by Teagan Kade
Saul places his hand on my shoulder and leans down. “’Doesn’t seem right’? You’re a funny fucker, Davis.” He squeezes my shoulder, his expression turning dark. “But that money? That’s no fucking joke, so you do what you have to, understand?”
There’s no getting out of this. Everyone knows you don’t fuck with Saul Barnes. You do and you wind up at his brother’s farm, food for the pigs. I swallow the lump that’s swelled up in my throat. “Yes, sir.”
His hand releases. He taps the top of my head, the way you’d rap on the roof of a hearse to send it off. “That’s the boy, and like I said, have fun.”
Lowlife scumbags are one thing, but what has this girl done apart from hook up with the wrong guy? I can barely stomach beating up thugs. How the hell am I going to go through with this?
Pops would be fucking ashamed of what I’ve become. He played by the rules his whole life, the perfect citizen, the one who’d pull over to help an old lady cross the road, who’d stoop down in the supermarket line to retrieve a dropped tin of tomatoes. He taught me to box, how to protect myself, but if he knew what I was doing with those skills now he’d be turning in his fucking grave.
Best not to think about it, but I can’t help myself. I’ve fallen into a pit without a rope. It’s getting deeper, darker, and I have no fucking idea when it’s going to close over me for good.
As usual, I start to daydream about different, more traditional ways of making money, but each seems more ridiculous than the last. I picture myself in a suit and tie, my biggest threat water cooler gossip. It’s a nice thought, but that’s all. An office worker I am not, and never will be. Hell, I’d struggle to run a hot dog stand.
You’re a fucking con. Nothing more.
Yes. This shadow work suits me, as much as I hate it. Like Saul said, I’m a natural, cursed.
I’m sitting in my Lincoln across the road from the apparel store where the mark works.
She’s got a name, you know.
No. Best to keep this professional, take all the emotion out of it.
It’s a job like any other, I tell myself. Business—pure and simple.
I’m starting to sound like Saul.
I see her through the window holding up dresses. I check the photo, my eyes darting between it and the storefront.
The picture doesn’t do her justice at all. She’s gorgeous in the flesh, far curvier than her small frame would suggest with ample chest and soft, delicate features that glow in the low, evening light. She’s the kind of girl I could settle down with, wake up to.
The more I watch her—that smile, those emerald eyes—the harder my cock grows. I shift in my seat, watching the mirrors for anything suspicious. This part of Brooklyn used to be meat factories and crack dens, but it’s turned upmarket in recent years, full of trendy cafes named after razor gangs and designer labels bulging with vapid Kardashian wannabees. The Lincoln stands out like a big, rusty bag of dicks.
I train my eyes back on the storefront. She’s reaching for something, her floral dress rising tantalizingly high to reveal smooth, porcelain thighs.
I press my cock down.
A job, my head interjects. Nothing more.
Two hours later it’s completely dark, the sun having long vanished behind the skyline. The mark turns the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and the lights switch off soon after. It’s pitch black in there, the streetlights doing fuck-all to help. In a way, this works in my favor.
I check the mirrors again. There’s no one around, everyone keen to rush to the nearest rooftop bar to kick their weekend off.
The door of the shop opens, the mark stepping out onto the street. The door closes behind her, a bell ringing. She stands there in a pool of shadow between two streetlights, looking left and right.
Now.
I summon myself to move as doubt threatens to paralyze me. I can’t shake Pops from my head, running over and over the argument. I wanted to reconcile, I even wrote out what I was going to say, but it was too late. He had to go and die, didn’t he? Leave things messed up like that.
My thoughts shift from Pops to Saul, a father figure of a different kind.
Do your fucking job, my head warns.
I snap to, unlocking the door and stepping out, checking quickly to make sure we’re still alone before I start my way across the street.
Business. Just business. That’s all it is.
Dawn
Friday afternoons are traditionally quiet, but I haven’t made a single sale today.
I sit out back of the store in a courtyard no bigger than a bathroom making use of the sun, sketching what I can on my break.
I look down at the designs for my clothing collection, the full line of couture never to see the light of day thanks to Rick McShit-For-Brains Collins and his sudden departure. I don’t know what I saw in him in the first place, but that’s hindsight for you. If I had of known about his gambling addiction I would have steered clear.
“Working on the collection?”
Noel, my best friend and employer, looks over my shoulder. “Ooh, I like that one.”
I screw my face up at the design. “I don’t know. Something about the collar seems off.”
Noel takes a chair and places it opposite me, a coffee steaming in her hand. There’s a quote from Zoolander on her mug, the one about being ‘really, really, really ridiculously good looking.’ That’s her fourth of the day. Sometimes I think there must be more caffeine than blood in her body. “You’re too harsh on yourself.”
I look up. “Like you always say, fashion is a cut-throat business.”
Noel points back to the store, her store. “You’re telling me. A couple more weeks of this mid-summer sales drought and I’ll have to find a new line of work.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
She winks. “Maybe a little.”
It’s not surprising the two of us are often mistaken for sisters. We’ve got the same features, the same chestnut hair. Noel is the sibling I always wanted, and I think the feeling’s mutual. At least I hope it is. I hope she hasn’t taken me on simply out of pity.
“You’ve got so much potential, hon,” she continues.
I roll my eyes, continuing to sketch. “Thanks, Mom,” I reply, heavy on the sarcasm.
Noel crosses her legs. “I’m serious. Now that the loser’s gone you can finally get back to pursuing your dream.”
Noel was never a big fan of Rick. It turns out she’s a better judge of character than I am. “I’ve got as much chance of seeing my dream through as you do meeting Ben Stiller… or the Queen.”
“Never say never,” Noel tuts. She’s the most English American I know, completely obsessed with the Royal Family. “But I’m serious,” she continues. “The reason I gave you this job was to get you back on your feet, so you could start putting some of that money towards—”
“The dream,” I finish dryly.
“Yes.”
I hold my sketchbook up. “I haven’t even made any of this stuff yet. They’re just designs.”
“Incredible designs that are going to blow away the fashion elite.”
“Blow away my money, more like it.” My cell alarm buzzes in my pocket. My break’s over. “You’re working in the office all day?”
Noel looks towards the office at the back of the courtyard. “Hey, someone’s got to be the brains behind this operation, right?”
“And I’m the beauty?” I tease.
Noel drains her coffee. “You wish.”
“Will you come up front today?”
Noel shakes her head. “I’ve got a stack of supplier bills a mile high, not to mention tax and overheads and…”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”
“Dinner?” she offers.
I smile. “Sure.”
“Come down to the office at closing and we’ll flip for it.”
“You’re on.”
As it goes, Rick is never far from my thoughts. It started off like a normal relationship. He wooed
me with grand romantic gestures, told me daily how beautiful and special I was. It was a breathless, whirlwind courting, but soon after came the mysterious nights out, the lies. At first I thought he was cheating on me. In many ways I wish it was that simple. Yet we stayed together because of my own misguided belief there was nothing sinister going on. I deluded myself, and I’m smarter than that.
Or at least I thought I was.
Thanks to my jackass ex and the large stack of unpaid bills he left me, that ‘dream’ of starting my label is all but gone. Now I have to live it through Noel. It was kind of her to give me this job—god knows I needed one—but every day here is torture in its own way, seeing what I could have been if only I’d run with my head instead of my heart. I’m never going to let that happen again.
Never ever ever.
I flip the door sign to ‘Open’ and busy myself at the front of the store. It took a while for Noel to get this business profitable, but thanks to a few key celebrities wearing her designs over the last couple of months, it’s really taken off. The brick-and-mortar store here is only for show really. Most of the selling happens online, but from time to time people do show up, and when they do, I’m here, ready with a smile on my face.
The dreary quilt that hung over the city yesterday is no more. The sky today is ocean clear, full of possibility. Now the sun sits low, gold and aurous.
The usual suspects are parked down the street—Porsches and Mercedes mostly. There’s an old Lincoln that looks really out of place, but this is still Brooklyn.
Half past five I turn the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and head down to the back office. It’s dark now, a moonless black in the courtyard. I knock on the office door.
“Enter,” barks Noel.
I come in and find her quite literally buried in paperwork. It’s on her lap, her chest, a swathe of it spilling off the desk. I take a seat. “Busy, I see?”
She slumps forward, her forehead resting on the desk. “Uh. Why does everyone in this damn industry still insist on sending paper copies of everything? Isn’t being environmentally conscious the new black?”
I cross my legs. “Orange is the new black, actually, though I hear green’s on the move.”
She lifts her head and smiles. “I should have gone into activewear. Now there’s an industry full of hippie do-gooders and soccer moms with too much time and money on their hands.”
“Social impact, environmental friendliness, and profit—the triple bottom line.”
Noel raises an eyebrow in suspicion, leaning back in her chair. “Someone’s been reading.”
I shrug. “I like to stay informed, and speaking of ‘social impact,’ how’s life with Doctor Strange?”
I don’t know where the habit of nicknaming Noel’s many and frequent boyfriends after superheroes came from, but it sure is fun. ‘Doctor Strange’ is a surgeon, has a penchant for BDSM—it made sense. He’s at least a step up from ‘The Hulk.’ I think Noel almost suffocated under that human steroid.
“Doc Strange is…” Noel pauses, looking to the corner of the room. “Pretty damn boring out of the bedroom, truth be told.”
“But he’s a doctor,” I protest. “Surely he has some interesting stories up his sleeve.”
Noel puts her hand up. “Trust me, ‘interesting’ is not the word I’d be using. Under the covers, though…”
“Full Christian Grey?”
Noel laughs. “Honey, the Doctor makes Christian Grey look like a choir boy, which reminds me. I must book that appointment with the chiropractor.”
I shake my head. “I do not want to know.”
“How about you? Any luck on the man front?”
It’s been six weeks since Rick left, though I haven’t exactly been in a rush to get back out there. ‘Get Tinder,’ Noel had suggested. ‘Casual fucking is the new detox diet.’ Suffice to say, I wasn’t exactly looking for a ‘detox’ of that kind… yet.
I breathe out, arms hanging limply from the sides of the chair. “I can’t say I’m in the mood for a new relationship.”
Noel starts to smile. “Who said anything about a relationship? What you need is a nice, big beef whistle driving you through the mattress.”
“You’re not exactly making it sound appetizing. I want a penis. Not a meal.”
“Baloney pony?” Noel suggests.
I’m trying to keep a straight face. “Stop it.”
“Seafood more your thing? A cocktapus perhaps?”
“I’m warning you…”
She spits them out one after the other. “Frank ’n’ beans? Sperminator? Long Dong Silver?”
I explode with laughter, holding my sides. “Enough!”
“Everlasting gob dropper? Count Schlongula? Thunderbird three?”
I collect myself, struggling for breath. “My gosh. You should write a book. Your talents are clearly being wasted here.”
Noel smiles. “There wouldn’t be a book store on earth that would stock my sex life on paper.” She reaches into her handbag and takes out a coin. “Speaking of food, I believe we had a dinner wager. “Heads or tails?”
“Heads.”
Noel flips the coin, catching in in her palm. “Damn it. Thai?”
“Tom yam goong for me, please.”
Noel stands and collects her bag. “Oh, you need Tom’s ‘yam goong’ alright.”
“You’re filthy,” I tell her.
“Takes filthy to know filthy. Back in ten.”
Noel heads out.
I use the bathroom, returning through the courtyard to the store, the lights off, the outline of dresses beautiful in shadow.
I’m collecting my things when I hear a ruckus outside.
“Noel?” I call.
I see her through the front door on the street. She’s with a man. He’s trying to say something to her, hand out.
This guy’s tall, well built. He’s not Doctor Strange. He’s not any of Noel’s former lovers I recognize. No, he’s far more rugged than her usual type. He’s got a tribal sleeve tattoo for one thing, that tiny t-shirt barely containing his biceps.
Gym instructor? I consider. Angsty model?
I slowly pace towards the front of the shop. Do I intervene? I’ve got no idea.
The man looks around nervously. He raises his voice, Noel’s shouting something back at him. I hear my name.
Shoot.
The stranger grabs her arm. I hear my name again. He’s asking about me.
Noel tries to shrug him off, but he’s pushing her towards the alleyway next to the shop.
I’m paralyzed, but I know I can’t stand here and let this, whatever it is, go down. Not on my watch.
I take the pepper spray we keep under the counter and head out front, the bell on the door chiming as I exit.
Holding Noel, Beefcake turns and sees me. His eyes dart between Noel and I. He lets go of her, realizing his mistake. Under the streetlight, he’s surprisingly handsome, with tightly cropped hair and a set jaw, his tee pulled in the all the right directions by his arms and chest. That tattoo design runs down the left, ink twisting like vines, but it’s his eyes that draw me in the most. They’re amber, almost incandescent. They’re the eyes of a predator, of danger.
I hold up the pepper spray. My voice quivers when I speak. “Who are you?”
He puts his hands up, slowly stepping towards me.
“Stop,” I warn him, but he continues forward.
“Dawn Hayes?” he says, voice gravelly.
I notice a small scar above his eye. “Maybe. Stay ba—”
But he’s already on me, the pepper spray twisted from my grip.
Max
Out here in the open, she’s striking. That glossy photo showed nothing of the depth of her eyes, or her delicate skin. She’s beautiful, no doubt, but I’m not here to judge America’s Next Top Model.
I toss the pepper spray down the alley.
“I’ll scream,” says her friend, the one I mistook for her.
“Go for it,” I sugge
st. “I don’t see anyone around.”
The friend looks down the street, nervous, eyes wide as she turns back towards me.
‘Dawn’ has her hands out in front of her, ready to pounce. She can try. I kind of hope she does. I’d love nothing more than to touch her, see if her skin is as soft as it looks, but no, not like this.
“What do you want?” she says, a definite quiver in her voice.
“Let’s keep it simple,” I start. “Your boyfriend owes my employer a considerable amount of money, a debt that has now, unfortunately, fallen upon your shoulders. I’m here to collect.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” she corrects. “And do I look like I have money?”
The dress she’s wearing could fetch a couple of hundred at least. “Yeah, it kind of does.”
“Hey!”
I spin around to the friend. She’s got her cell raised to her ear.
“I’m calling the cops,” she says.
I go to snatch her phone, but she pulls back. “Yes, nine-one-one?”
Her eyes flick past me.
I hear footsteps.
Fuck.
Dawn’s halfway down the street thanks to the distraction, but I’m not about to let a mark get away. I never do.
I forget the friend and take off after Dawn, my heavy boots pounding against the pavement, my heart beating hard from the chase. It’s only in moments like these where I know I’m alive, not simply existing.
She rounds the corner, but she’s wearing heels. She may as well be wearing a bell around her neck.
“Help!” she calls, but there’s no residential zoning nearby. We’re alone.
When I make the corner, she’s gone, but I can hear her, the steady clop, clop of her progress.
My head tracks left to another alley. Worst. Idea. Ever.
I move slowly now, checking for company, but the streets are still empty.
I enter the alleyway, my eyes sweeping left and right. It’s a dead end. She’s waiting there, hands slapping uselessly against the wall.
