by Leigh, Mara
“If you don’t mind?” I said.
“Mind what?”
I lifted my chin to prove Jade Cuoco was not easily intimidated. “I’ve got mace. Don’t make me use it.” I didn’t have mace, or a weapon of any kind, unless you counted my cast-iron frying pan, currently buried in a box, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Wow.” He stepped back, lifting his hands. “Just trying to be friendly.”
“What makes you think I’d befriend a gorilla?”
His jaw tightened.
Good. I’d found the right button to push. Even though he was a few feet away, I felt boxed in.
He was so big—like his body might not fit through the door once it was opened—but under his jeans and black T-shirt, I couldn’t detect an ounce of fat. The man was a wall of muscle, and that wall had planted itself so close to me I was finding it hard to breathe.
“Get the fuck away from my door.”
“Wow.” He shook his head. “Just wow.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m really tired. Your intimidation thing might work on most people, but my security deposit and rent are paid in full”—so I’d been told—“and you can’t extort me into paying more. Whatever your game is, give it up. And stop lurking!”
“Lurking?” He shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? I live here.” He pointed to the door not three feet from my own. “Standing in the hall outside my apartment is not lurking. I have as much of a right to be here as you.”
He had a point, but that didn’t make me less uncomfortable.
I squared my stance. “For all I know, the second I open my door you’ll force your way in.”
He shifted back like I’d punched him and raised his palms toward me. “Whoa.”
“Muscled meatheads like you—”
“Listen”—he squared his feet on the Spanish tiles—“you don’t know me. At all. Just because I’m big doesn’t mean I hurt women. I’d never.” He looked a bit sick.
I took a deep breath. He was right. Kind of. I’d made assumptions. “Okay, okay.” I shook my head, beyond tired and cranky. “But you’ve got to admit—I’m the loser in the power dynamic here, I mean the top of my head barely comes to your armpit and…”
“I don’t like being accused—” He stopped mid-sentence and looked down as he turned away from me, clearly admitting defeat.
That’s right, you gorilla. You might be big and I might be small, but no one messes with Jade Cuoco.
“Hey, Nick!” An attractive woman, her disproportionately huge boobs strapped in like she was coming back from a run, arrived at the top of the stairs. “Thanks again for last night.”
“My pleasure, Melodie.”
With that, the man pushed open his door and slammed it behind him, leaving me in the hall, feeling like shit.
* * *
Jade
My phone rang. Epic bad timing. I was second from the front in a very long line at the corner grocery store I’d found three blocks from Shady Oaks. Planning to let it ring through, I glanced down to check the caller. Cal Dep of C&R. Dad.
I stepped out of line, answered, then accepted the reversed charges I couldn’t afford.
“Hey, Frank,” I said once we were connected. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t call to say hello to my daughter? Why does something need to be wrong?”
Because I know you, I thought. Because I’ve been taking care of you for years.
He’d done the best he could, but between Frank’s addictions, bouts of depression, and general inability to hold down a job, I’d pretty much been parent to both my younger sister Crystal and our dad since Mom had vanished, two weeks after my seventh birthday—fifteen years ago next November. At the time, Crystal had barely turned four.
“Run out of cash in your commissary account?” Yawning, I set my basket of groceries on the floor and stretched. I’d never needed sleep so badly.
“Now that you mention it,” Frank said. “I could use a top up.”
“As soon as I get paid.”
“Oh.” His disappointment was clear. “When’s that going to be?”
“Not sure. When do I get the details of my new job?” The promised job had better come through since I’d quit all but one of my old jobs. Not that I’d ever had trouble finding work. Helps when you’re willing to do almost anything.
“You gotta to talk to the person who arranged the deal,” Dad said.
“And who’s that? How do I get in touch with him?”
“He’ll contact you?”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Listen, if you aren’t grateful, if you don’t want your piece of my deal…” He sighed, heavily. “I went to jail for you girls, to keep you safe, but—”
“Frank. Come on.” He’d gone to jail for committing a crime.
Frank was doing more time than his involvement deserved, and yes, the deal he’d struck with some crime boss in exchange for his silence did include some benefits for my sister and me, but Frank was no martyr. At least, no martyred saint. He’d committed his fair share of crimes over the years, enough to deserve tons of jail time, and that only counted the crimes I knew about.
In jail, at least Frank was safe. Protection was part of his deal, too.
“Can you at least tell me who’s going to be contacting me?” I asked.
“Someone at Shady Oaks. Name’s Nick.”
My breath caught. Unless I’d heard wrong, Nick was the name of my hulk-sized neighbor. That’s what the big-boobed Asian-American woman had called him when I’d moved in.
“What do you know about this Nick guy?” I asked Frank. “What does he look like?”
“Never seen him. Alls I know—people are scared shitless of Nick, so be careful.”
“Shit.”
“Don’t sweat it, honey. Just make nice. Do whatever it takes to stay on Nick’s good side. From what I’ve heard, this is someone you do not want to cross.”
“Make nice?” I shook my head. “Are you telling me I should fuck this guy, Dad?”
“No, ah, I…” It took a lot to fluster Frank, but I’d done it.
“Sorry, Dad, but when you say ‘make nice’…”
“Just do whatever he asks, okay? Don’t screw this up, Jade. If you do, you’re out on your ass, plus you’ll be screwing me and your sister, too.”
The call disconnected and I nearly dropped my phone.
I’d already pissed off this Nick guy. I’d already pissed off the man responsible for the roof over my head, my sister’s ability to go to college, and my dad’s safety in prison.
Three
Nick
Someone pounded on the alley door of the club. One of the girls came out of the dressing room.
“Stay back,” I told her, shaking my head.
I opened the door slowly, blocking the entrance with my body in case it was the cops. It was illegal to have dancers go fully nude in a place that served alcohol. Solid Gold broke that law dozens of times a night.
Shit. Instead of the cops, I was face-to-face with my brother Shane. Well, more like his face to my chin. Second youngest, barely a year older than me, Shane was the shortest Downey brother, probably only five ten or eleven, and skinny. Even skinnier these days. That’s what came from a diet of vodka and cocaine.
Speaking of my brother’s drug of choice, his left nostril was coated in white, and his eyes were wide and frantic. He pushed against me. “Let me in. Come on, Nick. Let me in.”
“Not a chance. You know you’re banned from the club.”
He glanced down the alley, then bobbed and bounced in front of me. “Don’t be a shit. They’re going to kill me.”
“Who, Shane? I don’t see anyone.”
Just then two men in dark clothing appeared at the mouth of the alley. Shane pulled a piece from the front waistband of his jeans.
“Shit, Shane. You know you can’t carry.” I let him slip under one of my arms. “Put that thing away,” I said over m
y shoulder. “Hide in the men’s room.” If the cops caught him with a weapon, he’d be back in jail. And if my boss found out I’d let my brother into the club, I’d be fired.
The men in the alley spotted me. If I closed the door now they’d bang on it, drawing even more attention to my problem.
I stepped forward, kicking the door shut behind me. Planting myself in front of the door, I folded my arms over my chest.
“Where is he?” the first man asked. He was dressed in a shitty-looking suit, collar open, his chin pubes ratty and gross.
“Where’s who?”
“That skinny little shit.” The second man was heavy, panting from the exertion of running, his pale skin slicked with sweat. Dressed in a tough-guy uniform of jeans and a black shirt, he was big, but I could take him. Take both of them if it came to that.
“Skinny shit?” I took a step forward. “Sorry, don’t know anyone by that name.”
“He came down this alley,” Suit Guy said. “Shane Downey.”
“You sure?” I looked up and down the alley. “I’ve been standing here a while. Haven’t seen anyone.”
“You let him into the club,” Tough Guy said.
“This entrance is for staff only.” I hitched back my head. “No one works here named Shane.”
“Then you don’t mind if we check.” Suit Guy narrowed his eyes and moved his hand under his open jacket onto what I assumed was a gun.
“Feel free.” I nodded toward the street. “Entrance is off Hamilton.”
“We’ll go in this way.”
Tough Guy got up in my face. His breath smelled like ass.
I didn’t budge. “Like I said. Staff only.”
“Here’s my staff ID.” Suit Guy pulled out his gun and, holding it sideways, pointed at me like a total amateur.
“Oh, okay. Why didn’t you say so sooner?” I turned for the door, then burst back, spinning. My roundhouse landed my heavy boot directly below the elbow of the guy’s gun arm.
A shot went off as his hand rose.
Lights turned on in the apartments across from us. Shit.
“You broke my arm.” Suit Guy said.
I hadn’t meant to do that, but hoped it meant we were done with the attention-grabbing noises for now. But Tough Guy landed a punch to my jaw.
I staggered back, exaggerating the effects, then lunged, grabbing the man and twisting him to the ground in a chokehold.
Suit Guy picked up the gun and aimed it with his shaking left hand.
“Don’t be stupid.” I glared at the man while pinning his much larger buddy.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Suit man raced down the alley, leaving both the gun and his buddy behind and cradling his probably broken arm.
“Shit.” The man on the ground’s voice was muffled as I kept pressure on his chest and throat. “No cops. Please. Let me up. I’ll go.”
I eased off the man, then watched as he pushed himself from the pavement and staggered down the alley.
The door to the club opened a few inches.
It was Stan.
“What the fuck, Nick?”
I shook my head. “Some assholes thought they could get in the back way to rob us.”
“Was that a gunshot?”
“Yeah. One of them was armed.”
“You okay?” Stan asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Get inside before the cops come,” he said.
I headed toward him.
Stan’s eyes opened in alarm, and before I could grab the handle, he shut the door, leaving me in the alley. Two cruisers had pulled in to block the end, and their spotlights captured me in their glare.
* * *
Nick
Three hours later, I pounded on my brother Keagan’s door.
“It’s open,” he yelled from inside.
I yanked open the door and stormed in. It was nearly four in the morning, but all four of my older brothers were there. The whole Downey gang gathered around our eldest brother’s living room, drinking beers like it was a Sunday afternoon.
As usual, Keagan was holding court, standing near the nonfunctioning fireplace. His dark curly hair looked like he’d been dragged out of bed, but his light-blue eyes revealed a stormy mood.
Dillon, one of the twins, sat on the back of Keagan’s sofa, his feet on the cushions, hair falling forward to hide his face as he fiddled with some gadget. Looked like he’d taken apart a smartphone.
His twin, Mac—short for Cormac—sat next to him, dressed like he’d come straight from a club or a date. He grinned, his dimples acting like nothing was wrong.
Shane, across from Dillon and Mac, hadn’t raised his head when I entered. Not one guilty inch. He twisted a beer bottle between his hands, his left leg bouncing on the floor like keeping still was outside its skill set.
“What the fuck, Shane!” I yelled.
“Thanks, Nicky.” Shane’s gaze darted around to our brothers instead of me. “You saved my ass. Those guys were going to kill me.”
“Why, Shane? Why were they after you?”
“Have a beer, Brute Squad.” Keagan said, using their stupid nickname for me. He offered me his bottle, and I grabbed it.
“How the hell do I know?” Shane’s entire body shook. “What did you tell the cops?”
“I didn’t mention you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I took a long swig of the beer, and the cold liquid shaved a few degrees off my anger.
Shane’s body visibly relaxed for an instant, going limp before his leg started bouncing again.
I pointed my bottle at him. “You can’t bring your shit to my work like that, Shane. Ever. You’re going to get me fired.”
“Why do you want that shit job, anyway?” Keagan grabbed another beer from his fridge. “You know you’ve always got a place in our business.”
“Fuck you, Keag.” I dropped into the empty chair next to Shane’s. “You know I want to go legit.”
“Legit?” Mac laughed. “Get off your high horse, Nicky. You work in a fucking strip club owned by gangsters. Don’t act like you’re better than us.”
I knew what I was. A thug. I wasn’t delusional. Thug was the only job I was qualified for and given my size, I could often wield my god-given talent without even throwing a punch. My size had made me useful to my brothers, but that didn’t mean I wanted any part of their schemes. Not anymore. My strip club job wasn’t what many would call savory, but it was legal.
“I show up. Do my hours. Get paid. Sounds legit to me.” I drowned my frustration with the rest of the beer, then dropped the empty, letting it clatter on the terra-cotta tile floor.
“Don’t I always give you your share?” Keagan reclaimed his alpha position in front of the fireplace.
“Poor Nicky.” Mac mimed crying. “Couple of years inside and he got scared straight.”
“Fuck you,” I tossed a beer cap at my brother. “Just because I don’t want to do more time doesn’t mean I’m scared. It’s about the life I want.”
“What life is that?” Mac laughed. “Wiping jizz off a strip club floor?”
“I don’t wipe…” I shook my head. Mac was pushing my buttons on purpose. And I was making it easy.
Even after my last major growth spurt—when they changed the name they used to tease me from Shrimp to Brute Squad—my older brothers still had a way of making me small.
My brothers weren’t bad guys, nothing like what you’d call gangsters, but a lot of what we’d done to earn money was well on the wrong side of the law. My brothers and I had lines we wouldn’t cross—we never killed anyone, we weren’t greedy and never stole from someone who couldn’t afford to take the hit—but that didn’t change the fact we were criminals.
And if we got caught we’d end up inside, like our dad. I was done with it.
Of the five of us, Shane was the only one who’d never done real time. My stint had been in juvie—no adult record—and I’d been out now for nearly five years, but the time
inside had been enough.
“That’s the last time, Shane.” I pointed toward my brother. “The very last. Do not show up at the club again. I won’t let you get me fired.”
“Your job’s more important than your brother?” he shook his head. “You’d let me get killed?”
I stood and towered over Shane. “Just try me.”
Mac jumped up and draped his arm over my back. “Come on, Nicky. Chill. Have another beer.” He nudged me back to my chair and went to the fridge for more bottles, handing them around.
“Some brother you are,” Shane said. “Where’s your loyalty?”
“Where’s yours?” I shot back. “You think you’re showing loyalty when you fuck up my job? Show up with a gun?”
“You have a gun?” Keagan glared at Shane, who visibly shrank.
“I got rid of it,” he said.
Keagan set his beer onto the mantle with a clank. “You fucked up tonight,” he said to Shane. “What the hell were you doing, anyway?”
“I—” Shane stared at his beer bottle.
“And Nick.” Keagan glared at me. “Don’t act like you don’t owe Shane.”
I clenched my jaw. Shane had done three years because of me. And he’d done the time, swearing I’d been nowhere near the shipyard that night, even after the judge offered Shane a lighter sentence if he gave up his partner—gave up me—not six months after I’d been released from juvie at eighteen.
Shane could have put me inside. But he hadn’t.
“Listen,” Keagan said nodding toward me. “Let’s put tonight behind us, okay? It’s over. Done.”
Shane glanced up, and I turned away.
“Shake.” Mac stood. “Come on, Nicky. Shane won’t bring his trouble—or a gun!—to your work again. That right, Shane?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Shane walked toward me, but I didn’t look up until he was directly in front of my chair, hand extended. Still pissed, I shook anyway, and he grinned the same goofy grin that had worked on me since I could remember.
My anger got wiped. Only eleven months different in age, Shane and I were what they used to call Irish twins, and we’d been inseparable as kids. I stood and clapped his back as we hugged it out.
