Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1)

by MariaLisa deMora

  He allowed himself one small armload of bricks from a nearby table. Don’t get greedy. With a grin, he threw the clipboard into the van and closed the doors.

  His movements were frantic, and he jittered through the next few seconds, feeling paranoid someone could walk in at any moment, taking all this from him. His drugs, they were an instant way out of the painful evolution of no money for touring, no money for studio, no money for gear. Laid out before him was a way to cut that sequence off, change their luck. I might have been born into trouble, but I’m gonna crawl out of that cesspit with one short drive. Finger on the button to raise the door, he paused, thinking. She opened the door from outside; there’s probably a remote in the van. He knew it was unreasonable, but he couldn’t ditch the thought it would be quieter to use the remote. Quiet is better.

  Crawling into the driver seat, he found a device clipped to the visor. Glancing down, he spotted the keys still in the ignition. Bingo. The door clicked into place behind him. Hands to the wheel, he wrung it a couple of times, feeling like his heart was about to burst from his chest. Hand to the keys, a familiar vibration came to life under his ass as the engine turned over. With a finger to the button on the remote, he held his breath and pressed.

  Sound and lights assailed him, sirens wailed all around, the volume vibrating the seat under him more than the engine. Shit. Loud and piercing, the oougah of the alarm jangled up and down his spine. The door slid up as the bright, rotating lights illuminated the panels. There was a hissing sound and he looked into the outside mirror, seeing a thick mist beginning to gather in the room behind him. Shit. Gearshift jammed down, he stomped on the accelerator and rocketed forward, the top of the van scraping against the overhead as he went, the door not having reached enough height to allow escape.

  Outside, the gate he had avoided on his way in was right there. The length of a football field in front of the van, standing wide open, the road only feet beyond that. There was a rattle from the van’s side door, and he looked in the mirror to see a man with an automatic gun running alongside, hand grasping at the handle. In the distance, more men were flooding towards the warehouse, and Benny saw smoke pouring out through the doorway he’d left open behind him.

  Foot to the floor, Benny bounced in the seat as the van rocked through a series of potholes, each jarring jerk conspiring to keep the man’s hand off the handle. Ping. Something like a stone bounced off the top of the van, but he knew intuitively it wasn’t a rock. Shit.

  The gate loomed, moving, and he saw it was closing, slowly, still ample room to slide the van through. Another ping, and another, and the man stopped running, planted his feet and pointed the gun at the van, mouth open in an impotent scream before turning to face a second flood of men rolling from the other side of the compound. Shit. Van tires sliding sideways as he hit the road, shimmying and shuddering, he whipped the wheel back-and-forth, forcing the vehicle to straighten out as he smashed the accelerator to the floor again. “Your security ain’t worth shit,” he shouted, the words followed by a rash of hysterical laughter.

  ***

  “Jesus, Benny,” Benita breathed, staring into the back of the van from the passenger seat. She could see the dozen bricks lying scattered across the floor, but held the clipboard in her hands; the treasure map.

  “Told you I had this.” He grinned. No pursuit meant he was in the clear. He’d fled to downtown Denver, trailing through the alleyways he knew well, watching for anyone following. Nothing. After several hours, he’d called Benita, told her to ditch the guys and meet him here.

  “And no one questioned the trade? They threw in the van?” she repeated the lie he’d told her and he grinned.

  “Yeap. Easy as pie, just like I said.” He reached for her hand, ignoring how she pulled back. “No sweat.”

  “The news said there was a warehouse fire.” Her face held doubt, but no disappointment. Doubt he could win over, change that expression to pride. Easy as pie.

  “I don’t know about that. Everything was quiet when I drove out. All good.” Liar, liar, building's on fire. “Baby, you see what this does, right? We go to Fort Wayne. I get my brother to unload this through his channels, and we’re rolling. Suites and champagne, take my baby dancing.”

  She smiled, then that disappeared into a frown. “What do we tell the guys?”

  “I worked a deal, got a new van. The Klunkster”—he used the nickname for their band van, so named for the noise their transmission had been making for the last fifty thousand miles—“needed replacing and I worked a deal. I’ll pack these few bricks into the spaces on the paper.” He pointed to the clipboard lying in her lap. “We get to Indiana, unload and then get loaded.” At the grimace on her face, he laughed. “Not like that, baby. Loaded as in moolah.” So far, he had resisted the siren call of oblivion, running on adrenaline alone. He could hold it together for now. Forever.

  “Seems too easy, Benny. You bought drugs from a gang.” Mexican cartel, but he wasn’t one to split hairs. “Can we really do this?”

  “Yeah, we can.” He shook her hand. “Just to make sure we’re clean, I’ll swap the plates. It’s the same model so unless we fuck up, no one will ever know. The ride is cleaner and doesn’t stink, and the guys won’t give two shits which van is driving our asses down the highway. I need you to call that bar in Fort Wayne and get us booked, though. That’s step one. You do your part.” She frowned, and he knew it was at the suggestion she wouldn’t pull her weight. Shit. “I’ll get things tidied away in the back, then load the gear. We can park the Klunkster in a mall lot or something, leave it to be towed and then junked. Everything is going to work out, Benita. Promise.” Lifting her hand to his mouth, he trailed kisses across the backs of her fingers. “Love you, baby.”

  “Yeah?” Her tone had deepened, gained the suggestive note that preceded her taking control of…everything. Shit. She glanced out the front window, and he followed her gaze, for the first time seeing the woman in the van Benita had driven. “How much do you love me, Benny?”

  He stared at the blonde for a long minute. Short hair, curvy cheeks, her mouth moved as she popped her gum, blowing a bubble. Jesus. She can’t be more than eighteen. He couldn’t make it without Benita. She’d told him that a thousand times, and he knew it was true. Without her, he was nothing. “As much as you need me to.”

  Nine

  From where he stood on the small, raised stage, Benny let his gaze sweep what he could see of the bar. Nicer than he’d expected, Marie’s in Fort Wayne had a classic feel to the place, which was surprising considering who owned it. Bikers and elegance. Whoda thunk it. He grinned. Load-in was done, sound check complete; now, time for a little reconnaissance. They’d been in town for a day, and he hadn’t yet laid eyes on Andy, that avoidance only partly by design. From a brief conversation with GeeMa he knew his brother should be here, but he wanted to have a good feel for the lay of the land before they reconnected in the flesh.

  Through the years, he and Andy kept in touch, mostly via phone. Not frequently, but since their conversations were mostly about him fucking up, he didn’t think anyone would blame him for not calling often, and keeping it short when he did. They’d chatted a couple of weeks earlier, an uncommon occurrence, not because they talked, but because it was a real conversation. Benny had worked the band into the conversation, nearly laughing aloud when Andy mentioned a band with the same name was performing soon in his bar. It wasn’t until after they hung up that he realized Andy truly didn’t know Occupy Yourself was his band. Then, instead of seeming funny, it pissed him off. Just one more way for Andy to show how little Benny really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

  Gypsy, the bar manager, stood near the door, wearing the ever-present biker’s leathers, talking to two men who wore the same patched vests. Waiting for the man to finish his conversation, Benny timed his own trip to the bar, meeting him near the cash register. Time for a little info digging.

  Thirty minutes later, he knew more about his brother
than he expected to learn. And every word of it fucked with his plans. Shit.

  Not only wasn’t Andy in a gang, they got offended at the word. Deeply offended, to the point Gypsy suggested Benny clear the band’s gear. That made him backpedal fast, earning him a gruff, “Fuckin’ watch your mouth, punk.”

  The “club,”—in his mind he enclosed the word in air quotes—wasn’t into dealing drugs. What Gypsy said backed up everything Benny had learned yesterday. The Rebel Wayfarers MC was in the middle of a war against a group of drug dealers, trying to get them out of town. It seemed bizarre that a gang—club, he corrected himself—was policing their turf against drugs, and not so they could control the flow of product and money associated with moving and selling the stuff. Not Andy’s guys. Nope. It was all in an effort to keep it at a distance from where they lived. Altruistic bikers.

  Shit.

  He had a stolen van with thousands of dollars in drugs and hadn’t thought much past getting to Fort Wayne. In expectation of a big payday, he’d talked Benita into checking into swank suites at the downtown hotel last night. They’d earned good money on their way here, but three nights of cash upfront for the suites had nearly cleaned out their stash of funds. Shit.

  He made his way backstage to the bar’s joke of a greenroom. Three steps down from the main level, it was a small, concrete enclosure with poured cement benches scarcely padded with cheap cushions meant for patio furniture. Windowless, it seemed more a bunker than anything. I wonder what it was used for before the bar had a need to put musicians somewhere.

  Stewing, he sat and propped his feet on the opposite bench, fingers plucking at the strings of the guitar cradled in his lap. Mindless music flowing, his thoughts turned in a dozen different directions, trying to find a way out of this mess.

  “Benny.” Benita’s voice startled him, and he looked up, suppressing a groan as he moved his legs, knees locked into position from sitting God knew how long. She stood in the opening that led up to the hallway. “Fifteen minutes.” Once sure he’d heard her, she turned and walked away. Shit. He’d sat there for nearly three hours. Stupid, because he hadn’t eaten lunch and had since missed dinner. With a three-hour gig in front of him, he knew he’d be severely flagging by the first break, and totally gassed at the end of the night. At least they didn’t have to tear down; they’d be back in Marie’s the following night.

  He stood and stretched. So little time before the show, where are the guys? Hands over his face, he scrubbed hard, pressing the heels of his hands into the sockets of his eyes, squeezing through the pain. God, I want…something. Benita’s voice came again, this time her tone edged towards annoyed. “Got a visitor, Ben.” Blinking at the two forms filling the opening, he jerked when he recognized Victor Montrose standing next to Benita. Shit.

  He’d totally forgotten he and Danny had finally decided to get rid of Blake. Danny had called Vic, a drummer they’d watched grow in stage presence for several years, but Benny didn’t remember Danny saying the kid was joining them here. From the look on Benita’s face, she might not have known about the call at all.

  Pulling on his performance persona like a second skin, he stepped forwards, reaching up with one hand. “Hey, Vic. Good to see you, man. Wasn’t sure you’d make it.” Time to bluff until he knew enough to steer things. “You talk to Danny today?”

  Vic’s hand closed around his, callused fingers rasping roughly across Benny’s own. With a shake of his head, he offered, “Hey, Ben. Last talked to him two days ago, before I climbed on a bus. We still on for tomorrow night?” That meant Danny had talked to him right before they got into town, probably at the diner in South Bend after their show there. Tonight would be Blake’s last performance with OY, and he expected Danny planned it that way so their volatile drummer would be exhausted and less likely to explode when they told him.

  Benita cleared her throat, looking to her left and Ben heard a shouted, “What the fuck?”

  Head tipping backwards, he stared up at the ceiling. Fuck. Seemed Blake would be learning about his replacement now, instead of after the show. “Get Danny,” he told Benita, who was already pulling her phone from her back pocket.

  “Montrose? What the fuck you doin’ here? Saw a kit being carried in, wasn’t mine. Figured these assholes were pulling something.” Blake was still out of sight, but Vic had turned to look up the hall past where Benny could see. Mouth shut, Vic stared, and Benny had no doubt Blake was putting on a show.

  Time to enter the fray, he thought, hearing Benita talking to Danny on her phone. Two steps up, he leaned out of the opening, putting himself between Blake and Vic. Two more steps and he stood in the way as Blake tried to push past him, two—barely, but please, God, let them be legal—girls standing behind him. Shit. With an audience to impress, their drummer would be even more of a blowhard.

  “Vic,” Benny said without turning around, “hit the door behind you. Take Benita with you, yeah?” She didn’t need to deal with Blake, and the less Vic saw and heard the better. He stiff-armed Blake back two steps, following and quickly shoving him again. The door behind him thudded shut, and he stopped, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Not how we wanted you to find out, Blake.” The man’s eyes were jerking side-to-side, trying to map a route around Benny to get to the man he thought was the problem here, the source of his embarrassment. “Vic doesn’t know anything. We wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Private arguments were best kept that way because bands talked. Groupies talked. Sound engineers, guitar techs, tour managers, merch booth gals—everyone talked. Gossip ran rampant in the community, and Benny had never seen a group of people as ready to be happy about another person’s misery. Breakups, letdowns, heartbreaks—all fodder for the gossip gristmill.

  “Been comin’ a while, Blake. You know it.” Benny shook his head. “We’ve stood together for a long time, but this is the parting of ways. Last show.”

  “You can’t fucking do this to me.” Blake started with bluster, but he knew the score and Benny could see it in his eyes. “You can’t replace me like this. No warning. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “You’ll get what’s coming to you,” Benny promised, not having one fucking idea how it would happen since they were nearly broke. “It’s time to move on, Blake.”

  The door behind him opened, and he heard Danny telling the pair outside, “Why don’t you both head to the hotel. Get Vic checked in, baby.” The door closed, and Blake’s eyes cut over Benny’s shoulder. “Been a good run, Blake.” Benny stepped to one side, letting Danny move beside him, the two of them filling the hallway side-to-side. “We’d like to go out on top, having a good show tonight. Can you do that with us? Can you play tonight? Hold it together and be professional for one fucking time in your life?” Blake opened his mouth, and Danny talked over him. “Don’t fucking give me shit, man. You knew if you jacked your shit one more time, you were out.” Leaning in, he hissed, “South Bend.” Blake’s face went white, and Ben turned to look at Danny, wondering what the fuck that was about.

  Whatever it was, those words were enough for Blake to back down entirely, all his bluster deflating and the next two minutes were him saving face and pretending to be gracious. Retreating towards the stage where Benny could hear Dmitri warming up, Blake walked away without Danny or Ben having to say another word.

  “What the fuck happened in South Bend?”

  “Same shit, different day.” That familiar refrain was all Danny said before walking away, stalking up the hallway after Blake.

  “Shit.” I’m awake now, he thought. Nothing like a little drama to get the blood flowing. He was edging towards anxiety, with thoughts of the product in the van slipping through his head. Just a taste. He shook if off, wishing he could turn back the clock. Hat in place, shades on his face, he stretched tall before grabbing his guitar and slinging it over his shoulder.

  Heading up the hallway after Danny, he glimpsed a figure walking through the door to the bar and even without seeing him f
or years, knew who it was. “Andy,” he called as the door closed and then watched with disappointment as it stayed that way. He was thinking, Well, shit, maybe I was wrong—then the door moved, and his brother stuck his head back through the opening, a searching look on his face.

  “Hey, man. Are you with the band?” Andy’s question took him by surprise. There was a casual curiosity, but no recognition. Andy seemed to have absolutely no idea it was him.

  And that, my friends, is how little I count in the lives of those I love.

  Fighting back tears, he tipped his chin to one side and slapped Andy’s shoulder as he moved past him. Footsteps paced him, and he kept his face averted, not wanting his brother to see the hurt rolling through him. Shocked, he listened to Andy’s next words, a request that bordered on him playing a game with Ben. “My little brother is a big fan. Is there any way I could get you to sign something for him?”

  Ben came to a standstill and turned, automatically reaching for the autograph material offered, then he stopped and lifted his hand to pull off his sunglasses. Waiting for the joke to end, for Andy to give him a “gotcha,” instead, he saw a shocked disbelief. Fuck, he honestly didn’t know it was me.

  Arms enveloped him, and a fist pounded his back as Andy held him tightly. “Baby brother, what the hell are you doing in Fort Wayne? Ben...Benny, oh man, it’s good to see you, shrimp. God, it’s good to see you. How long have you been here?” Words gushed from the man, and Ben grinned to hear his childhood nickname mixed into the flow.

  Ben laughed, returning the embrace, finding himself near tears for a second time that night, this one due to joy. “Andy, I’ve missed you.” He pulled back, staring into his brother’s face, seeing age and a hardness he didn’t recognize, lines etched in the corners of his eyes and a set to his jaw which said you didn’t fuck with this man. Glancing down at the leather vest his brother wore, he saw something that startled him. Even Gypsy hadn’t said who the gang’s leader was. “You’re a fucking president, man? That’s hardcore.” Jesus, if I sold the stuff here, I’d be placing myself against my own brother. Shit.