Indebted To A King

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  My father didn't talk much. He wasn't a big sharer. But I knew he was proud of the good shot I'd become when he gifted me my first handgun. A small Ruger revolver. I was way too young to have it, and he was probably a very bad father for giving it to me, but I cherished that gun.

  Every day I cleaned it. Loaded it. Unloaded it. I had a special hiding place for it in my room, so that my mom wouldn't find it (she abhorred guns). And every time my dad took me and Camden on his "special runs" I'd carry it with me. Concealed like he taught me; but always reaching back for it. Making sure it was there. Just in case I needed it. Just in case one of my dad's runs went south. Which makes it all the more painful that the one day I left it at home, because my mom was watching me like a hawk that morning, was the day that my father was shot and killed.

  Anyway, I'm guessing that the poser thinks I must be reaching for my piece or something, because a look of total terror passes over his face.

  "What are you doing, man."

  He places his drink on the bar top and starts backing away from me. He's getting worked up for nothing. I would never pull out in a club unless I absolutely had to, and I'd also never waste a bullet on someone like this no matter what he did. It would be too easy. There's no satisfaction in easy.

  "Relax, Tinker Bell. Nobody's going to hurt you. I just want to tell you something, and I want to make sure that you hear me loud and clear."

  "Sure, man, whatever. Speak your piece."

  "A few minutes ago, you and your friend were talking about a young lady who's a friend of mine."

  "Who . . . Sloan?"

  "That's Miss Pearson to you."

  "Miss Pearson," he parrots back in a forced but respectful tone.

  "So, as I was saying, Miss Pearson is a friend of mine, and you were talking mighty disrespectfully about her. Being quite presumptuous about what you were going to do to her, and how that might benefit you at your sorry ass job. So I thought I should step in and make things super simple for you.

  "You will never fuck Sloan Pearson. You will never kiss her, touch her, talk to her, or breathe the same air as her. If she's in this club, then you leave. If she walks by you on the street, then you better suck your breath in and hold it until she's ten feet away. She's a stranger to you. She doesn't exist. You understand what I'm saying, homeboy?"

  You can always tell the guys who had to hold their own while growing up versus the ones who had everything handed to them on a silver platter. They're all the same. Say a couple of words to them and their faces crumple like they're ten-year-old kids being bullied on the playground.

  This guy is definitely a powder puff. Soft as butter. It's not even fun to punk him, but it was necessary. I may not want Sloan for myself, but I can still do her this solid. We run in the same circles. Her best friend is marrying my best friend. I'm just eliminating some of the bad apples for her. At least the ones floating around in here. She should be thanking me. You're welcome, glamazon.

  "Yeah, man, I . . . I understand."

  "Good. Now is Sloan still here?"

  I already know that she's long since ditched this guy. I watched her sneak out through the delivery entrance less than ten minutes ago.

  "Yeah, man, she went to the restroom or something."

  "So where should you be going right now?"

  "But my buddy is still–"

  "Let me stop you right there, Cord. Do you think your friend is taking the longest piss ever or is it possible that he left you? Because I strongly believe that he selected door number two. Something you need to be doing as well. Leaving."

  "I think there's been a misunderstanding. I was just shooting the shit with my friend earlier, because I'm drunk. I really like Sloan. I mm-mean Miss Pearson," he stutters. "I meant no disrespect."

  "You meant no disrespect? Well guess what, I don't give a shit. Excuses are like assholes, Cord. Everybody's got one. Your membership to Lotus has been revoked. Get out now while you still can on two legs." I point toward the exit sign.

  A look of sudden recognition passes over his face.

  "Wait, are you the owner?" His eyes enlarge.

  "Do I even need to answer that."

  "No, Mr. King. My apologies. I'm leaving right now."

  Cord quickly exits the premises without even the smallest glance back. Another sure sign that he wasn't worth Sloan's time. He gave in way too easily. If it were me, I would have fought much harder for much less.

  A woman sitting at the bar by herself, who's been eavesdropping on our exchange the entire time, turns around and gives me the thumbs up sign.

  "What's that for?" I ask amused.

  "You're Cutter King, right?"

  "I am."

  I check the time on my cell. Honestly, I don't have time for pleasantries. I should have left here for the hotel five minutes ago.

  "I'm Aria. This is my third time at the club since joining two months ago." She holds her glass up then takes a sip. "I've heard a lot about you."

  "Nice to meet you, Aria. How are you enjoying it here at Lotus?"

  "Loving it so far. Listen, I know you're a busy man, but I just wanted to tell you that I happened to overhear what that jerk was saying, and you definitely did the right thing for your friend by sending him on his way."

  Now this is a smart woman.

  "It's nice to see that someone appreciates my superpowers," I say throwing on a little appreciative charm.

  Aria responds with a chuckle which only confirms my conclusion that I must have the unmistakable ability to say almost anything and make every woman I meet laugh.

  Every woman but Sloan.

  "You should tell her what an ass that guy was. You probably saved her from wasting a month of her life going on some really bad dates with him. She owes you a debt of gratitude."

  "That's exactly what I've been saying." I nod in agreement. "I'm helping her out and probably a whole lot of other women too."

  "You are," she agrees. "I should know. I'm one of those women who went on about six weeks worth of bad dates with a man that nobody warned me about."

  Exactly what I thought.

  "So the king is actually performing a public service."

  "I'm sorry, the who is?"

  Six

  Cutter

  It's not even midnight yet and the room reeks of fear and blood. I'm sitting in the corner of a Four Seasons hotel suite, spinning my slimline glock round and round atop of a red mahogany desk with my pointer finger. Watching someone I once respected, with tears streaming down his face, crumble like a house of cards.

  Today's disappointment to mankind is the district attorney of Philadelphia, Cliff Newman. Today I've learned that he's just your average politician. A liar. Crooked as a three-dollar bill. Nothing special. A complete greedy fuck up, with a God complex, who regularly cheats on his wife to feed his fragile ego; but this time his dick has gotten him into some serious trouble.

  The beaten, bloodied, woman sprawled across the bed next to him is some poor soul who worked in the communications department of his office, and probably thought she was in love with him. Now she's dead and all this guy seems to be able to do is talk about himself.

  "My life is ruined. My life is over."

  He keeps looping the self-pitying and slurred words over and over in heaving sobs. Holding his head in his hands, feeling sorry for himself, as if someone committed some heinous act against him.

  "Selfish bastard," I mutter under my breath.

  And even though I'm pissed that this is the third time my brother Camden has conveniently canceled showing up to a job with me, I think I'm starting to understand part of why something keeps coming up for him. Other than Jade that is.

  It's probably safe to say that we're both growing tired of helping self-serving assholes like Cliff Newman. They're always wealthy, indulged, narcissists who create problems for themselves again and again, never learning from their mistakes, and then hiring us to make those problems go away for them. Over and over.

  T
he shit is getting old.

  At the very least, this waste of human life deserves life in prison for savagely beating this woman to death. Why should I save his ass? Why should he get away with this crime unscathed? Why should this woman's family never know what happened to their daughter, their sister, or their aunt?

  Because you're getting paid a lot of money to do it, dummy. Don't get all sanctimonious about it now.

  Yes, I've done my share of dirt, but I've never killed a woman. Never had to. In fact, I've never even put my hands on a woman unless it was to make her come for me. So yeah, maybe I can be a little sanctimonious tonight, because this is some fucked-up shit. What if she was one of the women in Newman's family? Brains splattered all over a hotel bedspread.

  "Oh, for God's sake, shut up," I bark. Tired of his drug induced whining. "You think your life is ruined? This woman didn't even live to see thirty thanks to you."

  District Attorney Clifford Newman. A man I've seen countless times looking and talking tough as nails about crime on the evening news, is now looking up at me like a little boy who wants his mommy to kiss and make it better.

  Pitiful face.

  Puppy dog eyes.

  Pussy.

  "Don't you think I know that? You think I meant to do this? It was an accident. I swear! It was a goddamn accident." He starts sobbing again.

  "So enlighten me." I continue spinning my gun around with my finger on the desk. A habit of mine that just happens to be a handy intimidation technique. "How do you accidentally beat a one-hundred-twenty-pound woman to death?"

  "We argued," he says as if those simple two words should explain it all. "Things got heated."

  "She's butt ass naked. Did things get heated after you fucked her, or did you fuck her after things got heated? 'Cause that's just weird, man."

  "I didn't realize the money I'm paying you included a police-styled interrogation, and I don't see why the details matter at this point. Just help me fix it!" Newman screeches as spittle flies out of the corner of his mouth.

  I immediately stop spinning Benny around.

  My right eyelid starts twitching.

  The batshit crazy timber of Newman's voice makes my hackles rise, and when my hackles rise, my right eye twitches, and when my eye twitches, I tend to shoot shit.

  I prop my right elbow casually up on the desk, with my gun in hand, and aim it directly at the asshole's forehead. Now this I can do. I may not be able to hurt a woman, but I sure as shit can kill a man at point blank range, and go out for a burger and fries ten minutes later like nothing ever happened. I know it's fucked-up, but it's just the way I'm built. Yet no matter how much immediate satisfaction shooting him would give me right now, that's not what I'm supposed to be doing here.

  It's my role in the three-man business partnership I'm a part of to smooth things over. Talk people into things they normally wouldn't do. Use my power of persuasion to settle disputes and fix sticky situations. Why? Because I usually have the temperament for it. Unlike Camden and Roman, I'm usually a pretty easy-going guy to deal with, until I'm not, and bitch ass Clifford the DA is definitely pushing all of my "I am not" buttons.

  "I don't fucking work for you," I say with a bite to my voice that lets him know I'm at the end of my patience.

  "Wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

  I'll admit that I'm uncharacteristically pissed about this fix. I've seen people do some terrible things in this world. You can't be in this business and not have the stomach for violence, but something about this one is different. Maybe it's because my brother bailed on me again and I'm angry. Maybe it's because I'd rather be drinking at the club or lying in between a pair of a woman's legs instead of doing this tonight. Or maybe it's because the overall nature of our job is changing. Each fix we take on seems to be more violent than the last. Increasingly pointless. Less satisfying.

  "Listen, Clifford, I know you're upset, but raising your voice at your only ticket out of a life in maximum security isn't a good idea. You're the district attorney. You know better than anyone that those boys upstate are going to fuck your asshole ten ways from Sunday if you get sent there for murdering a defenseless woman. Do you like wearing eye shadow and lipstick? Because I bet you'll be somebody's bitch in less than twenty-four hours when you get there. So, I highly suggest that you lower your voice and change your tone if you want my help. If not then I've got a drink and a pair of nice tits waiting for me across town."

  Funny how all I can see inside of my head are flashes of Sloan's rack in fucking technicolor the moment I say the word tits out loud. Yeah, I'm definitely losing it.

  "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm in way over my head. Tell me what to do," Newman pleads. "I'll do whatever you tell me to do."

  Still holding the gun, I decide to finally stop letting my growing disgust for this man get in the way of business. The DA is a douche and a dummy, but I've never let those characteristics get in the way of business before, so I decide to get to work. Time is ticking and every minute counts. The first order of business is to take a long look around the room to assess the damage and more importantly the cleanup. Especially because there's only me here to do it.

  The trouble with five-star hotels is not getting in and out of the rooms, but the fact that cameras are everywhere. My job is to make it look like nothing ever happened in this room, and like they were never here, when there is probably footage of this dickhead and the girl from the minute they hit the front lobby of the hotel. The trick will be finding the right person to pay off to get rid of all of that footage and getting this room clean. But first things first . . .

  "I want to be paid double for this clusterfuck."

  "Double?"

  "Yes, double."

  As if he has any choice.

  "I didn't pay that much last time."

  "You didn't kill anybody last time either."

  "Kill accidentally," he corrects me.

  "Tomato, tomahto."

  "I don't have that much money liquid to pay you."

  "So get it."

  "I'm just a civil servant. I don't make a huge salary, plus I'm totally mortgaged to the hilt. I don't think I can get that type of money."

  "Then I guess we don't have anything else to discuss." I start getting up to leave. "Your best bet is to call the police and plead to second degree. I'm sure in your line of work you know a good lawyer."

  Cliff runs over toward me in a panic. His hands up in a pleading formation.

  "Wait–I have something else you might want as payment," he says while gripping the front of my shirt in his fists. Funny how the mention of a plea sobers him right up.

  "Goddamn it, Clifford, you're getting that girl's blood all over me."

  I try quickly wiping off the blood, but actually only end up smearing it farther into the fibers of my shirt.

  "I'm sorry." He backs up. Wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand. "But I swear I have something you may want that's worth more than money."

  "What could you possibly have that would interest me other than money?" I ask while continuing to inspect the smeared fingerprints on my sweater. I really should keep some spare all-black sweats in my trunk like Roman does. It hides blood stains much better.

  "Information. I ran a background check on all three of you when I first hired you guys."

  My ears pop up at the mention of a background check. My brother has been very thorough in cleaning up our digital footprint. If there's something we don't want people to find, Camden has and still can make it go away with a few clicks of a mouse. So while I'm not exactly worried, I don't like that the district fucking attorney has been snooping into our business.

  "And?"

  "And there's someone in your file you may find interesting."

  "You're trying my patience, Clifford. Someone like who?"

  "Another family member."

  "Be more specific." I place my hand behind my back on Benny's handle again. "Quickly."

&nbs
p; Seven

  Cutter

  "Our investigators found another biological sibling," Newman finally spits out. "A brother."

  If there's one thing that I've never been good at, it's concealing the fact that I'll do anything for my brother, Camden. Family means everything to me, especially because I have so little of it. Our father was murdered. Our mother is gone too. We may have a couple of cousins somewhere out west, but I've never met them, so as far as I'm concerned there's just me and Cam. I don't like that Newman is trying to play me by using what he thinks is my one vulnerability.

  I start fingering the handle of Benny inside of my waistband, as I sneer at his statement, because I honestly would love to shoot him in the kneecaps right now. He's lying and I hate liars. It's just so unnecessary and it always causes problems.

  "I don't like people giving me the runaround, Newman. I thought you knew that about me. So good luck upstate, because I only have one brother, and you've met him."

  "I'm not lying. There's definitely another King brother, and I have a file on him. A very thick and interesting file. The information is yours if you help me tonight at the usual price."

  "Where's this supposed brother been all my life?"

  "It's in the file."

  "Who's child is he?" I say what I'm asking myself out loud, but I can only assume that any mystery kid out there would be my father's. I can't imagine my mom, the saint that she was, would have hidden some sort of love child from us.

  "It's in the file." Newman grins thinking that he's got me on the hook now.

  I pull Benny halfway out of my waistband.

  "I could just have Cam break into your hard drive and steal the fucking file. That is what he does for a living."

  Newman watches my hand closely but doesn't waver.

  "He could try."

  I smirk to myself. Maybe this guy does have a bit of balls left.