Indebted To A King

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  "It's not fun having a gun pointed at you is it," I say snidely as he continues heaving.

  "Listen, jackass, you better–" He tries speaking but can't finish his sentence.

  "Still talking shit, huh?"

  Whap!

  I knock him out with the butt of my gun, before he can finish his idle threats. I've had enough of playing nice with Federal Agent Rick.

  "What have you done?" Newman cries out. Probably afraid that his brother-in-law is dead.

  "New plan. We've got roughly ten to ten minutes to get ghost. I already have a cleanup crew coming here to take care of the body, and I've got a car coming that's going to take you to a safe house. There's no phone there. No Internet. Just a TV, a bed, and a kitchenette. Don't do anything but sit in there and watch some Law & Order reruns or go to sleep. We'll figure out how you're going to make the wire and file transfers later. Understood?"

  "But–"

  "Am I fucking understood?"

  "Yes, but what about Rick?" Newman asks reluctantly. His eyes fill with panic. "Is he going to be okay?"

  "Don't worry about Rick," I assure him. "I've got this."

  Eight

  Sloan

  "So how much do you need?"

  "Five hundred."

  My mouth is agape. Sometimes I forget just how cavalier seventeen-year-old girls can be, but then again, why am I surprised? It's my baby sister. This is what she does.

  The day got away from me, so I ended up meeting Dawn for a late dinner instead of lunch at a restaurant that’s walking distance from my office.

  "What do you need it for?"

  "For prom."

  "For prom? Ask Dad for it."

  "Daddy doesn't have it."

  "Dad doesn't have five hundred dollars? I seriously doubt that. What's more likely is that you've already asked him and he said no, or you haven't even bothered asking him at all. Why ask him when I'm around, right?"

  My sister, Dawn, stares me down with a mixture of disdain and the totally judgmental look of an entitled teenager. She thinks because I'm dressed in designer clothes, and that I have an expensive handbag fetish, that I should willingly serve as her own personal ATM machine. As if I owe her something. As if I don't work my ass off every day for the things I have. We're close to nine years apart, and sometimes I think her generation is totally a lost cause, and she's their poster child.

  Sometimes, though, I think I understand her.

  She's angry.

  She was the love child of my philandering father and his "soul mate" of the year. Dawn's mother Marsha. Unfortunately I was the one who ended up growing up with my father in the house (because my parents were married and still are), and all she got were infrequent phone calls and birthday money in the mail. So of course she's angry about that.

  What she doesn't understand, or maybe the better word is believe, is that living with our father was no day at the beach either. In many ways she probably dodged a bullet, because I'm pretty sure being raised by him has ruined any chance I have of ever being in a normal relationship with a man.

  "I couldn't ask Daddy for the money."

  "Why?"

  "He's away in Boston on business and evidently cell phones don't work in Boston," she says sarcastically.

  "So you're saying that Dad didn't return any of your calls? Did you leave him a message?"

  "The first thirty times I did."

  "Really, Dawn? Thirty times."

  "Okay, maybe not that much, but I definitely called him like three or four times and left a message."

  I send my father a quick text. My father's cell phone is practically attached to his hip and always has been. It's out of character for him not to respond. Hopefully he'll see my message, because he knows how to handle Dawn and her drama a lot better than the rest of us.

  "Well maybe he didn't call you back because he knows all you want is money. That's all you ever call him for anyway."

  "And so what if I do? He probably owes me thousands of dollars in back child support. How does someone who has made millions of dollars in his lifetime never have any money?"

  Funny how I often ask myself the same thing.

  "Listen I have things to do tonight," I say in the middle of a forced yawn. "I don't have time to discuss everything that's wrong with our father. That could take all night. I just need to know what you need this money for before I give it to you."

  Dawn's eyes start to dart all around the room in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact with me. I am quite familiar with this aversion tactic. Except when I did it, I was only seven years old.

  "This isn't about prom is it. Jesus Christ, Dawn, are you pregnant or something?"

  "Uh, no and why is that the first thing you assume about me?"

  I openly sigh.

  "Can you please stop trying to act like you're some sort of vestal virgin. You and I both know that there is always a possibility that you could be pregnant. Not using birth control and ditching the gynecologist appointment that your mother made for you last month widens the likelihood of that."

  I already know that Dawn is having sex and isn't on any birth control. Her mother has called me several times crying and begging for me to use my so-called "sisterly influence" to get her to stop spreading her legs. As if anyone could stop a hormonal teenager from getting their rocks off.

  Marsha's got a lot of nerve anyway. My father's one-time mistress has little room to judge anyone about their sexuality. She slept with a married man (my dad) for over a year, then sued him publicly for paternity when she was barely twenty-two years old herself, but I guess you see things differently when it's your kid.

  "I told you that I'm not putting synthetic hormones into my body only to make the pharmaceutical companies rich when I get cancer twenty years later."

  A not so subtle jab at what I do for a living.

  "Fine–you don't want to use birth control pills? Well last time I checked, there's no capitalist conspiracy around the sale and use of condoms."

  "I'm allergic to them."

  "You sound ridiculous. Did your boyfriend tell you that, so you wouldn't ask him to use a condom? Latex allergies aren't even that common."

  "I'm not pregnant, okay. Let's stop talking about my sex life."

  I wish she'd just spit whatever it is out then. I'm obviously going to help her no matter what she tells me. I always do. I'd just like to know the details before I do. The last thing I feel like doing is pulling teeth to get the answers though.

  "I need to get going so–"

  I pull out my Tokyo Tea colored matte lip creme and apply it liberally to my lips. Checking my reflection in the butter knife on the table. It's the only pop of color I allow myself on my otherwise nude makeup look.

  "Okay, you win. I'm in a smidgeon of trouble. I'm on the after-prom committee at my school. It was my subcommittee's job to buy lights to decorate the room. Stuff like string lights and strobe lighting. The budget was five hundred dollars."

  "And?"

  "I didn't need to buy the lights right away, so I loaned the money temporarily to someone. I thought I'd have it back by now, but they're short. They don't have the whole five, and I couldn't buy the lights. Now the prom chair wants to see what I've bought and my receipts for the lights by the next meeting, or she wants the cash back so she can do it herself. The little control freak that she is."

  "The committee gave you cash?"

  Idiots.

  "Uh, yeah. We held a couple of candy bar fundraisers to raise the money, and that's what you get when you sell candy–a whole lot of singles."

  "So you loaned a friend money that didn't belong to you?"

  "Yes." She rolls her eyes. Apparently tired of my interrogation. "It wouldn't have been an issue if my friend had stuck to the agreement. I thought I'd have the money back a long time ago."

  "Who is this friend?"

  "Relax, Wonder Woman. I don't need you to go beat him up for me. I just need you to temporarily loan me the money while I work i
t out."

  "So it's a him."

  That answers that question. It's got to be the guy she's dating. David, Darren, Damien . . . something like that. It has to be that loser.

  "Give me your phone."

  I grab Dawn's cell phone off of the table without waiting for her consent and start scrolling through her text messages until I land on the loser's name. It's definitely Damien, because there are a lot of ridiculous heart emoji's next to his name. Something about that irritates me even more, so I change my mind about sending him a nasty text, and decide to call him instead. I press down on the number under his contact, put him on speaker, and wait patiently while it rings.

  "What are you doing, Sloan?! Please, give me–"

  I swat her hand away.

  "Hey, babe–"

  "Hello, Damien," I say brightly. "This is Dawn's sister Sloan. Heard of me?"

  "Oh, sure. The sister. What's up?"

  "What's up is I need you to give my sister back that five hundred dollars she lent you. Today would be fantastic."

  "I don't have it, and I ain't going to have it," Damien scoffs. "It was a gift from Dawn, not a loan, and if you really want me to keep it a hundred percent real–what Dawn and I give each other is really none of your business."

  The nerve of this degenerate.

  "Well guess what? Let me keep it real with you as well. My seventeen-year-old sister doesn't have that kind of money to gift to anyone. So you will give it back, or I'll be pressing charges first thing Monday morning."

  "Press what charges? I didn't steal any money from her."

  "Not for theft, idiot. For statutory rape. Trust me, judges love to send jerks like you to jail for a year on a statutory charge. You're too old to be messing around with a girl in high school."

  "Cunt," I hear him mutter under his breath. Clear as day.

  "What did you just say?" I ask in an appalled voice. My ears are burning. God, I hate that word "Did you just call me . . . a cunt?"

  I can barely say the word without gagging.

  "Yeah, I said it."

  "Just get the money, jackass."

  And then I hang up.

  After ending the call, I notice that Dawn is staring at me with watery eyes. If she starts full-out crying I swear I'm going to toss a glass of water in her face. All she cares about is the way I talked to her boyfriend and not the fact that the user basically stole five hundred dollars from her . . . and called me names!

  "What?" I say in a clipped tone.

  "I can't believe you did that!"

  "I did and you're welcome."

  "You've just ruined my entire life, and that's all you have to say?!"

  "Ruined your entire life? Don't you think that you're being a little overly dramatic?"

  "Of course you'd say that. You haven't had a boyfriend since . . . never. And just for your information, Damien is twenty-one, not forty! That statutory rape threat was really below the belt. We're only four years apart, and we're in love with each other."

  "You love a boy who just called your sister a cunt? That's what we're doing now? Falling in love with disrespectful assholes who steal from you? That's just wonderful. I'm so proud."

  After we both finish our meals in awkward silence, I stand up and check my reflection again using my camera app. I've spent enough time cleaning up the latest Pearson family mess, and I'm ready to go. I place a couple of twenties on the table before I leave.

  “Dinner and an Uber ride home are on me. When do you meet again with the committee?"

  "Tuesday," she replies as a tear rolls down her face.

  I pretend not to see it. My sister often uses crying as a manipulation strategy. Not really sure where she learned that tried and true technique. Marsha isn't a crier and neither is our side of the family.

  "That gives your guy plenty of time to raise the money. I'm sure he can sell a few nickel bags or something over the weekend and get you the cash."

  "My boyfriend does not sell marijuana!"

  "Uh-huh." As if I believe that. He sounded high on the phone just now. "Anyway, if you don't have the money in your hands by Sunday night, call me."

  Hope lights up her eyes. "And you'll give it to me?"

  "No, I'm going to go over to his house with a freakin' baseball bat and get it myself."

  My sister wipes her eyes and then gives me a deflated look.

  "Don't."

  "Get the money from him and I won't have to."

  "I don't mean beating him up, because I know you'd never actually do that. I mean don't talk about him like that, because I really love him, Sloan. I just wish you'd be a little nicer. I'm not sure why but it seems like you already decided to hate him the moment I told you about him."

  "Because you don't listen. Haven't I told you a thousand times? Stop going for the bad boys. The fake gangsters with hard bodies. The dumb ones with the souped up cars and tattoos on their necks. The ones who are always broke and full of excuses. Having a father and a fistful of fake uncles just like him wasn't enough for you? Find yourself a nice, soft in the middle, nerd. One that thinks that you're the best thing since sliced bread. A guy that knows the true meaning of respect. A guy who wouldn't dare call your sister the c word."

  "So you want me to bang the type of boring guys you do all the time is what you're basically advising," she spits out caustically.

  Ugh, the mouth on this girl.

  "Exactly, little grasshopper." I pat the top of her head in a patronizing manner as I leave, even though I'd rather give her hair a good yank.

  "But what kind of advice is that? It never works out for you," she says snidely.

  "Yeah well, my guys don't steal from me. Call me if you end up needing my assistance, baby sis," I say on my way out.

  "Forget I even asked."

  "Trust me, I wish I could."

  Nine

  Sloan

  Not two minutes after stepping outside of the restaurant does a skinny, stringy-haired boy approach me with an ugly frown across his face. The kind that looks permanently etched there. I know immediately who it is. The damn bum made it here in record time.

  "Are you that Sloan bitch?"

  There he goes again with the name calling. And does this creeper have a tracker on my sister's phone? How did he know where to find us so quickly?

  I stare at him quizzically. Trying to figure out what my sister sees in this ameba. I don't get it.

  "That's me."

  "You had a lot of shit to say on the phone a few minutes ago. Why don't you say it now that I'm here?"

  "If you need me to repeat myself, I have no problem with that," I say in the most condescending voice I can muster. "Give my sister her money back, because she did not give it to you, she lent it to you. And especially because it wasn't even her money to lend."

  "How about this is none of your business. Dawn can fight her own battles."

  "So, you're admitting that this has become a battle. You're admitting that you're not going to willingly pay back the money you owe her?"

  "If or when I pay her back has nothing to do with you. So I'm warning you for the last time to stay out of it."

  He finishes his cautionary statement with an air of finality then sticks his greasy forehead to the restaurant's large glass pane window. I assume to look for my sister but primarily to dismiss me.

  "Or what?" I ask bravely or stupidly depending on how you want to look at the situation.

  He turns back around, surprised and apparently irritated that I've challenged him. It's obvious that he has a problem with women. A major one. Maybe his mother didn't hold him enough when he was a baby or something, because I see nothing but pure hatred in his eyes.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said or what," I repeat not backing down. "What exactly are you going to do if I don't stay out of it?"

  "This, bitch."

  The only time I've ever been hit in the face was in the middle of an underground game of fifth grade recess dodgeball. We weren't supposed to b
e playing dodgeball at all, according to the new school "acceptable game play" rules. But a group of the school's fifth grade renegades didn't like to follow rules (myself included), and unfortunately, I paid the price.

  Little Joey McFallon was doing his best to get out of the way of the ball and accidentally elbowed me in the eye. Hard. I thought I saw a few stars then, but my sister's deadbeat boyfriend punching me in the eye–hurts ten times worse.

  "Ouchhhh!!!"

  I hate the feel of Philadelphia concrete.

  Especially when it's against the side of my face.

  Cold. Bumpy. Hard. Unforgiving.

  I can hear the devil spawn's laughter bouncing around in the air above my head. Apparently proud of what he's done.

  "Told you to mind your business."

  I know that I've got to get up, even though I'd rather stay curled up in a ball on the ground. When he hit me, I didn't just fall down–I slid. So the part of my face that skidded against the sidewalk feels like it's been ripped to shreds. Everything hurts. I don't want to move. But this guy is a maniac, and I can't let him anywhere near my sister again. So I keep trying to move. To get up. It's difficult though, because not only is my face on fire, but one side of my hip is bruised. I must have hurt it on impact.

  Then the laughing suddenly stops.

  And I hear three rapid sounds.

  Bap. Bap. Bap.

  They sound like kicks or jabs into a person's stomach or chest. I'm not quite sure which. Definitely something squishy. Then Damien drops to the ground next to me. His face close to mine. His arms around his middle. His eyes rolling up inside of his head.

  What on earth?

  I try getting up off the ground one more time. Disoriented. Not really sure what's going on with me or around me. Every hair on the back of the neck leaps to attention.

  "Don't move, princess."

  Holy. Hell.

  I know that voice.

  Cutter effin' King gently slides his hands and forearms underneath my body. Effortlessly lifting me up and curling my body into his. When the side of my face accidentally rubs against his jacket I wince in pain. It feels like a cheese grater shredded my face, but it smells divine. Like leather and musk.