by Renee Strong
From the smirk on Bobby’s face that I could see from the corner of my eye, he wasn’t interested in business either. He was more interested in pissing me off. I braced myself for whatever irritating little gibe he had coming my way.
“Something go wrong on the job?” he said, taking a post-dinner cigarette from the pack. “That skinny little Irish asshole get the jump on you or something?”
I leaned my head to the right to crack it. Something popped loudly. I reminded myself to stay calm. Bobby knew he was pressing my buttons. Big brothers always know. It’s a perk of their job.
I bit at the hangnail again. “Yeah, and while I was getting my ass beat, you won a beauty contest.” I turned to stare at him. “Since we’re talking about things that would never happen.”
Beside him, Tommy and Vince, two of his most trusted guys, grinned. Bobby broke out into a smile, too. He was obviously in a good humor today—but I knew that could turn on a dime. Part of the reason I was so good at fighting was because he had whooped my ass plenty when I was a kid. At least until I was twelve and he was fourteen and I’d had enough. One day when I was in sixth grade, he pissed me off one too many times so I knocked his front tooth out. He never messed with me again.
“You got me there, little bro,” he said, blowing me a kiss. He stared for a second at me when I didn’t rise to the gesture of his air kiss and then turned to Tommy and Vince. “Have you guys ever seen a more morose-looking motherfucker in your life?”
Tommy shook his head but Vince looked confused.
“What’s morose, Bob?” Vince’s forehead furrowed deep as he pushed his thick, black eyebrows together in thought. “Is that a color?”
Bobby looked at him in disgust. He put down the cigarette he’d been about to light.
“Are you serious?” he asked Vince and Vince just looked more confused. Bobby looked to me and Tommy. “Is he serious?”
Tommy nodded, with a half-grin, and I shrugged.
Bobby shook his head. “Man, you are one dumb shit, Vince,” he said with a laugh and Tommy and I joined in with the laughter. “‘Maroon’ is the word you’re thinking of. ‘Moron’ is the word I’m thinking of for you.”
Tommy was laughing loud. He slapped his thigh in mirth. “Hey, you didn’t hire him for his brains,” Tommy said and I could see that Vince was working hard to keep the scowl off his face. There was a pecking order and Vince was at least smart enough to stay on the good side of it. Later, when he moved up the ranks, he might have an opportunity to exact his revenge on Tommy—or on me and Bobby, if needs be—but for now, he kept his mouth shut.
Smarter than he looks, I thought. Tommy could learn that the hard way.
Bobby lit his cigarette, his engraved lighter clanging as he flipped it shut. He took a long drag.
“True true,” he said through a puff of purple-grey smoke as he ruminated on Vince’s intelligence. “Vince here is the gopher. You, Tommy, are the trader.” He spread his hands wide. “I, of course, am the brains. And this asshole somehow managed to be the looks and the muscle.”
He stood up from Ma’s mahogany dining-room table and walked over to the armchair where I was sitting. He grabbed my cheek between his thumb and forefinger.
“Though if you ever ruin those looks, Ma will have my guts for garters,” he said in an annoying sing-song voice as he pinched me. He released by cheek but slapped it softly twice with his palm. “When you gonna make her happy and find a nice girl?”
My face must have flushed slightly or maybe he saw something flicker in my eyes but instantly he knew. You couldn’t be the son of our scheming rat bastard of a father without getting a sense of people. It was one of the only good things dear old Dad had passed onto us when he died. Seven bullets in the back was how Dad had been taken out. A murder by cowards. I sometimes wished that one of them had been mine but with one change—I’d have shot him in the front. Just so he could see my face before he died.
“So that’s it?” Bobby said. “You’re sitting here like the world just ran out of beer and titties because of some woman? Who is she?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said hotly and jerked my face away from him.
I hated when he was right—hated it even more when he knew he was right. He could needle a guy until he was ready to explode. It got him the upper hand in a lot of negotiations. But he also knew I wouldn’t explode at him, at least not in front of his boys. I respected him more than that. He used that respect as an excuse to torment me whenever he sensed an opportunity.
It wasn’t in a cruel way. Bobby was a good brother. In fact, he was the best. For all the ass whoopings he’d handed down to me when we were kids, and for all his joking, he was always looking out for me when I really needed him to. Still, like any big brother, he knew how to get under my skin like we were goddam kids again.
I picked up my jacket from the back of the chair and swung my arms through it quickly.
I wasn’t going to stay here to listen to him trying to make me snap. I was going to see Lexi. I had to explain to her that I wasn’t the guy she thought I was. Or maybe I was. But she felt something for me. I knew it. Just like what I felt for her. An instant connection that came out of nowhere.
I knew it was impulsive. I definitely knew it was stupid. There could be nothing between Lexi and me. You couldn’t bring a woman from outside this world into a lifestyle like mine and Bobby’s. She’d be bait on a hook for any scumbag or asshole out for revenge.
I had my “fuck ‘em and forget ‘em” rules for a reason. There was too much at risk to even think of having anything more than that.
But I couldn’t get that look on her face out of my head: That look of horror when she pieced together who I was.
I couldn’t have her be afraid of me. That wasn’t the memory I wanted to keep. Even if I never saw her again—and the reality was that I shouldn’t ever—she needed to know that I would never hurt her. I wanted to tell her that in person.
My head hurt. Not from alcohol—though I’d sneaked a couple of vodkas down the hatch earlier in my shift—but from thinking about things.
Had I done the right thing with Dominic? I’d flipped that question over again and again in my head and I was still no closer to an answer. I knew what I’d read about him in the papers…what I’d heard whispered about him by even the grizzled, old regulars in the bar. The guys who propped up my bar weren’t exactly altar boys. They’d seen some shit. And if they were afraid of Dominic and the De Lucas, they must be some scary people.
But in person, what I’d heard didn’t seem to fit Dominic. Sure, he was intense and forceful, but I’d also seen a hint of something sweeter and gentler when he smiled at me. Or maybe I saw what I’d wanted to see.
There wasn’t anyone I could talk to about this and my thoughts were just going in circles at this point. And, if I was being real with myself, some of those thoughts I wouldn’t have shared with anyone else. Like the ones about how a piece of me was excited by the fact he was in the mafia. He probably had a life of danger and adrenaline-filled moments unlike any I’d ever had. There was something quietly appealing to that.
I couldn’t put my thoughts in any good order. It didn’t help that the bar was quiet. Things didn’t usually heat up until late on a Sunday night, if they even did. It was only about five p.m. and there wasn’t even one regular in.
I’d cleaned the bar down so many times already that I’d lost count. It was still scuffed and scratched and in need of a new coat of paint, but there was no denying it was spotless. The floor—at least on my side of the bar—was swept clean. The bottle fridge was stocked. I’d lined up the clean trays of glasses on the end of the counter. I’d briefly considered polishing the glasses before I got a hold of myself. The G-String’s customers didn’t care if their glasses were polished. Heck, they didn’t even care if the glass was clean as long as you weren’t stingy with the measures.
My legs still felt a little weak after last night. Much as I told i
t not to, my mind kept dragging me back out to that alleyway—to Dominic’s smell, his taste, his heat as he brought me to the edge of feelings I’d never experienced.
The look of sadness on Dominic’s face sprang into my mind unbidden. That face he’d made before I closed the door on him.
Fuck, I thought. Maybe I should have given him time. A chance to explain. I tossed my cleaning rag down in frustration. It was too late now. Even if I wanted to talk to him, to hear his side of the story, I had no idea where to find him. Short of going down to the station and asking for an APB, anyway—or figuring out a way to piss off the mob.
As I started wiping the counter for the fiftieth time already, my thoughts finally got an interruption. It wasn’t one I welcomed. To the left of me, I got the whiff of whisky. I knew it was Mike, the G-String’s owner, before I even saw him. From the strength of that stench, he’d been hard at the supplies in the back office. That meant one of two things: he was about to get grabby or shouty. Either way, it meant my headache was about to get worse.
“Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,” he said behind me and I could feel his sour breath on my ear. “Did I ever tell you that I like a girl with a nice, fat ass?”
Great. He was about to get grabby. I stepped forward quickly before I turned around to look at him, far enough away to evade his lecherous grip.
“Mike,” I said with a snarl. “Come with my pay, I hope? And a little extra danger money since you still haven’t gotten that damn sensor light fixed in the alley?”
His face twisted into a scowl and he moved nimbly forward and grabbed my arm in his hairy, gnarled paw.
Shit, I thought. I had misjudged how drunk he was. He was steadier on his feet than I had expected and quick to react, and now I had the stank of his whisky breath right in my face for my troubles.
“What did you say to me?” he bellowed and I recoiled from the smell. His fingers tightened around my arm and his voice got louder. “What did you dare say to me in my own fucking bar?”
I shifted a little and wriggled my arm to try to wrench free of his grip. It was no use. He had me in a death grip, and he wasn’t about to let go. I’m not a small girl—I have some weight to put behind a punch—but Mike is bulky. An ex-boxer, I think, retired early because he couldn’t keep off the sauce. From what I’d heard, in his last fight, he’d pissed himself from drunkenness. I cursed myself for letting what I’d heard about him sway my judgment. His patheticness had made me underestimate him; blinded me to the threat he posed to me. He obviously still had a lot of his strength—and it looked like he was intent on using it to teach me a lesson.
I steeled myself against the assault, rage building in me at his behavior. After all the shit I’d done for him—the late nights, the backbreaking labor—I did not deserve to be treated like this for asking for what I owed. Or for him to put his dirty hands on me.
From the pit of my belly, I let a roar at him.
“You fucking let go of me right now, Mike Barron, or I will clock you one.”
I meant it. Even if I went down, I’d go down swinging. I wasn’t about to be bullied by Mike or anyone. As much as I meant to carry through on the threat, I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that; that he’d realize what he was doing.
Under his grip, the bar felt small and like it was closing in around me. I told myself not to panic, to keep myself standing firm and proud.
I thought I knew how to deal with Mike. He’d been like this before—threatening—but never with a grip as tight as now. The pain of it was burning my skin. I couldn’t keep putting up with this, I decided. The mistreatment and the constant lecherousness and unpredictable behavior. Years of repressed rage about how he treated me were starting to bubble up.
This was the final straw. But what would I do without this job? I’d put up with him acting the ass before because he was always so sorry after he’d backed me into a corner to shout at me. He had to be sorry. Who else would run this place for him like I did? No one.
And I, because I needed this job, had learned to take his simpering, pathetic apologies; worked hard to swallow down my fury when he was acting out of line. That gnawed at me constantly.
Still, I’d always reassured myself that I could handle it because I was strong and tough. Usually, it took a few choice words and he came back to his senses.
This time though, he looked really pissed. I suddenly remembered why. He and whatever-her-name-was who he’d been banging and parading around the bar for the past month had just broken up. Publically, in the front of the whole bar. I knew she was trouble when I saw her. She was all tits and teeth and dollar signs in her eyes. And Mike had learned that pretty recently, too.
A couple of nights ago, she’d broken up with him in front of a packed house of regulars. She’d made some crack about how he couldn’t get it up before leaving to the sound of the regulars guffawing.
I hadn’t laughed. I’d felt sorry for Mike—protective even. I’m sarcastic by nature and know I can be cutting but I had no time for anyone being plain bitchy and mean.
Right now, as he twisted my arm, my nobler instincts didn’t matter. It didn’t look like Mike remembered or cared that I had defended him when she did it, that I’d yelled after her to keep her trashy ass out of this bar. At the moment, he was mad at all women and I just happened to be the woman who had reminded him of that fact.
“You’ve got some gutter-whore mouth on you, you know that?” Mike hissed. He grabbed at my other arm and I flailed it away just in time.
“Mike, stop it,” I said, a tinge of panic creeping into my voice. I was not in control of this situation. I was always in control of every situation. I didn’t like this feeling. Things were fast going to hell. “You’re hurting me now.”
He’d gone too far. Never had he refused to let me go when I told him to. In my fast-rising panic, it occurred to how stupid my lamentations from earlier that evening had been. All this time I’d been worrying about the threat outside of the bar, of the big bad mob, when the real threat was someone I’d known for years.
Mike’s face had gotten deep-red and furious. The sight of him disgusted me—the flecks of spittle that sat on his lips, the hairs that sprouted from his nose, the broken veins that crisscrossed his cheeks. He was close enough that I could make out every horrible feature in excruciating detail.
“You’ve got to learn when to shut up,” he growled and he pulled his fist backward. I flinched and closed my eyes in anticipation of the impact.
Instead, the moment was interrupted by the crash of glass shattering in the background.
Calculation. That’s what I’m known for. I never take down a mark without having considered all the angles. That’s why Bobby trusts me with enforcement. Ever since I was a kid, outside of the times he kicked my butt, I have never been beaten in a fight. The neighborhood kids all lined up to take their best shots and left with bloodied lips for their troubles. That’s because I hold my nerve. I keep my cool and assess the situation rationally before I take action. I look for the best ways to take an opponent down; I find his weak spot and make him regret whatever it was he did.
I never act without thinking. Even when a fight breaks out unexpectedly, I take a moment to plan my next moves before I starting taking fools down.
But when I walked into Lexi’s bar and I saw that clown manhandling her, it was like this red mist came down. I didn’t stop for even a split second to think about what I was about to do. I heard her tell him to let go of her and then I was just hurtling, full speed, toward the wooden bar.
I haven’t tried the long jump since way back in junior high but I cleared that bar in one steady jump, sending a tray of glasses crashing to the floor.
In two seconds flat, I was right on top of them. The ugly old bastard had dropped his grip on her arm in surprise and he actually looked like he was considering taking me on. That idiot. He pulled his arm back to take a swing at me but he didn’t get a chance to act before my fist was smashing into his face.
His n
ose cracked loudly and he screamed out in pain. I took a hold of the inside of the bar, put my foot up, and kicked him in the stomach as hard as I could.
Winded, he fell to the ground in one thump like the heavy sack of shit he was, moaning and writhing on the floor.
I planted my two feet each side of his torso so I could stare down at him—to show him what a useless pile of scum he was.
“You don’t treat a woman like that,” I screamed over him, and the mist got thicker and thicker as the image of him hurting Lexi replayed in my head again. I reached for a bottle off the sideboard and brought it up to whack over his great, stupid melon head. “You never hurt a woman.”
A whimper came again, and my temper flared more at what a coward piece of shit he really was—tough enough to hurt a lady but not tough enough to take a punch.
But then I realized the sound hadn’t come from him. It had come from Lexi. She sounded scared. Fuck. My heart dropped in my chest with sadness. I’d come here so that she wouldn’t be scared of me. If I bashed this cock stain’s face in, she wasn’t likely to get less afraid.
“Please don’t hurt him any more, Dominic,” I heard her say and her voice was thin and panicked.
I turned to look at her and her eyes were wide, pleading.
“He’s learned his lesson and I’m safe now,” she said softly but firmly. “You can put the bottle down.”
She stepped toward me and grabbed the arm that was wielding the bottle, stroking my arm as she brought it back down. She took the bottle gently from my hand and stood it back on the sidebar, all without breaking my gaze.
I could feel the mist start to dissipate, the anger leaving my body. She was safe and she looked less frightened now. My insides flushed warm to think that I had done that. I wasn’t used to being the rescuer—or to having people look less afraid after I show up. But Lexi was looking at me with an expression I’d never seen directed my way before. I couldn’t place what it was but it made me want to stop fighting.
