by Amy Love
I didn’t pick this truck because it was inconspicuous. The girl had been parked in the spot right outside the park for hours. Based on her customers, I could tell that she was legit. It wasn’t like the hot dog vendors selling drugs to hapless teens, or the street musicians faking some injury to get a sympathy dime. No, she took her business seriously. And that meant she wouldn’t be looked over twice by security, or police.
But I also know food trucks. I know them inside out -- from the rules and regulations regarding their cleaning methods and food storage, to how they kept their ice cream fresh and frozen. I know about the undercarriage trunks and the huge tanks she most likely has attached to part of the truck. I even know about the specific vent units the health inspectors require her to put on the top of the roof.
This made it so easy for me to sneak in while she was packing up those picnic tables. As she loaded them up in the back and then went back to cleaning up, I kept quiet and unseen behind the corner of a murphy bed she cleverly installed. She never even turned my way as she danced to her music, her hips and head bobbing to the beat of the rock song, her hands wiping the sweat from her brow, the tight white t-shirt clinging to her tan skin as she splashed the water in the sink around… The ice cream truck may have been a stupid idea, but at least I was getting my money’s worth out of this big risk.
When she finally finished, I knew I only had seconds from the time she went around to the driver’s side to make this work. I first took out my gun. That’s rule number one. If you’re going to go out in public with your dirty work, you need a weapon on you in case things go wrong. Then, I took out the jewels -- a black, velveteen bag full of fresh-cut diamonds that glittered in the light of the truck. I did the math for the hundredth time. A bag like this, weighing at least a pound, had about 3,000 diamonds in them. At two thousand a pop on the black market, this little steal was going to nab me, and The Possessed, at least six million! My mouth practically watered looking down at the shimmer in my palms.
That little bag is my ticket out of the Vegas club scene. As much as I love being part of The Possessed, I feel that my time is numbered due to the stares of my men and the slow show of mistrust of my orders. Yesterday, Fernando, a guy I recruited myself to run the enforcers, decided to take it upon himself to change the schedule of the security shifts I had set up weeks before without even checking with me. When one of my loyalists called him out, he shivved my man with a butcher’s knife from my restaurant’s kitchen. My whole club life seems like it was going to live and die by the edge of that knife.
It isn’t that the club is running badly. Hell, we just made forty thousand in a month running security for ten of Las Vegas’s hottest nightclubs. I had men dealing premium snow out the back doors as well, bringing in even more funds for The Possessed to continue to get off the ground. And after a few run-ins with The Padres motorcycle club and the Black Flag Mafia, where we came out with more men and territory, I was feeling even more confident with how we were establishing ourselves in the Vegas hoods.
But it is money that makes men greedy assholes. There’s never enough. Everyone wants a bigger cut of the cake. There are mouths to feed, rent to pay, gear to buy, and behind the scenes, they are what was playing at the back of everyone’s mind - the forty thousand prize meant only a few thousand per guy come pay day.
That’s why I had thought this jewel heist was going to save my face. Sixty million would buy a few safe houses and pay off the debts for the suppliers we owed for the ammo and arms. It also would net every patch-wearing member twenty thousand -- enough to tie them and their families over until our next big pay day.
And because I was the one who spotted the mark, who risked his life slipping into the home of the Black Flag leader, Tony Valderas, (past the dogs and the high-tech security system), and busting the safe with my new lock picking skills, I didn’t feel too horrible about taking a larger cut. This money was going to be my way out in case The Possessed kept going the way it was going. This money would ensure that I could set up my shop somewhere far away from Vegas -- someplace where I could be a faceless guy free to be who he wants to be.
I take out the second bag -- my bag. It doesn’t have diamonds. It’s a mix of uncut, unclean rubies and emeralds. It may not be as precious or as valuable as the diamonds, but my black market appraiser had told me that those jewels were at least five million in value. This small hunter green velvet bag held my freedom.
I could spend all night weighing the contents of the diamonds or staring into the red and greens of the jewels, but I had to part with them… and quick. The girl was just getting into the driver’s seat and buckling up. I had no idea where she was heading, but I needed to make sure that I was in control here. I couldn’t let her just drive off with my stash to some unknown location. Who knows what this girl is capable of or what her backstory is. Beautiful girls like her, with bodies that could turn any man stone hard, were always way more dangerous than they appear. Even though she looked as if she couldn’t pick up a bag of flour on her own, the sweet rush of adrenaline was known to do some crazy ass shit to weaker people.
So I tossed the bag of diamonds into a stock of weird black chocolate candies in the shape of bugs. The bottom of the bin had a little fake compartment on the bottom just the size of the bag. And the product above it was light enough that it wouldn’t smash it. It was the most perfect hiding spot in probably the entire truck. No one, not even a trained cop with an eye for shit like this, could see the bag when they held up the canister.
The hunter green bag went into the small safe she stupidly left unlocked on the floor of the truck. As I use some electrical tape to fasten it to the shadowed wall, I glance down at the cash. There wasn’t much here, and almost all of it was in an envelope with the words, “Dad -- Hospital” scribbled on the side. Something was telling me that she might need me more than I need her.
I close the safe and prepare for show time. Creeping through towards the front of the truck where the driver’s seat was, I crouch beside her, just out of site. I pull my black cap on and lift the collar of my leather jacket towards my neck. The gun rests heavy in my hand as I cock it up towards her head. With the roughest, most otherworldly voice I can muster, I order her, “Don’t say a word.”
I point towards the highway -- the best solution to getting out of here quickly without giving away my destination. “Where -- where --- where am I going?” she stutters. Her voice is much lower pitched than I thought a skinny thing like hers would be. It’s smoky and dark, even with the nerves.
“Just drive to the next exit,” I say, trying to think through the layout of the town. I want to get myself close enough to a destination where I can lay low for a bit. The only solution I can think of, within a five-minute drive, is the boxing gym where I spend the majority of my time. I’ve got a locker there full of fresh clothes, and I can get an alibi real quick if I can get on video sparring a bit. Plus, I need the workout time. It’s been a few days since I’ve been in the ring, and I’ve got a few agents chasing after me.
The girl glances back at me a few times, but I’m too far in the shadows for a good look. Her hands shake as she asks, “Can you please lower that thing. I’m going to do what you ask me to do.” I grunt in agreement and stick the gun in my back pocket. It was just for show anyways. Some guys in The Possessed would have been serious about using it. I, on the other hand, am less about the bloodshed when it isn’t by my own hands.
Plus, I remember that envelope with the words, “Dad -- Hospital” written on it. She needs cash, and cash I am willing to part with. I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of rolled up bills. They’re all hundreds. I stick a Franklin on the dash for her to see as I say, “I ain’t kidnapping you. I’m paying you. Drop me off at the Beat Gym and drive around the block for an hour. Pick me up in the back, and I’ll have three more of these waiting for you.”
“Are you serious?” she asks as she turns around again. This time, I know she sees more of me. Maybe it’s th
e catch of my jawline or the scruff on my chin. Either way, she looks more satisfied as her eyes linger on me. She licks her scarlet lips deliciously. This chick has no idea how fucking hot she is.
I clear my throat as I try not to glimpse down at those two round tits, the narrow hips, and the round apple ass connected to some thick thighs… “Yeah. I’m serious. You do this, and you go home tonight. You refuse, and I bring out the gun. You run and call the cops, you’ll have my entire club of men hunting your ass down within minutes.” I wasn’t lying about the last part. Driving away with about sixty-five million worth of jewels would mean the big hounds would have to be released. I’d have no mercy on her -- sweet pussy or not.
Her eyes close in the moment of decision. I don’t blame her for thinking it through. She didn’t know me. I didn’t know her. But if we were going to make this work, she had to trust that I wasn’t going to get her killed and that the money I put in front of her was going to keep flowing. I have to make this more real for her. Pulling out that wad of cash again, I hold it up towards the light of the cars passing us by on the ramp to the highway. “It’s yours,” I point out.
She sighs heavily before answering, “Okay. Okay. Just show me where to go. This truck doesn’t have GPS.”
Laughing quietly, I hitch my leg over the middle counsel and force myself into the passenger seat next to her. I can tell she’s making an effort not to look my way. Her hands grip a circle on the wheel back and forth while her lips purse into a decidedly firm frown. I give her another glance from my new position. That long blonde hair trickling down her back makes her look like a living vintage Barbie doll -- minus those dark framed glasses she reaches over to put on. Still, hot librarian -- I can work with that.
“Do I turn here… or?” She gestures to the exit sign, clearly remembering that I mentioned her getting off at the first exit.
“Yeah. Haven’t you ever been to the Beat Gym?” A girl like her, I already knew the answer. The girls that went to the Beat Gym on a Monday or Friday night weren’t anything like her. They wore glitter bodysuit dresses and came looking for something other than the thrill of a fight. I should know. I took one or two home with me after most fights, especially since I was starting to get my brand out there.
“No. That’s not my thing,” she answers coldly.
“Then what is your thing?”
“Driving strange biker guys around in my ice cream truck getaway van.” She turns towards me, her blue eyes scanning me up and down curiously. She’s much more feisty than I would have guessed. I love that about a girl.
“I guess you lucked out tonight,” I say as I sit back in my seat. Her glare is drilling an uncomfortable hole in me. The drive to the gym couldn’t take any longer.
“I guess I did.” She returns to staring at the road before saying tiredly, “I need the money, so you better live up to this bargain.”
“You’ll get your cash. Drop me off right there, and I’ll be back in an hour.” I reach over and grab her phone off of the counsel and quickly add my number to her phone. “If I’m not, call this burner under the name ‘Henry,’ and I’ll come out.”
“Henry? Is that your name?” I can’t tell if she’s asking for her own benefit or to weed me out, pry some information against me in case she needs to use it in an interrogation room for leverage.
“No. It’s not.” Henry is my dad’s name. I used it all the time when I was going undercover. Liam Murphy wasn’t muttered on many guy’s lips unless they really knew me.
“Then…”
“Let’s stick with Henry, for now, honey.”
“Honey isn’t my name either. I’m --”
I cut her off quickly. “I don’t need to know it. When I do business, it’s in and out. Hearing your name means I get attached. And you really don’t want me to be attached to you.” I wouldn’t mind my body being attached to her, but that’s a whole other story…
She pulls the truck around to the front of the gym like I told her. It’s the one unlit door us more notorious boxers use to come in undetected. No cameras. No lights. No groups of people watching us from behind. I could have been here all night -- not robbing a rival gang member’s house while they were busy dealing with a territory breach set up by my boys. And because I am such a regular here, a rising star boxer, each and every one of the men inside would vouch for me. No question about that.
She doesn’t look at me as I slip past her back towards the back of the truck. I just need one last reassurance that the jewels and diamonds are safe, and that they are well-hidden in case she does decide to pull a runner. I pull down the container of chocolate bugs and then open up the unlocked safe just one more time. Everything’s in its place. All I can do now is just trust that this girl is good to go.
For good measure, I grab a few ice cream sandwiches and return to the front seat. I throw her another hundred-dollar bill from my pocket. I wink as I say, “For the sandwiches. They’re my favorite. I’ll see you in an hour, right here.” She looks like she’s about to protest, but I’m already out the door, slamming it hard behind me. I run straight for to the door and watch as she peels the truck away quickly.
Now I can only wait it out and pray that she comes back. My whole, entire future rests on the back of that strange, beautiful girl’s ice cream truck.
CHAPTER 3
My first instinct is to call Jana. I’m not sure why it isn’t to call the police, flag down a passer-by, or at least get the hell out of Vegas. But all I want to do is ring up my bestie and tell her about this cute as hell bad boy that just leaped into the back of my dad’s ice cream truck. I’d have to leave out the part about him putting a gun to my head and then throwing money at me like I was some hired whore, but it would still be an awesome story.
Still, as I pull far out of sight of the gym, I can hear Jana’s authoritative and judgmental voice practically scolding me like she was my dead mom herself, “Don’t you dare touch that boy, Alana. He’s obviously nothing but trouble, and you’re attracted to trouble like a fly to honey. You’re already stuck.”
My inner-Jana was so right. Even though I was this straight-A student in sneakers and a cardigan, I had somehow attracted all the wrong boys. Blame it on the blonde hair or the bimbo-in-disguise look I’ve unfortunately got going on, but whatever it is, the boys, like that dad earlier, come running hard and then figure out how to weasel themselves into my life until I’m torn up and tossed out.
That was the case with my last, long-term boyfriend, Adrian. We met in our Creative Writing Prose course, and I thought that it was a sign. Here was a guy who was creative, well-educated, and motivated. He was nothing like the scummy townie boys I flocked to. We dated seriously for about eight months when things started to go south.
When I wouldn’t wear a tight enough dress, he started commenting on how my “thighs would look fat in a dress like that anyways.” And when I stopped making him dinner because of a night class, he demanded that I drop out by saying, “You don’t have the talent, Alana. You’re not some sophisticated writer like you think you are.” Then, like pretty much every guy before him, the cheating happened. The first was an “accident.” How a girl’s mouth “accidentally” ends up on his naked dick was still a mystery to me today, but I was willing to forgive a drunken night out with the boys. Adrian seemed sincere… until “accidents” kept happening.
I still see Adrian around campus. He’s in a few of my classes and in our master’s writing club. While it sucks to be forced to listen to his sad and pathetic poetry about having too much love to give, at least every time I see him, that little bit of anger I had for him seems to fade away. And the less I want to date or do guys like him… or the insanely hot guy with the emerald green eyes that just popped up in the back of my ice cream truck.
No. No. No. I am not doing that whole Stockholm Syndrome thing -- that psychological disaster they talk about on the news where the person kidnapped starts falling for the monster doing kidnapping. Being one of the hottest looki
ng guys I’ve ever seen, complete with the dark crown of hair, chiseled jaw, and bursting and tatted up biceps, doesn’t mean it’s time for me to give into all that shit. I should be angry -- right? I should be pissed off that he violated my space and then threatened my life for whatever gain he is getting out of it.
This was win-win for him, but what about me? Sure, a few hundred bucks would pay for about a half hour of my dad’s medical care, but was it enough to risk me going to jail helping out someone obviously on the run? I don’t know what my dad would think of me if he knew I was currently driving around a guy in a leather jacket with a bad attitude and a trigger-happy finger.
If I was going to keep going with this plan, I had to find some silver lining, some win-win for me. I pull over into a diner’s unlit parking lot, driving behind the building. As I put the truck into park, my hands slightly shake. That energy from our meeting is coursing through my body, but I have no time to let it slow me down. I take a few deep breaths with my eyes closed before taking the seatbelt off and heading back to my chair in the truck. I power on the laptop and sit back while it purrs softly to life.
