by R. R. Banks
“Are you certain of that?” Trujillo asks.
I nod. “Yes, I'm sure.”
He looks at me for a long moment, a look of skepticism on his face, which makes my stomach churn even more. Yeah, if this little meeting doesn't end soon, I'm going to puke all over the place right in front of him.
“I'm not certain you are, Michael,” he says. “I think I need to do a better job of making you understand the gravity of the situation you're in.”
Images of severed limbs, decapitated and eviscerated bodies fill my mind – all courtesy of the photos of his handiwork Trujillo has shown me. As I imagine myself winding up like those poor assholes, my stomach roils, my balls are tighter than ever before, and I'm closer to vomiting than I've been in years.
Trujillo signals to his driver and the large Mexican man opens the back door of the SUV again. He reaches in and I hear someone sobbing. The driver drags a man out of the back – he had obviously been “worked over” by the cartel already. The driver pushes the man down to his knees in front of Trujillo and puts his large hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.
The man on his knees is sobbing and Trujillo looks down at him, a look of absolute disgust on his face. The man's face is a bruised, bloody mess. His eyes are swollen closed, his lips are split, and when he opens his mouth to breathe – no doubt, because he can't breathe through the mess that was once his nose – I can see that he's missing a number of teeth. It's going to take weeks, if not months, for this poor schmuck to heal. Who knows if he'll ever breathe correctly again.
If Trujillo wanted to make an impression on me, he did. In spades.
“I get it, Mr. Trujillo,” I say quickly. “I understand the seriousness of the situation and believe me when I say –”
“This man,” Trujillo says, cutting me off as if I hadn't been speaking, “owes me ten thousand dollars. Substantially less than you, yes?”
I nod slowly, the queasiness in my belly growing worse by the second. Trujillo looks at me intently, letting me know the question is not rhetorical and he's expecting an answer.
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Substantially.”
Trujillo nods. “This man was one of my distributors. A nephew of mine, actually,” he says. “Moved a lot of product for me and always did a good job. But, he got careless. Sloppy. Got some product stolen.”
The fact that Trujillo is willing to do this to somebody in his family doesn't bode well for me. I can only imagine what he'll do to me if I let him down.
“This man thought that because he's my sister's kid, he can do whatever he wants without consequence,” Trujillo says.
The man on his knees shakes his head, speaking as quickly as he can through his busted-up mouth. His voice is thick and he's speaking in Spanish, meaning I don't understand a damn word of what he's saying. But, I don't need to be fluent in the language to know that he's begging and pleading for his life.
“But, there are always consequences to our actions,” Trujillo continues. “Don't you agree, Michael?”
I open my mouth to speak but find that my throat is dry and my tongue so thick, I can't form words at all. Instead, all I do is nod. Trujillo smirks, obviously understanding that I'm doing my best to project an image of confidence that I don't truly feel. Truth is, I'm downright fucking terrified right now.
“A man should always be true to his word,” Trujillo says. “After all, if our word, as men, means nothing, what else do we have?”
I shake my head, not understanding what he means. Although, the irony of a man like Trujillo speaking about being true to his word –a drug and gun dealing murderer – is not lost on me. Though, he doesn't seem to see it.
“When a man gives me his word,” Trujillo says, “I expect him to hold true to that word. To be honorable. To do what he says what he'll do.”
Trujillo looks to me, obviously expecting an answer from me again. Still unable to speak, I nod again vigorously. A predatory smile crosses his face and I watch as his eyes seem to grow even blacker – something I didn't think was possible.
“I'm glad you agree, Michael,” he says. “This man does not know the meaning of honor. Does not believe in being true to his word.”
The man on his knees is shaking his head, his voice growing louder as he begs and pleads. Trujillo looks at him, the disgust on his face and the coldness in his eyes growing with each passing moment.
“I am giving you this demonstration to remind you of your obligations,” Trujillo says.
I nod and like a rusted gate finally breaking open, my voice erupts from my throat. “I understand, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “And, don't worry, I'm a man of my word. I will get you the money I owe you. I swear it.”
Trujillo looks at me for a long moment, as if he has some sort of lie detector in his head that's weighing and judging the truthfulness of my words. Finally, he gives me a small nod.
“I'm so glad to hear that, Michael,” he says. “I like a man who puts value on his word. I respect that.”
I nod, hoping this meeting is over. I need a goddamn drink. Or twelve. Trujillo nods to his driver and I stare in stupefied horror as the large man pulls a chrome plated pistol out of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and I find myself noticing the stupidest things – the way the moonlight glints off the cold steel of the gun barrel, the smell of the man pissing himself, and the dark pool of liquid spreading out beneath him.
Standing rooted to the spot, terror sending electrical jolts through my veins, I watch as the big man puts the barrel of the gun against the kneeling man's head. I see the bright flash of the gun, hear the muffled sound of the shot, and then feel the warm, sticky spray of the man's brain and blood splash across my face. I watch as the man falls over onto his side, limp, blood pouring out of the large, ragged exit wound on the side of his head.
His body hits the gravel with a wet, meaty thud, his eyes wide, sightless, staring at the cold light of the moon in the sky overhead. And before I was aware of it, or able to stop it, I double over, hands on my knees, and watch in horror as a stream of vomit comes shooting out of my mouth like the goddamn Exorcist or something. The taste is awful, and my head is spinning, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. It takes some effort to keep from passing out.
Eventually, the vomit stops and I'm able to get myself under control. More or less. I stand up and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Looking down, I look at my vomit mixing with the blood on the ground, feeling a bit guilty that I'd puked all over a dead man. Trujillo is staring at me with a small amused grin touching the corners of his mouth.
“I am confident you understand the gravity of the situation now, Michael,” he says.
My eyes riveted on the corpse at my feet, I just shake my head, my body growing numb.
“Excellent,” he says. “Now, if I were you, I would throw that body over that embankment. Let it roll down into the forest below. Should take quite a while for it to be discovered.”
I look at him, horrified. The last thing I want to do is touch the corpse. But, when I look at Trujillo, it's clear that this is part of the lesson he's trying to teach me. Reinforcing what happened tonight in my mind. He gives me another nod and walks back to the SUV, allowing the driver to open the door for him.
I watch as the car drives off, leaving me standing there alone in the darkness. Well, not entirely. Not if you count the corpse at my feet. Not knowing I had anything left in me, I double over and puke all over the body of the dead man again. Apparently, I needed to add more insult to his injury.
“Sorry, kid,” I say.
As I struggle to drag the body over to the hill at the edge of the rest stop, adrenaline is coursing through me and my heart is thundering in my chest. If Trujillo can do this to his nephew, the thought of what he'll do to me leaves me breathless, my stomach tied in knots.
I look at the face of the dead man a moment before pushing him over the edge, listening as he rolls noisily through the undergrowt
h, not knowing how in the fuck I'm going to come up with the money I owe Trujillo.
Chapter Two
Brayden
“Look, man,” I say, “in the long run, you're going to be better off. She wasn't good for you, Trey.”
My best friend looks at me and downs the shot of bourbon in his glass. His eyes are red and rheumy, a look of misery etched upon his face. Trey sniffs loudly and slams his glass down on the bar, drawing the attention of a few of the people sitting around us.
“I loved her, man,” he says.
I nod and pat him on the shoulder. “I know you did, man.”
We're sitting at the bar in the Yellow Rose Lounge, a quiet place where people can go to have a drink and conversation. Furnished in dark woods, with soft, dim lighting, it's more peaceful than your average watering hole. The music is kept low enough that you don't have to shout to be heard, and the flat panel televisions showing highlights from various games are kept on mute.
The Yellow Rose is a lounge that caters to business professionals and people who want to have a quiet drink, a mellow conversation, or be alone with their thoughts. There are plenty of bars in Austin that cater to the hellraisers and I've been known to patronize those places now and then.
But, it's also nice to have a place like the Yellow Rose for times when I need some quiet solitude. Or, when I need help nursing a friend through a bad, bitter breakup. The bartender pours Trey another shot – which he immediately downs.
“Might as well leave the bottle,” I say.
The bartender pauses and gives me a considering look, knowing he shouldn't leave a bottle with customers. I think it's a law or something. Reaching into my pocket, I drop a couple of hundreds down on the bar, which seems to relieve him of his inner-conflict. He quickly scoops up the cash, sets the bottle down, and strolls down to the other end of the bar.
I pour Trey another shot, which he downs almost instantly and then holds his glass up for another. Not wanting to see him pass out or die from alcohol poisoning, I know I need to pace him. I set the bottle back down on the bar in front of me and turn to my friend.
“I know you can't see it now, but this is a good thing, man,” I say. “You have your freedom back. You're young, good looking, have a great job – just think about how much pussy you're going to get.”
“I don't want pussy,” he moans. “I want Stephanie back.”
I groan inwardly. Stephanie is a terrible human being. I haven't liked her since they first started dating back when we were all going to Stanford together. She was always too pretentious and condescending for my liking. Always looked down on people and seemed to think that she was better than everyone else.
No, Stephanie and I never got on well at all. I know that it’s always bugged Trey, but some people just don't click. I never went out of my way to be an asshole to her – at least, not usually. But, I was never overly-friendly to her either. I have a hard time making nice with somebody I despise.
Truthfully, I want to do fucking cartwheels and throw a party now that she's out of Trey's life. I genuinely think he'll be better off without her. And that he'll find a much better woman. I pour out another shot – a smaller amount this time – and Trey pounds it down, slamming his shot glass onto the bar again.
“I really thought she was the one, man,” he says, sniffing loudly.
“Yeah, well, I don't want to be an asshole,” I say, “but you usually aren't going to find the ‘one’ down on her knees sucking some other guy off in your house.”
I feel bad for slapping Trey with such a hard dose of reality, but he needs it. Stephanie is about as close to the one for him as I am. I tried telling him that back in college. I've always suspected she had a side piece, but I couldn't ever prove it. And mentioning it to Trey was as useful as talking to a brick wall about it. All he ever saw in Stephanie was the good. Or at least, what he perceived to be good. But really, there is not much that's good about that woman.
Personally, I'm glad that he went home early that day to surprise her. I’m glad he walked in on her with that guy's dick in her mouth. Seeing that firsthand, as much as I’m sure it was painful, was about the only thing that could pull off the rose-colored glasses he's always seen Stephanie through. Receiving that cold slap of visual proof of what a conniving, backstabbing bitch she truly was – is the only thing that could pry him away from her.
At last, he got to see her for the selfish, gold-digger I've always known her to be. I just hate that Trey is hurting so badly because of it. Because of her.
“I still can't believe she'd do this to me,” he says, shaking his head.
I can. I've believed it for years, and maybe this is just me being a bit of an asshole, but I feel slightly vindicated by it.
“I know, Trey,” I say. “I know you can't.”
“You tried to tell me,” he says, tapping his glass against the bottle. “You tried to tell me years ago. Don't think I forgot about that. I was a fucking jerk to not listen to you. You were right about her. All along, you were fucking right.”
I wouldn't go so far as to call him a fucking jerk, but a lovesick idiot, yeah. I pour him another shot and watch him power it down, his eyes growing glassy, and starting to sway on his barstool.
“You're not a jerk, man,” I say. “I get it. You were in love –”
“I was a fucking idiot,” he slurs.
“Don't worry about it,” I say. “We all do stupid shit, man. Especially when it comes to people we love – no matter how unworthy they are.”
Trey nods and slides off his barstool. He stands there on unsteady legs for a minute, looking at me through eyes shimmering with tears. He pats me on the shoulder and gives me a shaky nod.
“Gotta take a piss,” he slurs.
I watch him as he walks to the rear of the bar toward the bathrooms, swaying and staggering a bit as he goes. I shake my head. Trey is in bad shape and I don't know how to snap him out of it. I'm not very good when it comes to touchy-feely shit. Not really my area of expertise. It's also probably one of the reasons I've never been in a long-term relationship like Trey.
I down a shot and pour myself another. Looking at my watch, I curse under my breath. It's getting late and I've got a big meeting in the morning. I'm trying to close a deal on a big redevelopment project in Dallas and I need to be sharp. This project is potentially worth millions and I can't afford to drop the ball because I'm exhausted and hungover. I need to go over a few notes and get some shut-eye. I can't really afford to hold Trey's hand all night.
Maybe if I give him a few more shots, I can get him drunk enough to take him home and get him into bed to sleep it off. I figure I can check up on him again after my meeting. That's what I'm going to do. I hope that doesn't make me a complete shitheel.
Raised voices further down the bar draw my attention. The Rose isn't a place where you're going to see a lot of barfights – the clientele is usually more sedate and staid than that. So, when I hear the angry voices, I get a bad feeling that Trey is somehow involved, given his current state of mind and level of intoxication.
Turning to look, I'm not surprised to see him standing in front of a couple of guys – guys I've never seen in here before. Big and rugged, they look like they just stepped off a construction site. Trey isn't a small guy, but these two are a lot bigger than he is. Trey is hammered, which means he's going to be running his mouth more than usual because he's probably feeling fucking bulletproof right now.
Jumping off my stool, I rush down to where they are standing, nearly nose-to-nose. The tension and anger are thick in the air, as is the unspoken threat of violence. It's a heavy and oppressive feeling – much like the air just before a thunderstorm splits the sky open.
I step over and put a hand on Trey's chest, giving him a gentle, but firm push backward, before stepping in front of him and facing the two men. Dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and flannels, their work boots dirty and scuffed, I'm probably right about them being construction workers. Given that this place is
usually host to attorneys, accountants, and other white-collar kind of professionals, these two are not the typical clientele at the Rose.
Mixed in with a crowd of people in designer suits – suits that probably cost more than they bring home in a month – they stand out like a sore thumb, truth be told.
“What's the problem here?” I ask.
“Your boyfriend here bumped into us,” the first man says. “Made me spill my goddamn drink.”
He's half a foot shorter than I am, but thicker through the shoulders and chest, and has arms as big around as my thigh. He's got dark eyes, a cleanly shaved head, and a thick, dark goatee shot through with gray. The other man is younger and is about the same height as the first guy, but has dirty blond hair that hangs to his shoulders. It looks greasy, like it hasn't been washed in weeks. He's got a full beard, blue eyes, but isn't nearly as big as his buddy.
“You'll have to excuse him,” I say. “He's had a tough day and has had a little too much to drink.”
“I don't give a fuck what his problem is,” the first guy says, puffing up his chest while staring daggers at me.
I sigh, physically trying to keep my temper from boiling up and over. The last thing I want is to get into a fight with these two clowns. I'm not as bulky as they are – I was a swimmer in college, so I'm leaner and toned, rather than bulky. But, I took Jiu-Jitsu lessons for years when I was younger and know how to take care of myself. I'm not intimidated by these two clowns in the least.
“Look,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice even. “Let me buy you two a round and let's call it a night.”
“Not until your boyfriend apologizes to Ray here,” the second man says.
I let out a long breath, doing my best to remain patient. Cutting a glance around, I see the other patrons paying attention to what's going on. Some look annoyed and others fascinated by the potential for bloodshed. I really don't want to bring this kind of bullshit into the Rose. Darius, the owner, is a friend of mine. And he takes great pains to make sure he provides a safe, mellow atmosphere in his bar. That's something I don't want to fuck up.
