Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One

by Adam Knight

The Neanderthal continued his slow war dance. I did my best to ignore him as I met Tamara’s eyes. Her intense, angry eyes.

  “These people, what they’re doing … It’s wrong. And someone needs to stop them.”

  The tingling at the back of my neck increased slightly. Little shooting sensations began to race down the base of my spine.

  “Someone.” My voice was deep. Quiet. I was afraid to say the words out loud. Terrified of the consequences. Nothing’s real in this world until you acknowledge it by saying it out loud.

  “Yes.” Tamara’s eyes were so intense. So confident. “If the police are involved in some kind of plot then someone needs to even the score.”

  “Someone,” I repeated, still quietly.

  “Yes.”

  I took a deep breath. “You mean, ‘someone like me.’ “

  She held my eyes without blinking.

  Just saying those words opened a tiny crack in my self-control. The tingling sensation increased tenfold sending gooseflesh down my spine, flooding my limbs with a sudden rush of electricity.

  It was invigorating. It was terrifying.

  It was glorious.

  The Neanderthal raised his shaggy mane to the sky and howled in approval.

  Tamara blinked in surprise and rubbed at her forearms suddenly. Her cute little bob of hair had a few strays suddenly rise to the ceiling as the rush of static passed over her. The halogen lights above my head flickered ominously and nearly snapped off permanently before righting itself and continuing on.

  She didn’t flinch away. There was no fear in Tamara’s eyes at this sudden tangible display of … well, of whatever it is that was going on with me. The only thing that Tamara showed me was confidence.

  Trust.

  Her tiny hand reached out and gripped one of my calloused paws.

  This was insane.

  Certifiably bat shit insane.

  This was a dangerously real situation. People were dying. Mom was in danger. My friends; Mark, Cathy, Tamara .. all of them would be at risk.

  But the things going on at the club – whatever exactly they might be – were causing all of this grief. People were profiting off the lives of others, taking advantage of their weaknesses and making them pay the ultimate price so they could continue to get rich. Pimping girls out. Having them entertain wealthy business types. Killing anyone who gets in their way.

  No. Something about this still didn’t add up. I was missing a piece of the puzzle. Something significant. Something that made this more than a simple high class rub’n’tug operation. Something that made a guy like Parise – one of the coolest and most collected people I’d ever met – desperate enough to resort to assault and murder in order to cover his tracks.

  Tamara’s hand gave mine a gentle squeeze. Silently offering me her trust and her support.

  And in that moment I had an epiphany. An honest to God epiphany. When I realized the purest truth about this whole disgusting situation.

  I didn’t care why it didn’t make sense.

  It had to be stopped.

  And I wanted to be the one to stop them.

  Was it crazy? Absolutely.

  Was it smart? Absolutely not.

  Did any of that matter?

  “Hell no,” I muttered as fire roared in my belly and electricity rushed through my veins.

  Tamara’s eyes glinted then, sensing the change in my demeanor. She knew. Somehow she knew what I needed to do. Hell, going by our conversation she knew before I did.

  “Joe?” her voice was soft, not hesitant exactly but more than a little nervous. “Joe, I didn’t tell Mark.”

  I blinked at her with confusion. “Tell him what?”

  She chewed on her lower lip for a moment which both completely adorable and ridiculously hot. “About the other night. You coming over.”

  Memories slid through my brain at that point, going over details. “Oh,” I replied. Still confused. “Why not?”

  Tamara shrugged this time. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem … I don’t know.”

  Well, that made two of us.

  “You think he’d be mad?”

  She shook her head. “I also didn’t tell him about what happened to you at the club.”

  “Yeah, said he heard it from Shelby.”

  Tamara’s face twisted, eyes glistening. “I should’ve told him. Before he went in. But I was mad, I thought he knew about what happened to you. Thought he didn’t try to stop it.” She scrubbed at her face with her free hand, wiping carefully at her eyes.

  A number of confusing thoughts and emotions swirled through my head, conflicting with the sudden resolve and determination I was enjoying. The combination made me lightheaded.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Tamara glanced up at me. “How is it not?”

  I shrugged, my lips giving their first small smile in a few days. “Mark’s like me. Whether you told him or Shelby told him, he still woulda confronted Aaron about it. Miller and Parise still woulda been there.” I squeezed her hand in return. “Nothing you could’ve done woulda changed this.”

  “You can’t know that, Joe.”

  “You can’t know any different. It happened as it happened. We all have to live with it.”

  Tamara’s face remained twisted, but at least she looked a touch less upset.

  Okay. Enough of this.

  My feet slid under me and I stood. The fact that my bad knee didn’t protest this move at all no longer surprised me. Adrenaline was starting to trickle its way into my system adding the familiar rush of excitement to the mix of energies I was dealing with. It took a bit of effort not to fly into motion right then and there. Just let the feelings take me over and go purely on instinct.

  That way leads to mistakes, Joe. You can’t afford mistakes.

  Use your fool brain.

  But when the time is right …

  My stomach rumbled suddenly. I exchanged an embarrassed glance with Tamara who tried very hard not to laugh.

  We both gave up on that, letting the moment over take us.

  It felt good to laugh. Deep, full throated belly laughter. The last two days had been brutal on my self-esteem and confidence. The simple ability to laugh at myself after the suffering I’d let myself wallow in was so refreshing.

  I wiped away at a tear that had formed at my eyes. I know, how lame. My stomach rumbled and I cracked up laughing. Hardly high comedy. But hey, it had been a shitty few days.

  “You gonna stay here?” I asked.

  “For a bit longer. Visiting hours don’t end until almost ten p.m. I think. I’ll head home after that.” Tamara reclaimed her cooling food from the floor and glanced up at me. “Why? What’re you thinking?”

  Loaded question.

  Dammit, Joe. Stay focused.

  “You might want to be near a TV.”

  “Why is that?”

  My head swiveled around on my neck, cracking loudly in the empty stairwell with an echo. “Just keep an eye on the late news. There might be a breaking story.”

  Tamara blinked at me, concern creeping into her expression. She shuffled her tiny feet slightly. Her voice was very small. “No matter what I said you know you don’t really have to do this, right? People get away with horrible things all the time.”

  “Not tonight they don’t.” My voice was filled with a confidence I needed to feel. Eventually this rush would come down. I needed it to come down. I had to be in control. What happened last week with the punks who broke into my van couldn’t happen tonight. If I lost control of myself I could lose control of everything. People could get seriously hurt.

  Especially me.

  Tamara bit her lower lip again. “I … Joe … “

  I smiled.

  Not my usual small, quiet smile. But a full, excited smile. Tamara blinked at me in surprise, seeing the light and energy in my expression.

  God help me but I wanted to do this. I wanted to get off my sorry ass and make people miserable for having stepped on others.
For having stepped on me. For every horrible sacrifice and dream I had ever given up on in my entire life, for every tragedy that I had endured I wanted the chance to finally release some of this pent up angst and aggression.

  And the mere prospect of doing so made me very excited.

  Impulsively I reached out and grabbed Tamara by the shoulders, gently pulled her close and planted a reassuring kiss on the top of her forehead. After that I gave her a confident wink, released her arms and turned to head down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” I replied back over my shoulder. Well, home after I stopped in the hospital food court and grabbed something to silence the ravenous beast within. The Neanderthal roared his approval at that idea.

  Tamara’s voice was skeptical. “Just home?”

  “For starters. I gotta get cleaned up if I’m going out dancing tonight.”

  “Dancing?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And then what?”

  I stopped on the next landing and turned to look back at her. Tamara stood there, wallet and café food in her hands. Eyes wide behind her librarian glasses. I smiled again, showing teeth.

  “Do you know what a ‘cowboy ending’ is?”

  “A cowboy …. What?”

  I turned away, still smiling. “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

  Chapter 45

  One thing Dad used to stress upon me was the need to dress for success.

  In the years since his passing this was a lesson that became less important and less relevant as time went on. I couldn’t really justify getting all fancy to head into work at Canada-Pharm for two bucks over minimum wage and no sick days. Every year that went by I became more and more comfortable in worn jeans, baggy tee shirts and ratty old boots.

  I couldn’t see the point.

  But tonight I needed to make a statement. One that made it clear right from the get go that I was deadly serious and could not be negotiated with.

  It’s the reason why bouncers are encouraged to wear matching uniforms and maintain a clean cut appearance. It adds a level of authority and decorum. It suggests to people on a subconscious level to be more respectful and more gracious. Don’t laugh, it’s true. I’ve worked in a variety of different clubs and every time I’ve worked in places where the owners didn’t care about bouncer uniforms or appearance things were rougher and less controlled.

  So tonight I took Dad’s advice.

  After all, I was looking to make an impression. Though I didn’t think suggesting on a subconscious level would be quite enough.

  Showers are good for more than just cleaning the body. I find showers very grounding and an excellent way to cleanse my mind. Hot water poured over my head and down my back, loosening taught muscles and soothing minor aches and pains that I’d been ignoring for two days. The feel of that water cascading off my flesh, soaking my wild and unkempt hair allowed me a momentary peace. A solace. A calm place to center myself and regain some focus in my life.

  The back of my neck tingled in anticipation.

  I explored the feeling.

  For the last few days I had ignored this sensation. Pushed it aside. Told myself “forget it, it’ll go away." Soon life will return to its normal drudgery and tedium. The events since Keimac put three bullets into my chest were an aberration in an otherwise unremarkable existence. Nothing else will happen that would be considered abnormal outside of these days for the rest of my life. Soon I would be back to normal and nothing would have changed.

  Denial. A favorite crutch.

  But things had changed.

  Situations had become clear to me.

  And someone had to do something about it.

  I snapped off the shower and stepped into the steam filled air of my tiny bathroom. I toweled off as best I could and wiped away the film on my mirror. My reflection stared back at me. Familiar eyes on a new frame that I simply would need a lot more time to get used to. While I doubted I’d ever become an underwear model with rock hard and chiseled abs there was no denying that my previously ponderous gut was becoming a thing of the past. The double chin had dissolved leaving a strong jaw and a grim mouth. The previously thick and rounded muscles in my back and chest had filled out some, giving me the appearance of a CFL linebacker as opposed to a mafia thug from some gangster movie.

  I reached for my razor and shaving cream, spending a good ten minutes trimming up my scraggly beard. Creating a firm line along my jaw and cleaning up the strays high on my cheekbones. My hair brush had seen better days but still managed to untangle the mess that was the curly mop on top of my skull. Straightened out and wet I was just shy of being able to try it back. Definitely time for a trim. Provided I had time for that after tonight.

  Stepping out into the cool basement air I used a second towel to scrub away the rest of the dampness covering my skin and began to dress in the clothes I’d pulled out of my closet. An old pair of black cargo pants complete with a leather belt and big assed buckle. All black dollar store tee shirt that I barely managed to squeeze into anymore. My dusty and well-worn black combat boots I’d picked up from Army Surplus nearly ten years before for nine bucks. I debated going with these over my well-worn steel toes for the extra heft, but the better grip these boots provided made the decision easy.

  Taking a moment to examine the look in my full length mirror I continued to breathe calmly and explore the sensation at the back of my neck. Feeling for the surge and tingle that was ready to flow down my limbs to provide strength and energy.

  My stomach rumbled faintly despite the food I’d crammed into it on the way home from the hospital. The rumbling prompted a vivid flashback to the other night when the nausea and migraine hit me and my empty stomach, completely incapacitating me as Miller and Parise took turns teeing off on my skull and ribcage. Phantom pains made themselves known, reminding me of the consequences I was facing tonight.

  But I’d made my decision.

  Mom was waiting for me when I got upstairs. She’d cleaned up my mess of nachos and empty beer bottles from earlier in the day while I was out. She’d also been silent since I came home. Eerily so.

  I scavenged the refrigerator and threw together a humongous sandwich; salami, cheese, loads of mustard and a huge glass of milk. I took my time to eat. Not quite savoring every bite, but close. My stomach gurgled contentedly as I chewed, a sensation that resonated with the energy tingling at the base of my hairline.

  Mom watched me from the other end of the kitchen. At first there was a tiny part of me that anticipated a scolding. I was leaning against the counter as opposed to sitting down at the table. I had too much energy to sit right now.

  Her gaze was inscrutable. And nerve wracking.

  Or maybe that was just my guilty conscience.

  How do you start the I might not be coming home tonight conversation? Especially when it isn’t because you’re crashing with a girl.

  “You going to be late tonight?” she asked, breaking the silence.