around her waist to steady her, then we half-run and half-stumble toward the parking lot. “I’ll drive you home,” I say, guiding her toward my pickup as she attempts to go in the direction of her Ranger. “You shouldn’t be driving, young lady.”

  “But my—”

  “I’ll call a tow truck,” I reply quickly. “The pickup will be in your driveway when you wake up.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re gonna take me straight home?”

  I chuckle. “Yes, ma’am. No funny business.”

  “You’d better not try anything,” she says as she lazily pats her ass, where she just tucked her gun away.

  Fuck. I have to check the safety on that thing. This woman has a death wish.

  If killing her tonight were my mission, I’m confident she could do the job for me. But I need to find out where she stashed that damn suitcase, or Congressman Hunt, Garrett’s father, will have me drawn and quartered. And dead men — and women — tell no tales.

  “Scout’s honor,” I say, stealthily sliding the gun out of her waist as I help her into the passenger seat. I detach the portable waste bin from the back of my headrest and place it in her lap. “A barf-bag. Just in case.”

  I round the back of the pickup toward the driver’s side, listening intently for any sounds of retching.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Mental note: Tell Santos to keep a closer eye on Izzy. She’s obviously a magnet for dangerous men, myself included.

  * * *

  The drive home is relatively silent, save for the occasional heaving noises from Izzy. When I pull into her driveway, I make sure to park with the passenger side as close to her front door as possible. Then, I carefully open her door, catching her so she doesn’t tumble out, and carry her up the front steps.

  “Try not to collapse, okay?” I say, setting her down gently. “I have to look for your keys.”

  “Are you feeling me up?” she asks as I slide my hand into each pocket of her jeans.

  Her breath is coated in the sickly sweet scent of whiskey mixed with a trace of vomit. Her hair smells like the smoky atmosphere in the bar. But her body is dangerously warm and soft under my touch.

  “No, ma’am,” I reply, pulling a set of keys out of her front pocket.

  She reaches up and clumsily traces her fingertip down the front of my lips. “Why not?”

  I shake my head. “Believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of women who are too drunk to remember their own name.”

  “That’s a shame,” she pouts as I unlock the door. “It’s… It’s Jolene.”

  She laughs as I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the house, where we’re greeted by Steve. The gentle beast wiggles her butt violently as she sniffs me up and down, taking in the smells of the bar.

  “Hey, Steve,” I greet her as I use my foot to push the door closed behind me.

  “You have to call her Steve-Bella until she’s used to Steve,” Izzy corrects me.

  Maybe I should refer to you as Jolene-Izzy until you’re used to your new name.

  I lower her onto the worn-in beige sofa, which I assume she purchased second-hand at The Junk Drawer. Taking a step back, I watch with slight amusement as she adjusts a throw pillow under her head and closes her eyes with a big smile on her face.

  “How did you learn those fancy moves?” she slurs.

  “What are you talking about?” I reply, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table so I can keep an eye on her for a bit.

  I tell myself I need to make sure she doesn’t choke on whatever’s left inside her stomach, but I know I’m only kidding myself.

  Her eyelids flutter open, her gaze unfocused as she looks me up and down. “You tackled that guy like a defensive lineman, but you don’t look like a lineman. You’ve got quarterback written all over that hard body.”

  I shake my head. “I used to be in the military. How did you learn those fancy moves? That was quite an elbow you dealt that guy.”

  “I used to be in the military,” she replies with a cheesy grin.

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  This girl just made off with 1.4 million dollars cash from a United States congressman. She’s obviously drinking to cope with the sudden loss of her friends and family. Yet, she still remembers to clam up about the details of her former life when she’s drunk.

  I’m more impressed with her by the second.

  “All right. I’ll let you keep your secrets,” I reply,
getting to my feet now that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need me here to watch over her.

  “Thank you,” she says, closing her eyes again.

  “For what?”

  “For saving me.”

  I stare at her for a while and think about the pea-sized surveillance camera in my back pocket. I’m supposed to switch it out for the camera we installed in Izzy’s bedroom vent before Izzy moved in, which is no longer operational.

  But as I watch her sleeping, looking so damn vulnerable, I can’t bring myself to violate her privacy.

  I can tell Winston Merrill, Congressman Hunt’s chief of staff, that I tried installing the camera, but there was some type of interference. I’ll say I suspect she may have installed a WIFI jammer to block surveillance signals.

  None of that matters, though. If I don’t install the camera, they’ll figure out a way to do it themselves. I’ll have to do it while she’s at work.

  I retrieve her firearm from my pickup and place it on her coffee table. I should pretend she lost it while drunk, but I’m not sure she would believe that. And she’s got a nice arsenal of backup weapons, so taking one wouldn’t make my job any less dangerous.

  What the fuck is my job? I went from running a money laundering enterprise to what? I’m supposed to spy on Izzy, get close to her to find out where she’s hidden the suitcase, then I’m supposed to kill her. Does that make me a spy or a hitman or both?

  What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

  I seem to be asking myself that question a lot lately.

  Finding some aspirin in the medicine cabinet, I place the bottle and a glass of water next to the gun on the coffee table. I have to leave before I change my mind about installing the camera.

  Steve follows me to the kitchen, and I give her a couple of biscuits from a jar on the counter to appease the dog. Closing the back door behind me, I let out a deep sigh. I’m going to fuck up this job just like I fucked up that mission in Afghanistan with Garrett. Only this time, it’s Izzy and me who’ll get burned.

  9 Izzy

  August 2nd