by Loki Renard
“Don’t be stupid,” I whisper to myself under my breath. “He doesn’t have feelings for you. He just doesn’t want a dead girl on his hands.”
Apparently, stress makes my internal monologue an exterior one.
The British guy looks at Dante, trying to act like he hasn’t just made a huge fucking mistake. There’s a smile on Dante’s face now that wasn’t there before, a purely triumphant smirk. I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of that.
“Well played,” the British man says with just a hint of a sigh.
Those two words make Dante’s smirk get wider and become a full fledged grin. He walks forward, closing the distance between them and extends his hand for the British man to take.
They shake hands, and for a second I could forget that I’m here in some criminal standoff. This is as polite as the conduct at any golf course or country club. It’s just that it happens to be two violent men surrounded by even more violent men. Criminals. The lowest of the low. Society’s dregs, my father would call them after a sherry or two.
Maybe I’m being too judgmental. I mean, this is probably how a lot of international high level negotiations go. Threats of mutually assured destruction followed by shows of power which catch the other party off guard. I have no idea how Dante called down a literal army of gangsters at a moment’s notice, but they're still arriving. There’s an almost constant throb of motors as more and more of his organization make an appearance.
There have to be at least a hundred people here. Maybe two hundred. They’re not all men, either. I see some women in the cars which are now coming in from the sides, because those other doors have been opened and now the space is like one big hangar, albeit stuffed with motor vehicles on all sides.
Not a single one of Dante’s men gets directly involved, even though they could surge forward at any moment and utterly overwhelm the British. They all have their eyes on Dante, waiting for his cue. I find myself searching through the crowd, looking to see if the guy who hit my friend is present. He doesn't seem to be. It’s not like I’d do anything if I did see him. I’m still tucked away, hiding from everything that’s happening, and trying not to become the next event.
“I’m going to let you go,” Dante says. “But one day, I might need a favor from you. When I do, I expect you to deliver. And I don’t want to see your guys on my streets again, got it, Paddington?”
I can see the guy bristle, but what can he do? There’s no getting away from Dante. Not now.
I’ve never experienced an atmosphere like this one. The tension is so intense the air itself feels thicker. Dante said he was going to let the man he calls Paddington go, but I don’t know if that’s true, and I can tell Paddington doesn’t know if it is either.
“Alright,” the guy finally says, trying to sound tough, but failing.
“Open up some room for them,” Dante calls out, gesturing toward the doors. “Let them go.”
The rumble of engines intensifies as cars move and the British retreat. Now I know what the phrase “leave with their tails between their legs” means. It’s not possible for a car to skulk, but somehow those vehicles seem to ride a little lower than before, and the guys who were hanging on the outside are now very much inside, their weapons tucked away, tinted windows rolled all the way up.
There is a moment of silence as the two cars depart, and then a burst of uproarious laughter grips the assembled men and women.
“Holeeeey, that was fucking funny,” someone curses nearby.
“You called him Paddington, bro. You know he hates that,” someone else yells.
I feel myself breathing easier, even though I shouldn’t. Objectively, the whole situation just got worse for me. I’m now in the middle of an impromptu gang gathering. Someone has turned music on in one of the cars, which has a sound system capable of broadcasting to Mars judging by the way it makes every wall in the place rattle. In a matter of minutes, a party has started. I can smell weed and I can hear bottles being opened and clanked around. The voices are louder, whooping with celebratory glee. Apparently, college students and gang members have a similar ethic when it comes to parties: any reason is a good one.
Dante doesn’t come back for me, and I start to think maybe he’s forgotten me. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to grab me out in front of everyone, but there’s an opportunity here to get away, and I’m going to take it.
People are everywhere, packed all around the place. I slip through them without being noticed, just another girl with a short skirt and long hair. I thought I’d stand out among these people, but I really don’t. I grab a beer on the way past someone just to make sure I look like I belong at the party, and then, having worked my way slowly through the crowd for what feels like forever, but is actually probably only a minute or two, I find myself outside.
There are cars everywhere, as is to be expected, and most of them are empty. Everyone has gone inside, but not everybody has been what I’d call a careful motorist. I’m planning on walking home, but maybe I don’t have to. I pass by more than one car which still has its keys in the ignition, and I start to think. If I walk away from this place, I’ll be alone in the industrial area of the city, and god knows what will happen to me. What if I just borrow a car? Just for a little bit. I’ll leave it somewhere safe. Somewhere they’ll find it again.
I’m behind the wheel before I know what I’m doing. I’ve started the engine and I’m pulling out onto the road and accelerating away from Dante, his gang, and their impromptu shindig. They’re making so much noise with their party that they don’t notice the sound of the motor as I head down the street at a much faster speed than I intended to. This is a powerful vehicle, and even the lightest touch on the accelerator makes it lurch forward like a demon. This is not my mama’s smart car, that’s for sure.
I look in the rear view mirror to see if I’ve been followed. There’s nobody behind me. No one at all.
Holy fuck.
I just stole a car.
I just stole a car from someone in Dante’s gang. Jesus Christ. My fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly I can see the white of my knuckles emerging from the desperate grip.
I am filled with an excited, elated, total horror. I am driving a stolen car. I am driving stolen car belonging to a gang member. I don’t know if it makes it any better that I’m driving it at a very reasonable speed toward one of the city’s better suburbs. I think it does. I need to feel safe, around my kind of people, so I head for the country club. My father has a membership, not that he ever uses it, and I need the bar. Badly.
It’s about a twenty-minute drive over to the better side of town where cars like this usually don’t go. I try to keep my eyes on the road and not draw too many looks, but this is a highlighter yellow vehicle with flames on the side and people are looking. Parked among all the other gang vehicles, it didn’t look so conspicuous. Out here, it stands out like a sore thumb.
I’m still so fucking nervous. Everything I’ve just seen and been through is impossible to process while still being in the process of committing grand theft auto. My mouth is dry. My heart is hammering in my throat. I’m finding it hard to just sit and drive, which is really all that’s required of me. Instead, I’m fidgeting in the seat, eyes darting around the car and the road and the world…
BAM!
The car hits an unexpected pot hole in the road with a brutal jolt, and the glove compartment flips open. I lean over to close it, but I stop when I see what’s inside. A gun. A real fucking gun. And a stack of cash.
“I should not touch that. I should not touch any of that, I murmur to myself, keeping my eyes on the road even as my fingers run over the metal of the weapon and inexplicably tuck it away into the pocket of my dress. Seconds later, I seem to have taken the cash too. Oops.
I don’t know what to make of myself anymore. I don’t know who I am. I do know that the weight in the pocket of my skirt is going to pull it all out of shape. I wish I’d brought my handbag with me,
but Dante has my clutch.
The great gates of the Westmore Country Club rise before me and I start to feel safer. Nothing bad ever happened at a country club. Well, nothing really bad, anyway.
I probably shouldn’t drive this car into the country club. They have surveillance which reads license plates and matches them to members. All part of making sure no riff-raff get in. This is one place Dante wouldn’t dare set foot, and I’m pretty sure whoever owns this car isn’t a member.
Fortunately, there’s a spot to park not far away. I’m not going to leave the car on the street, I’ll park it over by the public access lake. It should be far enough away from prying eyes there that nobody will find it immediately, but not so remote that it is lost forever. Plus, it is starting to get dark, so with any luck, the garish color won’t be obvious until morning, when I am far away from all of this.
Pleased with my decision, I drive the car up to the bank of the lake, as if the driver is just looking out over the water. That’s a normal thing people do sometimes, go down to bodies of water just to think, at least, that’s what I tell myself. My mind is going full speed rationalizing everything I’m doing right now. There are no good choices anymore. The good choice would have been not to take the car, but then I would have been stuck at an alcohol and drug fused gang party. I had literally no choice, I tell myself.
Getting out of the car, I look at the bundle of cash which also somehow made its way into my pocket. Okay, this part, this is less defensible, but can you really steal from a criminal anyway? Everything they have is stolen, so stealing it is just like, I don’t know, making things better?
Flicking through the bills, I realize that they’re all fifties. There has to be something like a hundred of them in the stack. Five thousand dollars and a car. Not bad for….
SPLOOSH!
“Oh fucckk….” I groan as I see the car hitting the water. I must have forgotten the parking brake. Now it is far too late. Now the car is diving into the lake like it is Jacques Cousteau and someone told it there are rare fish down there.
I stand there, wondering what to do and realizing that there’s actually nothing I can do. I can’t pull the car out of the lake, which is claiming it as quickly and greedily as I did. In a matter of minutes, there is no sign that there was ever a car there at all. It’s just… gone. And I’m left with a gun and thousands of dollars.
The lights of the country club call to me. I need to get back inside that sanctified space. Not sanctified in the religious sense, but definitely in the financial. Fortunately, I’m dressed well enough not to raise too many eyebrows, and I’m sure I’ll know someone inside, so I’ll be able to borrow a phone and make a call, though to who, I’m not sure.
Do I tell my friends what happened to me? They’re already gone anyway, and that will freak them out even more than they already are. . I’m not sure I can share this particular secret, even though I haven’t had a secret from them since we were twelve.
“Good evening, Miss Smith,” the greeter greets me, doing his job impeccably.
I step inside the warm, well appointed and decorated place and smile at everyone I see. It’s a wide, nervous grin, but the others don’t seem to notice the difference. I head right for the bar. I need a drink.
This is a much nicer venue than the last party I was in reluctant attendance at, but it occurs to me as I look around that these people aren’t really that much different than Dante’s gang. They're here to drink in the evening, with people of like ideas, who dress similarly and share interests. Of course, the main difference is that the crimes these people commit, if they commit any at all, are of the fiscal variety.
I’m not legally old enough to drink, but that’s not an issue here. Little matters of law aren’t important if you dress well enough and have an exclusive enough venue.
“What can I get for you, madame?”
“Whiskey, please.” Why not. It’s the closest thing I can get to ordering pure irony.
“And how would you like that, madame?”
“In a glass.”
The bartender raises a brow at what I guess he thinks is sarcasm, but it isn’t. I just don’t actually know how whiskey is usually served. I could say shaken, not stirred, but I’m pretty sure that refers to cocktails. I notice that the bartender speaks with what I think is one of the accents of the British, but different than the one the British guy in the warehouse had. I can’t tell the difference, to be honest, and I’ve never really cared enough to find out. What’s British anyway? Irish. Scottish. English. What’s the other one? There’s definitely another one, but it doesn’t come to mind before the bartender slides a crystal tumbler over to me containing a potent looking amber liquid. When I put my nose to it, I become almost certain my uncle uses whiskey to start barbecues.
I have obviously never drunk whiskey before, but it feels right, somehow. Whiskey was what got me into all of this and now maybe it will calm my nerves. The first sip is like fire, a deep draught of illicit liquid which burns all the way down to my stomach where it immediately starts numbing the day away. I have always drunk alcohol with the idea of having fun in mind, but I’m now understanding its other properties. It’s not all about fun. It’s also about forgetting.
“Oh that’s really good,” I say to nobody besides myself.
“Ahem.” The bartender clears his throat, and I realize he’s waiting for money. Of course he is. Nothing’s free.
“Sorry,” I say, reaching into my pocket. I can’t actually pull off a single bill with it in there, so I have to yank the whole stack out and try not to look too ridiculous as I peel off a fifty dollar note and slide it over to the bartender. “Keep the change,” I say, saluting him with my whiskey glass. “Oh, and maybe you’ve got some nuts?”
He does, indeed, have nuts. Salty nuts. Nuts that make a pretty weird accompaniment to the whiskey, so I try another hors d’ouvre or two until I am surrounded by small plates right up there at the bar. This is not usually how things are done, but today is an unusual day.
Dante is going to be so fucking mad at me. I take another sip of whiskey and try to make that realization get smaller. A little smile rises to my lips. Jesus, he’s going to be so mad, but maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe he was mad before anyway. Maybe I’m free. Maybe…
“What are you drinking, cutie?”
I look to my left to see a guy maybe a few years older than me leaning against the bar. He’s wearing a suit and his hair is slicked back and I can tell he works in finance. Or law. He’s looking at me with a blue eyed innocent lecherousness. This is what I’m used to. Men who ask me silly banal questions, as if it’s not obvious I’m drinking the devil’s own juice.
I ignore him and take another sip. Usually, I wouldn’t have the nerve to just ignore someone who was talking to me. I’d feel obliged to keep up some social contract I never signed. I'd think the fact that a man was talking to me enough reason to talk to him, but I’m starting to think and feel differently about a lot of things.
This guy isn’t Dante. He doesn’t command my attention. Hell, even Dante doesn’t command me. I walked right the hell out of his place even after he told me to sit there and hide away.
I should feel weaker after everything I’ve been through, and maybe the whiskey has some part in this, but I’ve never felt this strong before.
“Don’t feel like talking, sweetheart?”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
I turn to him and look him dead in the eye. None of this bullshit nervous darting away glancing I used to do. I stare him down, my drink in one hand, ready for another fortifying sip.
“Not yet, you're not,” he smiles.
Okay, that’s actually pretty good. I look at him a little more closely. In some respects, he’s like the male version of me. Blue eyes. Blonde hair. Well put together. His parents probably know my parents, and if they don’t, it’s almost guaranteed one of his uncles knows one of my aunts. That’s how these circles are.
“I’m Ha
rry Montague,” he says. “Like Romeo.”
“Uh huh.”
“You're not Juliet, are you?”
“You haven’t used that line a thousand times, have you?”
“A thousand and one,” he smiles, not giving the slightest hint of a fuck about being called out about his lame pick up attempts. “You're on the hard stuff tonight,” he observes, looking at my drink.
“I like whiskey,” I lie.
“Nobody likes whiskey. People just like to forget.”
“You’re pretty jaded for a baby,” I smirk.
Harry clutches his hand to his chest. “Did you just call me a baby? I’m wounded!”
“No, you’re not,” I smirk.
“Okay, I’m not. But I could be.”
I’m smiling. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m enjoying this guy’s company, or if it is because he’s helping me to feel just that little bit normal. This is what my life felt like before Dante, vapid, light conversations with vapid, light men. There’s nothing serious about Harry. I’m sure he takes himself seriously, but the marks of an easy life are all over him, most particularly in his eyes.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Candice,” I tell him.
“Old fashioned!”
“You’re literally called Harry.”
“True, but Harry became popular after a certain prince,” he points out. “There’s never been a Princess Candice.”
“There probably has been.”
He pulls out his phone, and I know he’s going to check. He can’t be wrong, though he is, and I can tell he is by the way he puts it away.
“Princess Candice is an animated pony,” he admits. “Can I buy you another drink?”
I’m about to say that I’m fine with what I have, but when I look down, the glass is empty. I guess I’ve been drinking a little faster than I thought. Oh well. I still feel absolutely fine. Maybe whiskey isn’t as potent as everybody says it is.
“Sure,” I say. “And this time, make it a double.”
“Whiskey double for the lady,” Harry says to the bartender who is hovering nearby, tending bar, as one might expect him to do.
