Hard Charger: Jake & Sophia: A Hot Contemporary Romance

by Fobes, Tracy

  “I’ll go visit it later,” he said. “Tell me about William Hansen.”

  “Well, he lent me money to finish the reconstruction on Beach Waves. He said I wouldn’t have to pay interest if I paid the loan back within a year. But I wasn’t able to pay it back.” She paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “So now I owe him most of the original loan, plus interest.”

  “How much did he lend you?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  He groaned. “How much interest?”

  “Fifty percent.”

  “Fifty percent!” He stood and started pacing. “How can it be legal for him to charge that much interest?”

  She sighed. “It’s not legal at all. He’s clearly not a legitimate businessman.”

  “What is he, then?”

  “A loan shark?” She shrugged. “I don’t know, Jake.”

  He stopped pacing and sat down next to her. “How much do you owe, in total?”

  She hesitated, appeared to think it over, and then said, “Fifty thousand.”

  He let out a low whistle, and noticed how his mom was refusing to look at him. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “I know.”

  “Tell me the rest,” he said, and almost wished she’d refuse to.

  Her shoulders sagging, she nodded. “When I wasn’t able to make the payment to close the loan, a couple of men visited me. They told me that they represented Will Hansen, and that Hansen in turn represented others who had a stake in my loan. In many of Rockport Grove’s loans, in fact. They said that if I didn’t find a way to pay that loan, it would go badly for me.”

  Jake had a sinking sensation deep inside. This was bad. Really bad.

  “Earlier today, they visited me again,” she continued. “Said that if I allowed them to use my salon for dealing prescription drugs and money laundering, ‘the boss’ might go easy on me. I refused. Things got physical, and one of them punched me.”

  “Fuck!” He put his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”

  “They said they’ll be back,” she admitted, and then started crying again.

  He felt trapped. “Tell me something about these guys. Do you see them around town?”

  “No,” she replied, her voice trembling. “They had heavy accents, though. As though they were from somewhere over by Russia.”

  From Russia with Love.

  “We need to pay that money back,” he said, the apparent calmness in his voice at odds with the anxiety rolling through him. “Quickly.”

  “I know.”

  “How do we pay it back?”

  “Win the lottery?”

  Jake frowned. “Not funny. What about a second mortgage on the salon?”

  She shrugged. “It’s possible. But that’ll take time, and I don’t have time. They want their money now.”

  “So we need time, as well as money.” He tightened his lips. “We gotta go to the police.”

  His mom instantly put a hand on his arms. Her eyes wide, she shook her head. “No, Jake. Don’t go to the police. They told me they’d know and would punish me if I did. And anyway, the police are corrupt. So is the mayor. You’ll do nothing but make it worse if you involve the police.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “It is,” she insisted. Her lips parted, and Jake waited for her continue, but a long pause developed between them. He stared at her, sensing she was about to drop another bomb on him.

  After almost a minute, she dropped it. “The best place to go for help is the Guardians.”

  “WHAT?” Shocked, he jumped out of his seat. “You want me to go to the same motorcycle club that killed dad? What the hell can they do?”

  She stood as well. “Jake, they’re the only ones who can help. In fact, your Uncle Martin is already aware of what’s been going on, and the club’s been trying to help. He’s insisting on moving in with me until we get the situation straightened out.”

  He drew back. “What’s Uncle Martin going to do, stand guard with a shotgun?”

  “Martin’s got the club behind him.”

  “So what?”

  “Both of us will be safer with him around.”

  He frowned. “I don’t need him to defend me. Or you.”

  “I don’t want you to defend us. I don’t want you to get killed. You’re my son. You’re all that I have left.”

  He clenched his fists. “I’d like to find these two goons who’ve been blackmailing you.”

  “You see?” She threw up her hands. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. I was afraid you’d go off half-cocked. And here you are, doing exactly that.”

  “Don’t you ever keep anything like that from me again,” he warned her, his gut bubbling with a need to set things right.

  Frowning, she stood to put a pot of tea on to boil.

  “Sit down. Let me do that.” He shooed her back to the table, then got a mug out and dropped a tea bag into it. He would take care of her first. Then, tomorrow morning, he was going straight to the police. Unlike his mother, he had faith in the men in uniform. He’d been one himself, after all.

  Chapter Seven

  Simon Koschei didn’t think of himself as a bad man. Nor did he consider what he did evil. No, he was just the avtorityet of a little organizatsiya that was helping a quaint old town drag itself out of the debris left by a hurricane. At the same time, he was giving the pakhan and his bratki in Brooklyn a few new revenue streams. Who could complain about that?

  He chuckled a little at the mere thought of it and re-adjusted his napkin over his trousers. He was eating lunch at Rowdy Ray’s Roadhouse, one of the few half-decent restaurants in this little shithole of a town. He looked up as a homely-looking waitress came over to his table.

  “Another beer?” she asked, as she set a bowl of peanuts on the table.

  He eyed her closely. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Charlene,” she replied, and chewed her gum like a cow chewing cud.

  “Well, Charlene, what I would like is for my two associates to get their asses over here like I told them, so we can have our meeting.” He shook his head sadly. “But since they’re too dimwitted to keep an eye on the time, now they’re late, and I gotta sit here drinking beers until they show up.”

  “You want another beer, then?” she asked cautiously.

  “Go get it, girl,” he relied, an edge of sarcasm to his voice. Still, he smiled. He liked smiling, especially when he was annoyed. More than one person had called him a hilarious devil, a moniker he particularly appreciated.

  “I’ll have it to you in a moment.” She scurried away from the table, and he watched her go, wondering why Ray Morris had hired such an old bag to wait tables for him. Where were the tits, the ass that you’d expect to see in a roadhouse?

  He looked around, his gaze resting on the pool table in the corner, and then on the wooden stage and dance floor, before settling on the bar. Ray’s kid Luke was bartending and slinging plates of food around, and Simon considered going over to shoot the breeze with him, but then decided against it. His damned ankles were bothering him again. Just a touch of gout, nothing his doctor could do about it.

  Instead, he sat back and congratulated himself. The place looked good—thanks to him. That was one of the reasons he liked eating here. Not only did he get to enjoy the nice décor, but it also reminded good ole Ray who he owed. Several people in Rockport Grove had forgotten that fact, and it made Simon sad, because he knew he’d have to send Winsome and Monahan over to remind them.

  Almost as if thinking of them had conjured them, the two men Simon had been waiting for walked through the door. Both had on jeans and dark bomber-style jackets, and they looked tense, like junkies who need a fix. Winsome was around sixty—Simon’s age—but Monahan fell somewhere south of forty.

  Ignoring the hostess, they stood for a moment like beagles scenting the air. Their gazes finally fell upon Simon and they headed toward his booth, with Monahan in the lead and Winsome bringing up the rear.
Winsome rested his hand lightly on a bulge beneath his jacket.

  Simon smiled. They were bratok, low-ranking soldiers who were sometimes extremely stupid, and sometimes tastelessly flamboyant. Today, they were stupid, because they were late. Still, they didn’t mind wet work and knew how to keep their mouths shut, and so Simon tolerated them and gave them the tough jobs.

  “Look, it’s the Bobbsey Twins,” Simon commented loudly, remembering that ancient children’s book his bobcha used to read to him. “Sit down, Bobbsey Twins. Tell Papa Simon how life’s treating you.”

  Simon noticed that the chatter in the bar had died down. Several other diners looked their way, but Monahan’s and Winsome’s faces remained expressionless as they slid into the booth. Monahan positioned himself so that he could sweep the entire room with a single gaze. That’s what he did. He watched. He covered.

  Winsome, on the other hand, was a protector. He broke arms, cut off hands, shot out shins as needed. Simon enjoyed the fact that Winsome was called winsome, if only because he was one of the ugliest bastards to ever crack a mirror.

  “Life’s treating us pretty good,” Winsome replied. Methodically he shelled and ate the peanuts.

  Slowly, conversation returned to the bar.

  “Well, life ain’t treating me good,” Simon groused, after a moment or two. “This neighborhood, it’s got dementia. It can’t remember things.”

  “No, it can’t,” Monahan agreed.

  The waitress stopped by then, dropped off Simon’s beer, took Monahan’s and Winsome’s order, and then disappeared again.

  Simon sipped his beer. “You two can’t remember things. Didn’t you hear me say fucking two o’clock?”

  Monahan nodded. “We heard you, boss.”

  “And what time is it?” Simon asked.

  Winsome continued to shell peanuts, though he worked more slowly now. “Two fifteen.”

  “That’s right. You’re fifteen minutes late. For fifteen minutes I’ve been sitting here, drinking beers that old hag brings me and thinking about how this neighborhood and my own bratok can’t remember. It’s insulting.”

  “We’re sorry, boss,” Monahan quickly replied.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” Simon gave him a mocking frown. “Sorry doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t keep my feelings from being hurt.”

  Monahan swallowed and looked away, to sweep the bar with a nervous glance.

  Simon focused on Winsome. “So...you got anything good to tell me? Like maybe how people are starting to recall how I’ve bailed them out of bankruptcy? That they’re grateful?”

  Winsome stopped shucking peanuts. “We delivered the messages.”

  “Oh, you did.” Simon made a show of thinking this over, though inside, he was still pissed that they’d made him sit around for fifteen minutes while they jacked off. “And how were the messages received?”

  “The Gallent bitch did nothing but piss and moan.” Winsome shrugged his shoulders. “You know women.”

  “Ah, Christ.” Simon shook his head. “She knows that the interest is gonna keep compounding, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So is she gonna pay up?”

  “No. Not now, anyway.”

  Simon nodded. He’d expected exactly this. Not many people paid up. But he was okay with that, because if they didn’t pay up, he could use them in other ways. In fact, the pakhan in Brighton Beach preferred new bratok over payment. “She’s gonna front for us, then.” He said this as a statement, not a question, because she’d be truly stupid to do anything else.

  “Well, she didn’t agree to that either,” Winsome said.

  “Christ on a cross!” Simon shook his head sadly. “You’re just gonna have to convince her.”

  Winsome offered his boss a grim smile. “I’m pretty good at that.”

  “I know you are.” He paused, annoyed that everyone needed all of this convincing, and then asked about the other matter. “And Hansen? Is he still bitching about being our loan front?”

  An even grimmer smile curved Winsome’s lips. “That’s why we’re late, boss. We needed some extra time to convince him. He was getting cold feet.”

  “Cold feet?” Simon leaned a little closer. He didn’t hear Winsome speak with that kind of tone often: righteous, deeply satisfied. “From the most benevolent businessman in all of Rockport Grove? What a damned shame.”

  “We thought so, too,” Monahan chimed in. “He was sitting there in his blue suit, looking suave, with eyes so blue they could convince you he was one of God’s own angels. But Mr. Winsome here, he knows his shit.”

  “Yes I do,” Winsome agreed.

  “So what happened?” Simon was all ears now. “Did you threaten to cut his dick and balls off, and shove them down his throat?”

  “Hey, we ain’t the Mexicans,” Monahan complained.

  Winsome reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. Spots of blood stood out in bright red relief against the white cotton. He handed it to Simon. “A gift for you, boss. From Hansen.”

  Simon took it and held it in his hand. It didn’t weigh much. The blood on it still felt wet. “Is it a finger?”

  “Nope.”

  “Two fingers?”

  Winsome shook his head. “It’s better than that.”

  Simon smiled. “An...ear?”

  “Nope.”

  Unwilling to wait a moment longer, Simon carefully opened the handkerchief. Inside lay something that looked like a grape with a tail, only it was ivory-colored and marked very faintly with tiny blue veins. Simon’s smiled widened. He chuckled, and the chuckle developed into a full-blown laugh. “Goddamn it, Mr. Winsome, you are clever.”

  Winsome smiled proudly.

  “I thought you said you didn’t cut his balls off, though,” Simon pointed out, as his laughter died down.

  “We just cut one ball out,” Winsome replied. “And we left him his sack.”

  “Yeah. He can still fuck, have orgasms, even make more kids. As long as he cooperates, that is,” Monahan added. “We offered to sew his sack up for him, so he wouldn’t bleed all over his underwear, but he said no.”

  Full of admiration, Simon slowly nodded. “I’m sure he was happy to cooperate after that.”

  “He was,” Monahan confirmed.

  “Good. So we just have to circle back around to the Gallent bitch.”

  Winsome nodded. “We’ll go back next week.”

  “What are you going to do next time?” Simon asked. “Cut off one of her tits?”

  The three men laughed, and Winsome resumed shucking peanuts. “Sure would be a sight if I did,” he observed.

  Monahan nodded his head toward Ray Morris, who’d just walked into the bar and was standing behind the mahogany counter, talking to his punk-ass son, Luke. “What about him?”

  Simon frowned. Morris had so far been a hard nut to crack. “Did you try taking one of his balls?”

  “Too old and shriveled to bother with,” Winsome said. “And he doesn’t seem to care about that finger he lost.”

  “At least he can’t give anyone the salute anymore,” Monahan added.

  “Go see him later tonight,” Simon advised. “Explain once more to him why it’s not nice to borrow money and refuse to pay it back. Maybe you could take one of his son’s balls to make your point, since Ray’s are so shriveled up. It’ll be a message to everyone else who isn’t paying.”

  Winsome nodded. “Will do, boss.”

  Simon plucked Hansen’s ball out of the handkerchief. He held the nugget up close so he could look at it. “You know what I saw on Bizarre Foods the other night? A penis restaurant. Do you believe that shit?” At Winsome and Monahan’s blank looks, he continued, “All they served were cooked penises and balls. Testicle soup, blackened testicle with lemon grass, chopped lettuce and testicle salad...” He trailed off, remembering, then continued. “The funny thing is, it all looked pretty damned good.”

  His curiosity awakened, Simon popped the little thing into his mouth a
nd chewed. It tasted a little rubbery, but it had a delightfully squishy center. “Just like a bon bon. A salty one.”

  Monahan reflexively grabbed his crotch. Winsome’s face, however, remained expressionless.

  Just then, the waitress came over with Winsome’s and Monahan’s beers. “You guys want any appetizers?” she asked, as she put the beers on the table.

  “I’ve already had mine,” Simon told her, and patted his rounded belly with satisfaction.

  Chapter Eight

  Jake didn’t fall asleep easily that night. A storm of images taunted him: his mother, crying; Sophia’s crushed look as she observed him with that hooker at Rowdy Ray’s; Alex whispering From Russia with Love in a lowered voice, which then became broken, garbled, like conspiratorial whispers without a source. They worked together to keep him tossing and turning, and his eyes felt like hot marbles in their sockets when he finally fell asleep, well after midnight.

  The knocking started at around three AM in the morning.

  Jake was floundering deep in a nightmare of swirling sands and artillery fire. The knocking sounded like bombs going off. He started running, and looking for his CO, or the sat link, or anything that might help...

  The knocking continued, penetrated his dream. He sat straight up. Shook himself. Realized that there were no bombs, he wasn’t in the desert. He jumped out of bed, pulled pajama bottoms on and ran to his mother’s room. She was lying in bed, snoring, earplugs in, some kind of frilly ice pack over her eyes.

  He turned and hurried down the stairs. The front porch light was on, and windows on either side of the door gave him a glimpse of a woman with long, reddish-brown hair.

  Sophia.

  “What the hell?” He strode to the front door and yanked it open.

  As though she’d been leaning on the door, Sophia piled into the house. Jake assessed her with a quick glance. Clear eyes, pinched-looking mouth; high, hectic color in her cheeks.

  Not drunk. Terrified.

  He opened his arms. “Sophia!”

  She fell into them, her body warm and firm against his. She smelled like roses.