He shook me off his arm and took out a tiny pot pipe and a bag of weed from the pocket of his slacks. I groaned and scooted to the other end of the couch. He ignored me as he started crumbling the pot into the bowl.
"Brad," I said, my voice meek. "You know I don't... I mean..." I sighed in frustration. He didn't even look at me. "You know I used to have a drug problem, hun, it's not good for me to—"
"You don't have to smoke any," he said, tossing me the barest glance before he put the pipe to his lips, the lighter to the weed, and inhaled deeply. I shut my eyes tight as the familiar aroma of dank weed invaded all my senses. Fuck! FUCK! I thought it had been such a hard day, such a long week. Grad school was brutal and I was tired and as a recovering addict, there was just nothing worse than being forced to tolerate someone else's drug use. I used to love weed. Back then I used to be so troubled by anxiety and weed used to just make it all go away. But it also made my eating disorder much worse, and once the weed stopped working for me, I had turned to other drugs - harder drugs. I shook my head as the sweet, pungent fragrance assailed me, bringing back memories and impulses as well as all kinds of horrible feelings. Without a word, I got up off the couch and went into my bedroom. I lay down on the bed and curled up into a tight little ball, breathing deep through my nose, trying to just... ride it out. I was shaking with the desire to use. It would be so easy to go out there and take the pipe from him and get high off my ass. My god… and then I could have an epic binge session followed by an epic purge and probably wake up on the bathroom floor with the taste of vomit and chocolate in my mouth.
Yeah, no. On second thought, probably not the best way to spend my evening. I sighed and fished the phone out of my pocket, sending Nina a text: What are you up to? Brad is getting high at my place again. So triggering.
I lay my phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling when my phone started to vibrate. Nina was calling me and I sighed in relief. I had never been more grateful for a phone call in my life.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey, honey," Nina said, her voice so warm. I couldn't wait to see her over spring break. "Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess... I mean, I'm not high, so how bad can things be?" I said with a grim laugh.
"That's good, I like you better when you're not high."
"I like me better not-high, too," I said. "How's your night going?"
"Not bad, actually, just finishing up some—"
"Is that your lesbo friend on the phone?" Brad came lumbering into the room, his eyes bloodshot and clothes reeking of pot.
"Hey Nina, I should go—"
Brad snatched the phone away from me and I sat up, gaping at him. He'd never done anything like that before. I had also never seen him this high. A bolt of fear ran through me. He climbed onto the bed and started kissing me. All teeth. Ugh. I kissed back, because the alternative was to get into a fight with him, and I was far too tired to fight anything or anyone else that day.
I relaxed a little as I felt his hands on my waist, slipping under my shirt, pulling at the waistband of my jeans. He didn't even have to unbutton them to get them off. He popped a button off my blouse as he took my shirt off. Timidly, I started to undress him, and he let me. I sighed, running my hands over his lightly-tanned skin and his big muscles. At least he was hot. Brad was vain as hell. His body was absolutely godlike. He was sculpted, waxed, bronzed, and buffed to perfection. I felt a flare of desire between my legs as I ran my hands over his pecs, sliding my fingers down to his washboard abs, to that triangular flat space right above his pubic region. I gave a little moan as I touched the waxed skin above the base of his dick. He grunted and slid his pants off. Without a warning, without another second's foreplay, he shoved himself inside me.
I whimpered, because I wasn't even properly wet yet, and he didn't use lube, so it kind of hurt. Whatever pleasure I had been feeling quickly evaporated. He spent a few minutes thrusting in and out of me before pulling out, his dick going limp.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "You didn't cum, did you?"
"Nuh-uh." He lay down beside me, looking sleepy.
"Wha... but... but why not?" I felt like it was somehow my fault, even though I had read that marijuana can interfere with sexual function.
"You're kinda bloated from all the pizza, I'm just not feeling it," he mumbled, rolling over and turning his back on me.
Words could never express the kind of pain I felt when he said that. My heart dropped out of my chest, tears welling up in my eyes. I sat up, mostly naked, and hugged my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible, silent tears spilling freely down my face. I couldn't decide who I hated more, myself or him. In that moment, however, I wished for both of us to be dead. In fact, I think part of me did start to die that night. Only later on, looking back, would I know which part that was.
The part that cared about Brad.
CHAPTER TWO
Ty
There I was, minding my own business, polishing a rack of glasses at the bar, when a beer bottle exploded against the wall beside my head.
I set the glass down with a thump, glaring around for the culprit.
As it turned out, the bottle was not meant to hit me; it was a stray from a tangle of four guys who were about to embark on an epic brawl.
"God dammit," I grumbled, rolling up the sleeves of myleather jacket. I wore motorcycle boots too because, well, I rode motorcycles, but also because they were great for stomping. They had steel toes and made lots of noise on the wooden barroom floor as I approached the fight.
All four guys were taller than me, but as soon as I grabbed one shoulder, the commotion ground to a halt. I snarled up at all of them, baring my teeth, "You fucks better cut that shit out, you don't fight in the Den. You just don't.Not on my property." I flashed them a smirk and patted my chest, where everyone knew I carried my favorite weapon: a knife. "You know what happens when you piss off theCanis Grandis. Now get the fuck outta here."
It had taken me nine years of incessant fighting, nine years of bloodshed and turmoil, but eventually, people learned that arguing with me wasn’t a good idea. They knew I meant what I said. All four guys dispersed, downing the last of their drinks. Donning their jackets, they scrambled out of the bar, mumbling under their breath. I straightened myself out, rolled my sleeves back down, and went back behind the bar.
"Jesus. You'd think they’re animals, not just named after 'em," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes.
"I know, right? It's like they're a bunch of hardened criminals or something," snarked Charlie, my right-hand man. "Why are you even here, boss? We can take care of the Den."
"Yeah, I know. I've got a deal with some guy later. Apparently, he's a total tool, and Manley thinks he'll buy this counterfeit Flathead off us for authentic price." I smirked to myself. "If he does, that'll be very good for us. We're talkin' thirty or forty grand, cash."
"Holy shit. He's not a gangster?"
"Nope. Just some rich moron. But Manley's already told him that there can't be a paper trail or whatever."
"Ah."
"I need the cash," I said.
"Don’t we all," Charlie agreed. "It sounds a little sketchy though, boss..."
"It'll be fine, this is what we do. I won't even be there for most of the deal. I’ll probably just hand off the bike. But, you know, the guys feel better if I'm around."
"Sure, boss. Nobody fucks with you."
"Damn right." The last person to fuck with me had their thumb ripped off with a pair of pliers. "You finish with these glasses, I gotta do some paperwork in the back."
"I can take care of the paper—" Charlie started to say, but all I had to do was look at him and he backed off. "Okay, alright. The office is all yours." Charlie waved a hand at me and shook his head, grabbing the dish rag.
I went back into the office, locking the door behind me. It was about seven in the evening, so there weren't many people around just yet. It wouldn't really be hoppin' until midnight, and then we'd most likely go until
dawn. Before that ensued, however, I had a very important phone call to make, and I couldn't have anyone eavesdropping. I took out my phone and scrolled through the contacts, selecting Barbara. I felt bad having her in my phone as her first name, but I was also a notorious crime boss. Couldn’t have it any other way.
And I couldn't have people knowing that my mom was my best friend.
"Hi, Ma," I said when she picked up.
"Hi, honey," Her voice made me feel calm, most of the time, but occasionally I had these waves of guilt, on account of my keeping so much of my life a secret from her. "How's your day going?" she asked.
"No complaints so far, but the night is young," I laughed, "You never know what's going to happen at a bar. Plenty of time for shi— er, stuff— to go haywire."
"I worry about you managing that place," she said. Of course, Ma had no idea that I was a criminal. I mean, I'm sure she had her suspicions that I did more than just manage a dive bar, but she no real reason to believe otherwise and I meant to keep it that way. My two lives were completely separate. Well, pretty much. My kid brother Justin knew more than she did, but still, not everything.
"I know, Ma. Once I've got enough money saved up, I'll invest in a nice, wholesome family diner," I said, unsure whether I was joking or not. "Speaking of a diner, did you guys eat?"
"Yes, I made pork chops and salad. I had Justin help with the salad dressing," she laughed.
"Good, good... how's he doing today?"
"Oh, he's all right," she sighed. "Had a doctor's appointment today. The fracture still hasn't healed properly, he keeps knocking his arm into things."
I pressed my lips together hard. Ma didn't like me cussing, but I was so sick of having to hear about Justin's problems - not because I didn't care, but because I felt responsible for him, and getting him treatment was expensive. Every time I thought I was getting ahead financially, the poor kid would need something else. But I didn't blame him for it at all, I swear to God. I just felt bad for the kid. His life was so hard, having to put up with so much pain and being disabled. I wanted to cuss, not because I was angry but because I felt powerless. I felt guilty that we couldn't always afford his treatments. The insurance only covered so much, but he needed surgery and that wasn’t cheap. I gritted my teeth in frustration. If the deal with the rich idiot and the counterfeit bike went down tonight, then we could schedule Justin's surgery the next day. We had such a long history of missed payments and delinquent accounts that the hospital wouldn't do any "non-essential" treatments unless we could pay upfront. Apparently, treating my kid brother's broken arm was a "non-essential" procedure. Thinking about it made me want to stab someone - in fact, I thought, I just might stab someone tonight, just to remind those bastards who’s the boss.
"Don't worry, Ma, we'll get it taken care of," I told her. "Just another week or so of collecting tips and everything, and we'll have enough for his surgery. Hang in there." The usual, daily pep-talk. I knew she needed it. Looking after Justin wasn’t easy to begin with and it only got worse when he had some extra physical problem going on. "You're doing great, you know that? You're my hero."
"Oh, Ty," she said. I could hear the tears in her voice. My heart clenched and I tried to think of something to change the subject. I couldn't stand to hear my Ma cry.
"Hey— hey. How's that guy you've been seein', huh? We never got to talk about your date, how'd it go?"
"Oh, my," she sighed. There was a flutter in her voice that put a huge, shit-eating grin on my face. "He's quite a man, Albert is. He's very active, you know, he plays tennis. And he goes to the Y all the time. And he's got great hair—"
"So you think he's hot?" I teased. " That's great, Ma, but is he nice to you?"
"Oh, Ty," she sighed dreamily, "I've never met a man who was so nice to me. Not just nice. Kind. Gentle. A gentleman, a true gentleman. I was going to ask you if you can watch Justin tomorrow night, I'd like to go out with him again...?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course, Ma." I had gangster shit scheduled for tomorrow night, but I'd be damned if I let that stop my Ma from going on a date. She hadn't been on a date in, like, a thousand years. And she sounded so excited. "Tell Albert he can pick you up, uh... anytime after six. Yeah. I'll be home by six for sure."
"A date," she crooned, "I can't believe I'm going on datesagain. After yourfather left, I swore I would never even look at another man twice, but..."
"That was a long time ago Ma, it’s good that you’re movin’ on. Hey, I gotta go. I'll see you later. I'll be home early in the morning."
"Good, I have a hair appointment as soon as the salon opens, so don't be late."
"Sure, Ma. Love you."
"I love you too, Ty. Take care of yourself."
"Yeah."
"Make sure you get a good meal tonight."
"Will do, Ma."
"All right, goodnight baby."
"Night."
I hung up the phone and stared at the Call ended notification, blinking at me. I took a moment to reflect on my life, to think about how much I loved and cared for my mom and brother. To think that if it weren't for them, I would probably be strung out on meth or in prison by now. No matter how wild things got on the streets, it kept me sane to know that when I went back to the little white house on the corner in Southeast, my mom would be there to give me a hug and a kiss and offer to feed me, and Justin would always be there to bust my balls, and be my confidante. I took a few moments to be soft, to feel human and then I erased the call from my call history and put the usual, stone-cold grimace back on my face.
It was time to go back to work.
***
The bar was packed for a Thursday. By midnight, there was hardly any room to move. A haze of cigarette and pot smoke clouded the air, mingling with the stench of spilled, cheap beer and sweaty dudes in leather jackets who refused to take them off no matter how hot it got. After all, it was a part of their image. Funny how women always got stereotyped as vain, but I knew that men were just as concerned about appearances - they just didn't talk about it as much. Women were supposed to look neat, pretty and put-together; biker dudes put just as much effort into looking all rough-and-tumble and mean.
I was pouring drinks like a madman to keep up with the crowd when, from the raised bar at the back of the room, I noticed a couple entering. I knew that was my mark, and for whatever fucking reason, he'd brought his girlfriend. A surge of anger jolted through my body. The guy was tall and looked pretty muscular. He was probably a gym rat, which, however, meant that he’d be hopeless in a bar brawl around here. He wore the dorkiest polo shirt and cardigan I had ever seen, paired up with slacks that were way too tight. I hated him already just because of the way he looked, but his girl… Oh, man.
The girl was tiny. She flinched as they walked past a noisy group of guys who all burst out laughing at a joke most likely made at her boyfriend's expense. She was short, and very thin, with huge brown eyes in the middle of a pale, pretty face, and she had shiny, straight, jet-black hair. Part of me wanted to shove my way through the crowd just to throw her out since the guys were already staring at her like the hungry wolves they were, and she just looked so damn vulnerable. Not to mention the guy she was with wasn't paying any attention to her.
"Boss?"
"Huh?"
"You just poured a whole glass of triple sec," Charlie said. Actually, he yelled; he had since the place was so damn loud. I looked down at the puddle of syrupy liquor all around the cocktail glass.
"Fuckin'..."
"You were lookin' at that guy?"
"Yeah. I'd bet my left nut that's the guy for the Flathead. I told the guys to start at forty-five grand and let him haggle, but I wouldn't be surprised if he just pays up the forty-five. Jesus. How fucking clueless can you get, showing up to a biker bar looking like that?" I was talking shit about the guy, but my eyes were glued to his girlfriend. She was wearing a white blouse and pale pink pants.
"Tell me about it," Charlie said. "Should I go tell 'em to mee
t us out back?"
"Nah, let 'em stumble around a little. Get him off his guard."
"Heh."
Wishful thinking on my part.
I knew as well as any other venue owner that a tight crowd can be dangerous, especially in closed quarters. It could be like a brush fire if you weren't careful. I wouldn't hesitate to seriously fuck someone up if it meant preventing a brawl involving the entire bar because it was easier to get between two or three guys and suffer a stray punch than having to fix up the whole place the next day.
I should've known better than to underestimate the power of a rich asshole in the middle of a bunch of drunk white trash.
The animosity toward him was palpable almost as soon as they walked in, and grew the moment they started walking around. The preppy guy was quiet at first as he sized the situation up, but then, he started talking shit about us. Apparently, he didn't know that you don't go on a gang's turf by yourself and start talking shit, but it was no surprise that he was clueless. My guys started talking back. I dismissed it as harmless braggadocio because this pansy-ass wasn't really gonna start anything, right?
Wrong.
I don't know what he said, but he said it to the angriest, drunkest guy in the bar. They exchanged a few shouted insults when suddenly, the rich fucker shoved my guy.
The whole bar went silent. Countless pairs of eyes were trained on the two of them as the moment stretched out, like a bungee cord, tighter and tighter, then:
Snap.
Have you ever been hit by a renegade bungee cord? It was the human equivalent of that.
Trust Me: A Bad Boy MC Romance Page 2
