by Hart, Lane
“Yeah, got it,” I agree. “Take possessions, bust heads, repeat until we collect the full amount owed.”
Being an enforcer isn’t an easy job. But if we want the MC to be more than a hangout, and we’re going to stay in the gambling business, we need to collect debts and make it successful.
Chapter Seven
Jetta
* * *
I’ve been to every restaurant and grocery store within a twenty-mile radius, since that’s the only work experience I have, but no one is hiring! Apparently, they brought on all the summer help they needed back in May! I am starting to feel royally screwed and will be homeless soon if I don’t find somewhere to work fast.
It’s hot as fuck even with the air conditioning in my car cranked up as far as it will go, and I’m on my way back to Sean’s place when I spot “help wanted” written up high on a marquee. I put on my turn signal and go back, not even caring what business it is since a paycheck is a paycheck.
But then, when I stop my car in the parking lot where safari animals are spouting water, I have second thoughts.
It’s a water park. Not a huge one, but there’s the animal section for little kids, a lazy river tube ride that winds around a couple of big slides, and then a wave pool that is slam packed with people.
Sucking up my pride, I get out of my car in my suffocating black skirt suit and head for the ticket booth with a copy of my resume even though I have no experience pertaining to a water park.
“Can I help you?” the teenage boy asks me through the glass after I wait in line sweating bullets for ten minutes. He lifts his eyebrows in disapproval as he takes in my attire.
“I was hoping to speak to someone in management about the position you’re hiring for.”
“Just a sec,” he tells me before he picks up a landline phone and speaks to someone on it. “Leslie will be right out,” he says when he hangs up the phone.
“Thanks.”
I step over to the side so I’m no longer holding up the line; and a few minutes later, a woman in a white polo with the waterpark’s logo on the chest and a pair of khaki shorts comes up to me with a clipboard.
“Are you here about the job?” she asks.
I start to respond with something smart like, No, I prefer to swim in a suit, but refrain.
“Yes, I am.”
“Great! Come on back to my office and we’ll talk about the positions we have available.”
“Awesome, thanks,” I agree as I follow her into the air-conditioned building while trying to subtly dab away the sweat from my upper lip and brow. She said positions, plural, which is awesome.
It’s a small interior with just a girl sitting at the front desk chomping on gum and filing her nails followed by a divider wall and another desk with one plain metal chair on the opposite side. At least it’s cool thanks to a window air conditioner unit.
“Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “And here’s a copy of my resume even though I only have experience in the food industry.”
“Can you swim?” Leslie asks when she takes a seat and I lower myself into the metal chair that squeaks loudly.
“Ah, yes, I can swim pretty well.”
“The water is only five feet in the deepest part,” she explains. “So it doesn’t take an Olympic gold medalist.”
“So the position you’re looking to fill is for a lifeguard?” I ask with a fake smile. Any job where my pasty ass has to wear a swimsuit and stay out in the scorching hot sun all day is a nightmare come true.
“We need a lifeguard, and we also need someone to wear the mascot uniform and twirl a sign out front.”
“What’s your mascot?” I ask.
“A shark,” she says, swiveling her rolling chair around to pick up an enormous, bright blue, grinning shark costume from behind her.
“Which position pays more?” I ask.
“The mascot pays twenty an hour.”
Holy shit that’s good money.
“But when the temperature is above ninety, we can only let employees wear it for one hour at a time with a two-hour rest break in between.”
“Oh.”
“The lifeguard position pays fifteen dollars an hour and works eight hours a day from ten a.m. to six p.m. every day Monday through Sunday unless we’re closed due to thunderstorms.”
“That sounds perfect,” I tell her.
“Great! So I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork today, and then we’ll give you a trial run tomorrow morning before the park opens to make sure you can swim. If you can, you’ll spend the rest of the day reviewing our training videos and then get certified in CPR over at the hospital. Of course you’ll be paid for the training hours too.”
“That’s great, thank you,” I reply.
“Now, what size do you wear?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“Your size? For the company swimsuit? We have them in small, medium, large or extra-large.”
“Oh, right. I guess I would be a medium.”
“I’ll go grab that while you start filling out the application and tax forms,” she says, handing over the clipboard with a stack of documents and a pen attached.
A few minutes later, when she brings back a tiny, red sports bra with “GUARD” across the boobs, and tiny red bikini bottoms, I can’t help but ask, “That’s the uniform? For a family water park?”
“Usually it’s the dad who pays for the family to come to the park, and our studies have shown that dads are more likely to buy season tickets if we have female lifeguards in bikinis. Sorry,” she adds with a cringe.
“That’s…fine,” I tell her even though I’m already dreading having to put on the skimpy uniform and wear it in public.
Still, it’ll be worth the cash I earn and it’s only for the summer. Hopefully within a few weeks I’ll find a better job for the long term.
That afternoon when I get home, the first thing I do is try on the bikini. And, wow, it’s even smaller when it’s on my body. I should’ve asked for a large or an extra-large for more coverage. But then I probably would’ve ended up with a saggy ass in the bottoms.
Spinning around, I look over my shoulder to see how my butt looks in the red bottoms, and it’s not bad. But my purple hair? It clashes so hard with the red that I look like a punk rock girl who lost a bet.
Guess it’s time for a new hairstyle, one to match the job I have, not the job I want.
If I could have any career in the world, I would be a hair stylist, but I’ve never had the time or money to afford to go to cosmetology school. Instead, I practice on myself and used to cut and color for my friends back in Wilmington.
I’m still debating hair color choices in front of the bathroom mirror when I hear the front door open.
“Hey, Sean! Guess what?” I yell out as I hurry out of the bathroom to tell him the good news.
“Why do you look like a Baywatch reject?” he asks from where he’s standing in front of the open fridge, guzzling orange juice straight from the carton. God, some of his habits are so gross. I’ve been avoiding the milk, and now I guess I won’t be drinking any more orange juice either. I would bitch, but it’s his apartment and he paid for the groceries this week.
“This is my new work uniform,” I reply with my hands on my hips.
“You’re going to be a lifeguard? But you hate water. And the sun.”
“Sure I do, but the pay is decent, and I start tomorrow, so I should definitely have your rent money before it’s due.”
“Good,” he says as he goes back to drinking from the carton. “You can work on your tan while you’re at it. Your paleness is blinding me, Jetta.”
“I just haven’t had a chance to see the sun in a while because I’ve been working. I got a little sun at the concert.”
“Your arms were bright red for a day and then it went in.”
“True, but I’m just one more sunburn away from tanner skin,” I say even though I know I’m full of shit. My skin is white or red
with no in between. I turn to head back to the bathroom to change when I finally notice that the flat screen in the living room is missing, leaving behind a big empty space on the entertainment center. “Sean, where’s your television?” I ask him.
“I had to sell it to pay some bills,” he remarks with his back to me.
“You sold your TV?” I say in surprise. “When?”
“Shit happens, Jetta!” he suddenly turns around and shouts at me, his face turning red with anger like a switch was suddenly flipped. “And it’s not like you had a job and could help out!”
“Well, I do now!” I reply. “And don’t worry. As soon as I save up enough money, I’ll find my own place,” I huff before I go back to the bathroom and slam the door to change.
Sometimes Sean can be a sweet brother, and other times he is a complete jerk. I never know which personality I’ll get from my brother, but I can’t stay pissed at him because he was nice enough to give me a place to stay.
Chapter Eight
Devlin
* * *
Life settles back into my normal grind over the next few weeks, though my purple-haired goddess is never far from my thoughts. I work long days for a construction crew, but in my free time, which isn’t often, I try to find anything I can about her online. At night, I hang around my apartment alone, letting my mind wander back to the night we spent together. I swear, memories of the concert with Jetta might be the greatest of my entire life. Well, minus the occasional cringe I get when I remember a certain rock star who likes to intrude into my fantasies.
Every night after work, Fiasco and I head out together on our collection runs for the club. If we get back early enough, we might go out with the gambling boat to help provide security or just to drink and play cards with our boys. Most nights, though, I’m too worn out and tired to enjoy myself. After I turn over the money we collect to Malcolm, I just head home to shower and go to bed.
I tell myself it’s just heat and exhaustion, but deep down I know the truth. Every night my dreams are filled with music and the sights, smells, and feelings of one stunningly beautiful woman. A woman who, as the weeks drag on, I decide I absolutely have to figure out how to see again.
Jetta
Working at the waterpark turns out to be duller than even I had anticipated. Once my training is complete and I’m assigned to my lifeguard station to sit and stare my days away, I realize that all of my down time leaves me way too much time for self-reflection.
I don’t regret what happened with Devlin and Rob Lawrence. In fact, every time my thoughts turn back to that night, I get a pleasant tingle throughout my body. Unfortunately, that pleasant sensation is usually doused by the staring eyes of one of the many middle-aged creeps in the park who spend more time leering at me than watching their own families. After extracting myself from a conversation with one such unpleasant park-goer who insisted I personally show him the way to the bathroom, I run to the employee’s only lounge for my break to make a phone call.
“Jetta!” my best friend Carla answers the phone almost gleefully. “What are you doing calling me in the middle of the day?”
“Hey, girl!” I reply. “I just needed to hear a friendly voice. I’m taking a break over here at the park and wanted to see when we can get together.”
“It’s got to be soon!” Carla exclaims. “I want to hear more about your hot night with Rob Lawrence! I’m still so excited you got to hang out with him. I bet he’s ruined every other guy for you. Speaking of which, how is that going? You meet anybody yet working at that park? Dressing in that suit you showed me every day is bound to turn some heads.”
“Yeah, it’s getting attention, but not the kind I want,” I sigh. “Rob Lawrence was fucking amazing, but to tell you the truth, I would rather see that guy, Devlin. Now, I sort of wish I had thought to get his number.”
“Well, nobody can blame you for being a little dazed and confused after the night you had,” Carla sympathizes. “Look, you know my motto, ‘If it’s meant to be, it will be.’ Who knows, he might even be a fan of waterparks and come shooting down your slide one day!”
“Shooting down my slide?” I snort and giggle at the double entendre.
“Girl, yes, you know what I’m talking about,” Carla laughs back. “Now, look, I’m in traffic and I got to pay attention to this road for a bit. Let me call you tonight, and we’ll try to make a plan to get together soon.”
“Sounds good. Talk to you later,” I reply.
“Love you, girl,” Carla adds before she hangs up.
“If it’s meant to be….” I trail off with a sigh. She’s right, though. The only thing certain for the next few days is boredom and sunburn, both of which I’m going to have in spades.
Chapter Nine
Devlin
* * *
“No!” Fiasco groans. “If I have to listen to that fucking “Love in the Fast Lane” song again, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind!” He reaches for the truck’s volume and turns it all the way off.
“Fine. I’ll find something else to play after this next stop,” I promise him. I have to let that damn song go, along with the girl who I’m never going to see again.
“How many more house visits this week?” he asks.
“Three down, seventeen more to go,” I mutter as I look down at Malcolm’s spreadsheet on my phone. It’s constantly being updated to show who owes the Dirty Aces money and exactly how much.
Fiasco and I have been at this for three weeks now in our free time, which is usually in the late afternoons after we work our asses off doing roofing jobs under the broiling July sun. It’s not the best way to spend the summer nights. I would much rather be lounging by a pool or in bed with a certain purple-haired girl, but duty calls and Jetta is long gone from my life. It’s time to focus on work and MC business instead of wasting time daydreaming.
And who would’ve thought that Fiasco would have had the brilliant idea of us starting each week with those individuals who owe the most to the Aces and working our way down to the smaller debts.
“Make a left here and then turn right into the apartment complex,” I say, since I’m in charge of providing turn-by-turn directions to each address. Fiasco is driving us around in his bright yellow 1973 Volkswagen Thing, which looks like the result of a Jeep Wrangler banging a Hummer — a big, ugly ass baby.
And what does the genius do after I tell him to turn right? He turns left into a housing development.
“Jesus, man! Are we going to have to tattoo left and right on your knuckles to help you remember your directions? This is left! We were supposed to go right where there are apartments!”
“Oops. My bad,” Fiasco says with a chuckle before he pulls into a driveway to turn around.
“I should’ve been the one to drive,” I mutter.
“Oh, calm your tits. We’re here,” Fiasco says. “It only took, like, one more minute. Are you really in that big of a hurry to threaten more of these poor, unfortunate souls?” he asks me, his voice thick with mock sympathy.
“These are not innocent people,” I remind him. “Mr. James here kept on running up his gambling debts knowing it had to be paid back eventually. These people can’t just expect us to write their shit off. We have a business to run!”
“Right. We gotta do what we gotta do,” Fiasco mutters. “Which apartment again?” he asks, and I have to check the document with names, addresses and amounts owed because I can’t remember. All of these enforcement confrontations are running together into one big blur of stealing shit and punching assholes who give us lip or don’t give us cash.
“It’s apartment 2D, over on the left,” I say, pointing out the direction with my finger so he doesn’t go the wrong way again.
“Oh, yeah. Now I remember,” Fiasco says. “James still owes us four grand.”
I consult my notes and see that Sean, last name James, does in fact owe four thousand dollars, down from forty-five hundred after we took his giant flat screen last week and pawned it
for five hundred in cash. “Yeah, rain man. How did you remember that?”
“Because I really wanted to hit this asshole last week but couldn’t because it was a possession only day.”
Chuckling, I shake my head and ask, “Why did you want to hit him last week?”
“He lied to us and said he got hurt at work and that’s why he didn’t have the money, so we had to take his television.”
“How do you know he was lying?” I ask.
“Because he’s a painter and he smelled like fresh paint. There was white paint on his forehead too, so even if he got hurt at work, he was still working earlier that day.”
“Jesus. Watch out, MacGyver,” I mutter, surprised he noticed all of that when I clearly missed it.
“Mac who?” Fiasco asks.
“Nobody. Come on, let’s go see what his excuse is today,” I say when he kills the engine and we climb out of the car. I only take two steps toward the apartment stairs before I have an idea. “You go to the door and I’ll go to the back in case he tries to run.”
“Good thinking,” Fiasco agrees as I slip around to the back of the building. Sure, James’ apartment is on the second floor, but it’s not that far down. From the backyard, I can hear Fiasco knocking hard on the door since the stairs and hallways are open, only partially enclosed with an awning.
“Open up, James! We know you’re home. Your truck is in the parking lot,” I hear Fiasco say. I have no idea if that’s true, I didn’t even think to look for his vehicle.
About that time, one of the back windows lifts up and then one leg is hanging out, followed by the other before he finally drops down to the dirt. He sprawls out almost at my feet, landing gracelessly on his hands and knees.
“Hello, Mr. James,” I say as he staggers to his feet.
“Fuck,” he mutters when he finally snaps his head around in my direction and sees me.
