by Grace Risata
My Dirty Detour
An Alpha-Male Mafia Comedy Romance
By Grace Risata
Copyright © January, 2016 by L Behm
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Friday Night
On a beautiful Friday night in mid-September, where do I find myself? On a hot date with a new guy that I’d been nursing a crush on? Nope. At the newest bar/night club in a little black dress with my closest group of girlfriends? Not even close. I found myself lost in the middle of nowhere on a dusty dirt road. I think real streets have two lanes and pavement, but this was pretty rustic. My tires were kicking up rocks and possibly ruining the paint job on my black Nissan.
My obligation for this evening involved a trip to some random welding shop to pick up a tractor part for my mother’s ex-boyfriend. I lost track of how many times they’d broken up and gotten back together, so it was beyond me why I got stuck with this job. I guess it was because she was the queen of guilt trips and I still owed her for giving birth to me thirty-four years ago. She always found a way to get me to do what she wanted, but make it appear as though she was doing me a favor. Tonight’s reasoning was that “it will get you out of the house and you have nothing better to do.” Unfortunately she was correct. It was the perfect night and I had no other plans. That is how I stumbled upon the Grim Rock Distillery and how I had the misfortune of meeting one insanely infuriating Rocky Duncan.
I followed the directions to pick up the tractor part, but the adventurous side of me wanted to take a different route home. The windows were down, the radio was up, and I was cruising on a Friday night. I was not ready to go back to the TV shows filling up my DVR or the books on my kindle. I wanted real live action. Or at least to drive by other people experiencing real live action. So I took a left and then a right and then I must have taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque (to quote Bugs Bunny) and I ended up on a one lane dirt road in the middle of hillbillyville. Being the thrifty girl that I am, I opted not to upgrade my vehicle to the next package and thus had no GPS. Also being somewhat lazy, my cell phone was not charged and had run out of battery an hour ago. I guess my new plan would be to pull into the first place I saw and just ask for directions.
After following the road for a few more minutes, I pulled into a gravel parking lot behind what appeared to be a large brick factory. It was two stories tall with a row of windows that had bars on them. That’s strange because I live in a small town with only eighteen thousand people in the heart of the Midwest. Even the name is wholesome: Pineville. This is farm country, not “put bars on your windows like it’s the apocalypse and zombies are coming” highly populated metropolitan area. The driveway led around to a paved lot and I figured it must have been the back entrance to the factory. The front looked a little bit safer with a windowed door (no bars on it!) and a hand painted sign that read “Grim Rock Distillery: Home of Olde Devil Gin. NO TRESPASSING.” That struck me as bizarre. I would assume a brewery would have tasting tours and be open to the public. I had never heard of this place before. That’s not surprising seeing as how any alcohol with the word “Devil” in it was probably way too strong for me. Let me tell you that I’m not someone you would associate with heavy drinking. If I drink one beer really fast, it puts me over the edge. I’m not opposed to drinking; the taste of most alcohol just doesn’t do anything for me. I did have a subscription to a wine of the month club at one point. It was during one of my “try something new” phases.
You see, once in a great while I decide to think outside the box and take up a new hobby. Some past failures have included the “get rich on Ebay” phase. I went through my basement to find vintage stuff to sell. Well I hadn’t researched the cost of postage very well. The record player that sold for forty bucks with free shipping cost me thirty-eight dollars to mail. When you take my seller fees into consideration, there was a six dollar loss on the transaction. Another failure was the New Year’s resolution to finally tame my uncontrollably frizzy, naturally curly hair. After countless unsuccessful gels, sprays, and mousse bottles that never got used, I gave up and got out the scissors. BIG MISTAKE. That one took two years to grow out. I did do pretty well on the “learn to shoot guns” phase. I got a .22 caliber handgun and stockpiled ammunition. The problem was a lack of good places to go practice shooting, so my only targets were milk jugs filled with water on a public shooting range with a long wait time. After an hour of watching other people shoot while impatiently staring at my watch, I bailed on that too. Needless to say, I try hard for a while and then usually give up.
My current self-improvement project involves fitness. My idea of exercise is usually changing the channel on the TV, but my new quest was to get some muscles and not be a total wimp. Since my divorce was finalized almost ten months ago, (that’s a long story for another time) I felt the need to get back in the dating game. I have a decent body mind you. I’m a size eight with a C cup and the usual cellulite you’d expect to find on your average thirty-four year old. The crow’s feet are starting to appear around the eyes, my thighs and butt are larger than I’d like, and my feet are screaming by the end of the day if I wear high heels. I could do some sit-ups, but if someone told me to drop and give them twenty, it would have to be in dollars because there’s no way I’d be able to do that many push-ups.
I do have a head start on this whole “get muscles, get fit” plan, since I have a bit of a home gym in my basement. See, my ex-husband Nathan saw a cheap boxing set at a rummage sale and decided he had to have it. He hung up the boxing bag, hung up the speed bag, and then hung up his hammer and went to play video games. That was the end of that. Since it’s also the end of Nathan, I decided I should probably get out there and start meeting people. Otherwise I’d never have anything better to do on a Friday night than picking up random tractor parts and getting lost.
There are a lot of horror stories out there about people dating after being divorced. You can meet murder-rapist stalkers online who pose as nice professional gentleman, or get caught up with someone who’s really a ninety year old lady trying to catfish you and steal all your money. I guess the problem isn’t just online. Plenty of normal looking people hang out in bars and you think you find someone decent only to go back to his place and he has a room full of tarantulas, still lives with his mom at age forty, or asks if you’d mind a threesome with his wife. No thanks. But the alternative is to be alone forever, which is also not very appealing. So I figured the safe bet would be to “hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.” Be hopeful to meet a nice guy, but be prepared to kick him in the nuts or throw a haymaker and punch his lights out if he’s a creeper. That is what led to my new quest to get tough and learn to defend myself. For the past month, I’ve gone down to my basement gym once a week and practiced on the heavy bag. This led me to believe I was invincible, and that it was not a bad idea to walk alone into a strange building that had a capital letter NO TRESPASSING SIGN. Also, I was lost anyway and needed directions so I went inside.
The interior of the factory looked as though it was completely up to date wi
th modern equipment and decor. Upon entering, I noticed a solid oak reception desk to my right. It was fairly tall and the countertop came up to my chest. It stretched about ten feet long going back toward the solid brick wall. Behind the desk sat an entrance to a walled office, all encased in glass. To my left, there stood a long row of floor to ceiling windows that afforded a magnificent view of the massive factory floor. Double glass doors led from the reception area into the factory. With all that glass, it was apparent that whoever designed the layout wanted to have a clear view of the entire operation. I can understand why. It was really something to see!
There were two levels of the largest tanks, vats, and copper pots that I had ever seen. There must have been miles of tubes going from one direction to the next. It looked beautiful with shiny chrome and all sorts of bizarre gauges and devices. Kind of like a steampunk dream. I was pulled from my reverie when I heard the sound of someone clearing their throat. It was then that I noticed two muscular goons giving me the evil eye. They appeared to be in their late twenties, almost equal in height at well over six feet tall. One of them had shoulder length dark hair tied off in a low ponytail, while the other had blond hair that seemed a tad bit longer then a buzz cut. Mr. Ponytail was wearing a black short sleeve T shirt with a pair of designer blue jeans and black combat boots. He had high cheekbones and full lips and he was perfectly tan. Unnaturally tan. “I-spend-too-much-time-in-the-spray-booth” tan. His perfect face was covered in carefully groomed three day stubble. If I had to guess his nationality, I’d put my money on Italian. He was staring at me with sultry brown eyes and looking mildly confused. The other one just looked pissed off. He exuded a vibe of raw strength and danger. Mr. Anti-Social, I noticed, was wearing light blue jeans, a form fitting white V neck t shirt that showed off how well built he was, and a pair of brown boots. He had no tattoos, in sharp contrast to the artwork covering the arms of his friend. I got the impression that while Mr. Ponytail would have looked at home on the cover of Italian GQ, it seemed like Mr. Anti-Social belonged in Streetfighter Magazine, if such a thing existed. He looked as if he’d been in a fight or two and had the evidence to prove it. With a crooked nose that had undoubtedly been broken, this dude was definitely not someone to mess with. After staring each other down like soldiers on opposite sides of a war, Mr. Anti-Social broke the silence.
“Who the fuck sent you here and what do you want?” Wow. Not the greeting I expected. At all. Who talks to a potential customer like that? Wait until the owner found out this guy was on the welcoming committee.
“No one sent me here. I sort of took a wrong turn, got lost, and stumbled upon this place and I thought it looked cool with the name and all, and I wanted to see about possibly trying a sample (I’d never had gin before, so why not? They probably had free samples, right?) and maybe get directions to get unlost?” Did I mention that I get nervous easily when standing in the presence of violent looking people who could probably snap me in half like a twig? Hell, I get nervous speaking in front of large crowds, flying on planes, and pretty much doing anything not in my regular routine. If they’re Mr. Ponytail and Mr. Anti-Social, then just call me Ms. Anxiety.
Mr. Anti-Social marched over with an enormous scowl on his face, clearly NOT liking my answer to that question. “Are you from the Health Inspectors Office? Tell me your name and what you’re doing here NOW,” he demanded.
“My name is Violet and I got lost. I can just turn around and leave and find directions elsewhere, but thank you for your time.” That was polite, right? Well Mr. Anti-Social was having none of that.
“You will go nowhere until my questions are answered to my liking. And if I find out you’re not telling the truth, you WILL be held accountable, do you understand that?”
Holy shit. What fucking rabbit hole did I stumble down and how the hell do I get out of here? What if this is some clandestine phony business front for a real drug den or prostitution ring? What if they’re killing people in the back room right now? What if I don’t make it out of this alive? This shit happens on TV, not in real life! Deep breath, don’t faint, answer his questions nicely. “Sir, I will answer any questions you have. Please just let me leave.” And maybe let me live, too.
“Fine,” he snarled. “Who sent you here and what do you want? If you claim to be from the health inspector’s office, you’re not seeing shit until you show me some identification.”
“No one sent me here. I was just picking up a tractor part at the welding place about five miles and several turns down the road. I wanted to take a different way home and my stupid detour led me here. I got lost and I only need directions back to the main road.” That was short and to the point, yet honest and respectful. I might get out of this alive.
“What was the name of the welding place, when were you there, and what did you pick up?” he questioned.
“I left there about ten minutes ago, it was called Black Tower Forge, and I picked up a broken tractor part that had to be welded.” Honesty is always the best policy. And hopefully the one that would keep me alive. Mr. Anti-Social took a cell phone out of his pocket, tapped a few buttons, and glared at me.
“Dmitry, it’s Rocky. Tell me what customers have been in the shop in the past twenty minutes, what they looked like, and what they picked up.” Ah, so Mr. Anti-Social has a name: Rocky. Crap! Now I know his name and that gives him one more reason to kill me. Rocky was staring me down as he waited for a response from the guy on the other end of the phone. “I see. There was only one customer? A girl who picked up a tractor part?”
Ooh, looks like I was telling the truth…what now? I must have had a look of I-told-you-so on my face because he frowned and responded, “What did she look like? Was she a short, pathetic-looking, ditz with fuzzy hair?” What the fuck? That was pretty unnecessary on his part. I am not a ditz at all; I’m just bad with directions. My sour expression at that comment must have betrayed my intent to keep a straight face because Rocky narrowed his eyes at me and grinned. “Very well, then. That was all I wanted. No, I don’t know who she is either. I was just checking out her story. She claims to be lost and stopped here for directions. I don’t know why she didn’t see the sign that clearly said ‘no trespassing.’ Maybe she can’t read.”
Rocky appeared visibly more relaxed as he hung up the phone and told me, “Go left when you turn out of the driveway. Take a right after three miles and then another right. You’ll hit the main road. As for free samples, this is not a grocery store. There’s the door. I suggest you use it.”
He turned around and dismissed me just like that. No “Sorry I freaked out and acted like a jackass” or “Please tell all your friends about our remarkable gin.” I really don’t like to be treated like I’m the shit under someone’s shoe. I also have a bad habit of doing the opposite of what I’m told, just to prove a point.
“What’s with the no trespassing sign anyway? Doesn’t a brewery usually have tastings? This is a public establishment, is it not? Is my money not just as good as someone else’s? I think you’d want people to know about your product and spread the word. I can’t imagine that I’m the only one who’s never heard of it.”
I also have a bad habit of not knowing when to just shut my mouth and not press my luck. Instead of being relieved to have permission to exit with all my limbs still attached, my only thought was to find out why I looked like such a pathetic ditz.
“You’ve never heard of quitting while you’re ahead, have you? This is a private business, not a public establishment. Do you know how to read? The sign out front says ‘no trespassing.’ That means you shouldn’t enter unless you’re invited, and you are most definitely NOT invited. I don’t think you’re a drinker and I’m pretty sure you’re not here to apply for a job. What do you do for a living? You don’t look like you’ve worked a day in your life. You’re not physically fit and you wouldn’t know hard labor if it bit you in the ass. You look like someone who doesn’t follow things through, am I right?”
Of course he was
right, but I sure as hell wasn’t telling him that. I worked pretty hard at my profession. It just happened to be mental and not physical.
By this time Mr. Ponytail started feeling sorry for me, or else he got tired of sitting on the sidelines and not participating in the conversation because he chimed in, “Rocky, maybe she’s a teacher or a beautician or something. I’m sure she works somewhere. Why torment her? You’re just going to make her cry.”
Rocky must not like being told what to do either, because he shot Mr. Ponytail a dirty look and declared, “Sergio, look at her, she’s no beautician. They have perfect hair, makeup, and their nails done. She has none of the above.” So we’ve figured out that the other one is Sergio and I appear to be completely out of the conversation entirely while they talk about me in front of my face like I’m not even here. Awesome. We’re making real progress now.
“As a matter of fact, I happen to be a secretary. A bookkeeper. I work in the accounting department of a well-established business. A friendly business that welcomes its customers.” Maybe if I stammer enough, the job will start sounding important. That was my goal anyway. I don’t think it worked.
Sergio got a strange look on his face. “Rocky, did you hear that?” he asked. “She’s an accountant, she could help us.”
“No, Sergio. She works in the accounting department. That doesn’t mean she’s an accountant. There’s a difference. Maybe she just answers the phone. Besides, we don’t need help here. Shut your mouth.”
Sergio looked like he did not appreciate being talked down to either. He mumbled, “Excuse us for a minute, please.” He pulled Rocky into the back office and they were talking in whispered voices, yet I still heard what they were saying.
“Rocky, you know as well as I do that this business is struggling. You don’t know enough about balancing books and doing paperwork. She does. What if you hire her and just give her a chance? What do you have to lose? She looks smart, why not?”
