A PRICE TO PAY: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Zoey Parker

  But another part calmly flicked on the TV screen and said that gunfights and car chases and handsome strangers were things that happened to other people—actors who'd been filmed on sets and sound stages far away, long before the images reached me. Since I'm just a boring person with a normal life, this part of my brain reasoned that I couldn't be actually experiencing these insane things so obviously, this was a movie, a show, a roller coaster, a dream. Something it was okay to gasp and scream and bite my lip through, but an artificial threat, something that would pass harmlessly if I could just be brave and get through it.

  So I held on tight and screamed and trusted Rafe to somehow get me through it all. But thankfully, the detached part of my brain mostly remained in control and informed me that none of this was real while the panicked part kept gibbering with fright and begging me to hyperventilate, go into shock, pee myself, or pass out.

  Once we were a few miles outside of the city, Rafe pulled into an exit and rode past the familiar hotel chains, stopping in front of the shabby-looking motel. The neon sign buzzed and flickered like a bug zapper, spelling out the words “The Hidey-Hole Motel.” The outer walls were gray wooden siding that looked mildewed. The windows were cloudy with fingerprint smudges and the scrubby, dismal grass out front was littered with clumps of old dogshit.

  “This is safe?” I heard myself ask. My voice sounded like it was coming from a long distance.

  “Safer than it looks,” Rafe said, putting down the bike's kickstand. “You can probably let go now.”

  I looked down and realized that my arms were still clamped around his torso so tightly that my fingers were going numb. I pulled them away sheepishly and got off the bike, walking toward the motel's front office.

  “Forgetting something?” Rafe asked.

  I stopped in my tracks, thinking hard. Was I? With everything I'd been through in the past hour, I doubted I could even remember my own name. Slowly, I turned around, taking a guess at what he meant. “Thank you. You saved my life, and that's...”

  Rafe actually threw his head back and laughed. For a bizarre moment, I felt like Alice in the looking-glass world. How could he possibly laugh after being shot at? Had everything turned backwards? Why couldn't I just wake up from all this?

  “The helmet, Jewel,” Rafe said, pointing to my head. “I mean, I guess you can keep wearing it if you really want, but the front desk clerk will probably think you're a special-needs kid or something.”

  Embarrassed, I reached under my chin and undid the strap, handing the helmet to Rafe. He hung it from one of the handlebars, still shaking his head and chuckling. Part of me hated being laughed at while the other part kept insisting that it didn't matter because none of this was real.

  “Come on,” he said, heading toward the motel office. “You should probably let me do the talking.”

  The office was decorated in a hideous beige that briefly reminded me of Bertrand's office. The surface of the front desk was ugly chipped formica, and there was a scuffed, tarnished table bell resting on it. Rafe smacked the nub on top to ring it, and the sound almost made me jump out of my skin. I realized that my mouth was starting to taste vaguely like copper, with a sour undertone that almost seemed like ozone.

  The man who waddled out of the back room looked like a squashed pumpkin dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls, with a stained and crusty hunting cap on his head. His lumpy face was covered in warts. When he saw Rafe, he smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth.

  “Well howdy, Rafe!” he exclaimed in a raspy voice that sounded like a rusty hinge. “Ain't you a sight! I didn't know you'd graduated from ol' Gray Bar University.”

  “Hey Chucky,” Rafe answered, smiling. “Yep, graduated with honors. Got my degree right here.” He pulled up his shirt, displaying a faded blue tattoo on his side with the letters “P.C.C.” with a knife running through them.

  As shaken up as I was, I still couldn't help but notice how well-defined his abs were. His muscles were tight and chiseled, like a statue in a museum.

  Chucky wheezed with laughter. “Yep, that's the one! Got me one just like it, only I don't wanna show you where it is, on account of how it might scare the lady.” He turned to wink at me. “Now what can I do ya for?”

  “We've got some heat on us, so we need to bed down here for the night,” Rafe said. “You know the drill...”

  “Yeah, sure. If anyone comes by, I never met ya an' ain't never seen no one who looks like ya,” Chucky nodded. “Who're we expectin'? Cops? Staties?”

  “Could be either or both,” Rafe said. “Could be worse, too, come to that.”

  “Fair enough,” Chucky replied. He handed over a room key. “Room 27. It's got fresh towels, cable, the whole nine.”

  “Thanks, man,” Rafe said, reaching for his wallet.

  Chucky waved his hands at him. “No, now come on! You know yer money ain't no good here, boy! Bard's always taken good care of me so you guys can use this place when you gotta.”

  Rafe leaned in and looked at Chucky with intense eyes, his voice lowering almost to a whisper. “This ain't no Bard thing, Chucky.”

  Chucky looked confused for a moment, and then the smile dropped from his face. He peered at Rafe solemnly. “Huh. I see. Well, then I reckon you'd better hang onto that cash anyway, just in case you need it later on. You c'n square it with me some other time.”

  “Thanks,” Rafe said. He turned to me. “Let's go.”

  I followed Rafe to the room. It was small and musty, with a pair of twin beds, a TV on a rickety table, and a narrow door leading to the bathroom.

  “Okay, you get settled in,” Rafe said. “Go splash some water on your face or something, watch some TV, and try to chill out. I've got one more quick thing I need to talk to Chucky about, but I'll be back in about ten minutes. I'm taking the key so I can let myself in. If anyone knocks on that door, I don't care who the fuck they are or what they say they want, you just keep the door shut and scream your motherfucking head off, okay? I'll hear it and I'll come running.”

  Without waiting for me to respond, Rafe left, shutting the door behind him.

  I looked around at the dingy surroundings. The grubby reality of them was too much, and suddenly, I realized that this had all really happened to me after all.

  I had watched a man get murdered. I had been shot at. I had been on the back of a motorcycle as it jumped over a car, all while other men chased me and tried to kill me.

  My knees turned into water and I collapsed on the floor, the dust from the cheap carpet filling my nostrils. I opened my mouth and a loud sob escaped me as hot tears stung my eyes. My lungs felt like they were being squeezed by invisible hands.

  This was no dream, and I had never been so frightened in my entire life.

  Chapter 8

  Rafe

  I walked back to the motel's front office and tapped the bell again. Chucky emerged from the back room again, holding an old porno magazine in one hand and zipping up his overalls with the other. He looked annoyed for a moment until he realized it was me again.

  “Damn, sorry!” Chucky said. He tossed the magazine aside and briskly wiped his hands on his shirt. “Thought you two was all squared away. What'sa matter? TV don't work?”

  “I'm sure it works fine,” I replied. “I just had a couple questions I figured you could answer for me, since I've been away so long.”

  “Uh-huh,” Chucky answered, looking me up and down. “Reckon ya wanna know 'bout Jester an' that fucked-up niece of his, since they had ya locked up, right? Lookin' fer a li'l payback? Heck, I knew them stories 'bout you beatin' that girl up an' so forth were just a buncha bull. I known you a long time an' seen you do plenty a' fucked-up stuff, but the day you smack the fuck outta some girl like that? Sheeeit, that's the day I eat my hat.”

  Chucky may have been a redneck slob, but he wasn't stupid. With his whole corn-fed, aw-shucks routine, sometimes it was easy to forget that. His motel was used by other gangs besides ours, so he kept his ear to the ground. �
��Yeah,” I said. “Thanks. So Jester still rolls with the Mancusos, right?”

  “Ayuh,” Chucky nodded. “He ain't pullin' no triggers for 'em no more, neither. Got hisself promoted. Got plenty've people to do his dirty work for 'im. Hell, he's practically a ghost out on the streets these days. No one sees 'im anymore, 'cept fer Abby an' a couple've his closest guys who pass along his orders to the rest.”

  Shit, I thought. “So if he ain't on the streets anymore, where is he?” I asked.

  “Pffft, dark side a' the moon, fer all I know,” Chucky shrugged. He slid the office window opened, hocked, leaned out to spit, and closed it again. “Some folks say he's maybe involved in somethin' deeper than the usual mob shit, but them's mostly campfire stories. Anyone who claims they really know for sure is fartin' way above their ass.”

  “How about Abby?” I prodded. “Where's she hang out these days?”

  Chucky was already shaking his head before I could even finish. “Ain't happenin', kid,” he said sadly. “Any time she goes out, Jester sends about a dozen guys with her an' they never take their eyes off 'er. He ain't takin' no chances that some other gang's gonna grab 'er an' ransom 'er. You get close enough ta point a gun at 'er, an' ya may as well put it in yer mouth instead. 'Sides, they gotta be lookin' out for ya, now they know yer outta the slam an' all. You ain't exactly no master of disguise, neither. May as well have 'biker' tattooed on yer fuckin' forehead, even without yer patch.”

  “So he's invisible and she's untouchable. Is that what you're telling me? There's no way to get to him?” I demanded.

  “None I know of,” Chucky answered. “Sorry, boy. Reckon if there were, he'd have had me killed by now just fer knowin' 'bout it.”

  I knew that meant I'd need to get some useful information from Jewel. Otherwise, I might as well have started looking for a lifelong place to hide. Just because I couldn't find Jester didn't mean he wouldn't get around to finding me.

  “Okay, just one more question,” I said.

  “Shoot,” Chucky replied.

  “When I got put away, the Mancusos didn't have a lot of juice with the cops. I mean, a couple guys on the force here and there, enough to plant some stuff on me for a quick frame-up, but nothing major. Is that still true?” I figured I'd better ask so I'd know whether to suspect any cops we run into of working for Jester.

  Chucky pulled off his hunting cap and scratched his flaky scalp, thinking it over. “Hard to say. Used to be the Bonaccorsos controlled a lot've the higher-up cops an' judges, but their whole outfit got damn well nuked last year. Heck, Bard prob'ly told you 'bout that, seein' as how he was the one what nuked 'em. Since then, most've those lawmen have been scramblin' to find someone else to line their pockets. So it could be the Mancusos bought up a few of 'em, but if yer askin' fer a list...”

  “No, I understand. Thanks again, Chucky,” I said. “I really do owe you for this, big-time.”

  Chucky was sizing me up again and squinting. “You're serious 'bout this, huh? Ain't gonna rest 'til you find a way to bring 'im down?”

  “I'm serious. Either that bastard dies, or I do.”

  “Uh-huh. Wait here,” Chucky replied. He walked around the front desk, pulled down the window blinds, and locked the door. Then he disappeared into the back room for about five minutes.

  When he came out again, he was carrying a green duffel bag that was about three feet long. “Unless you got a howitzer stashed up that skinny ass a' yers, I figure yer probably goin' to war with nothin' but the handgun in yer waistband, right?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Very sharp. How'd you know it was there?”

  Chucky rolled his eyes. “Please. Runnin' a motel out here? I c'n spot a concealed weapon on a fella 'fore he walked through the damn door. 'S how come I ain't never been robbed. Ain't never gonna be, neither.” He unzipped the duffel, revealing the polished black surface of an AK-47 assault rifle.

  “Wow,” I said, staring at it. I'd seen and fired plenty of guns in real life, but I'd only ever seen the AK in movies, or being held up triumphantly by freedom fighters on the news. It was long and lethal-looking, with a heavy brown wooden stock that looked like it had been through a lot.

  “Goddamn right wow,” Chucky agreed, grinning. “If'n yer gonna go up against an army, ya'd better take along a weapon that c'n do the job. Them Commies may have been some evil fuckers, but they made the perfect rifle with this here Kalash back in '47 an' the sucker's still used today.”

  Chucky took two cigars from his pocket, offering one to me. I decided not to take it, remembering what he'd been doing in the back room when I came in. He shrugged, put the extra cigar away, and lit his.

  “Most rifles these days got plastic parts,” he continued, puffing. “You use the butt of 'em to smack someone upside the head, the guns'll fall apart an' all kindsa screws an' springs'll pop out. Fuckin' junk. But the AK? It don't break, an' it don't jam, neither. You c'n drag this thing through piss, shit, blood, or mud, even take a swim with it. It'll still fire dead-bang accurate every time. My daddy took it off a gook he killed in 'Nam. Figure someone oughtta put it to good use.”

  “I appreciate it a lot, Chucky,” I said, “but are you sure? I've never even fired one of these things.”

  Chucky laughed. “Hell, boy, that's why it's mostly been used by ignorant-ass dudes in jungles fer 'bout seventy years now! Any fool c'n use it, no training needed.” He pointed to a selector switch with two settings. “There's semi-automatic, an' there's full auto.” His finger rested on the drum of ammunition clipped under the rifle. “This carries seventy-five rounds of 7.62-millimeter ammo. Those things'll chop down trees if you want 'em to. I tossed in a 30-round box clip, too, for backup. Ain't like they're gonna let a jailbird like you buy more bullets, after all.” He pointed one last time. “Oh, an' this here's the trigger, 'case you needed help identifying that. You just squeeze it an' listen to the devil sittin' on yer shoulder, an' everything'll turn out just fine.”

  I zipped up the duffel and lifted it, putting the strap over my shoulder. I expected the massive rifle to weigh a lot, but even with the bullets, it was only about fifteen pounds.

  “I can't thank you enough, Chucky, really,” I said.

  Chucky waved me off. “My pleasure, boy,” he replied. “Maybe you c'n do me a solid someday. If'n you live long enough, that is.”

  I unlocked the office door and left, heading back to the room. When I got halfway there, I heard a long, loud scream.

  It was Jewel's voice.

  I broke into a run. In the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of the other rooms' curtains move aside as the guests peered out.

  Jesus Christ, how the fuck could they have caught up with us so fast? I thought. Even if they knew this was a Reaper-friendly joint, which most people didn't, I was sure we had more of a head start on them.

  I reached the door and tried the handle, but it was locked. The screaming continued. I fumbled with the room key, wondering how the Mancusos had managed to get in and shut the door behind them. Jewel had seemed way too scared to ignore my warning, so...

  “Jewel? Jewel, are you okay in there? Answer me!” I yelled.

  I unlocked the door and threw it open, whipping out my handgun. I looked around frantically for the Mancusos. They weren't there.

  Jewel was alone. The contents of her purse were scattered all over the floor. She was screaming.

  And she was holding her cell phone.

  Chapter 9

  Jewel

  I stayed on the floor croaking and hyperventilating for a long time. As I did, my mind replayed every horrific thing that had happened in the past two hours over and over again on a loop. I focused on every bullet that had missed me, thinking about what it would have felt like if they'd hit me instead.

  What would it feel like to be shot in the spine? Or the stomach? If a bullet went into my heart, would I feel it burst? How long would it take to die from that? What if a bullet hit my skull? Would I die instantly? Oh God, what if I didn't?

&
nbsp; I'd seen someone get killed, and then I ran away from the scene. I knew it wasn't what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to stay and tell the police what I'd seen so they could catch the person who did it. That was the right thing to do.

  So why hadn't I?

  Rafe. The murderer had seen me and was going to hurt me, and Rafe showed up. Even at first glance, Rafe had seemed like someone who knew what to do when you were being shot at. In that moment, every survival instinct I had had told me that letting him drag me away was the only way to live through what was happening to me.

  And then the shoot-out on Lake Shore Drive. Why were those men chasing us? Rafe had said they were friends of the gunmen in the alley. Were they gangsters? I'd assumed the shooting I saw was some kind of random mugging, but what if it was much worse than that?