by Zahra Girard
This is about more than protecting my club and my city from a disgusting drug-dealing family, it’s about protecting a kind woman from people cut from the same cloth as the asshole who called himself my father: vicious, small-minded pricks who belong in a shallow grave.
Samantha deserves better.
She’s in over her head, but I will save her. Whether she tells me the truth about what’s going on or not.
To do that, I will have to work every angle there is.
So I call up my best buddy, Trips.
He answers right away. “Razor, what the fuck is it? It’s early.”
“It’s almost eight in the morning. It ain’t fucking early.”
“It is if you’ve only gone to sleep an hour ago.”
“Who was it this time?”
“Maxine. Jesus, my whole body hurts like I’ve been run over by one of Stone’s trucks. And I think my dick might be dead. Like, actually dead. I can’t feel a thing down there.”
“Well, get your cock in order. I need you to put me in touch with Fat Mike.”
“What about, bro?”
“I need to take care of shit, track down the new players in town so Stone doesn’t send me to fucking Omaha. I’ve already talked to that cheerful motherfucker Hanratty, and he’s working on it, but he thinks these assholes are protected. I don’t want to wait for that ray of fucking sunshine to come through for me.”
“You know Fat Mike doesn’t know much. He would’ve told me if he did.”
“Trips, come on, just hook me up all right?”
“Fine. I’ll swing by your place in an hour. Then I’ll take you to Fat Mike’s place.”
“An hour? Bro, I don’t have time to just fucking sit around twiddling my thumbs.”
“Razor, I need a fucking shower. The smell of pussy is, like, ground into my pores. Maxine is fucking feral.”
“Fine. An hour. Don’t be late.”
* * * * *
Fat Mike lives next door to a gym. His house, a rundown two-story place that’s one bad day away from getting condemned, is literally right next door to a gym and personal training studio.
Trips and I park our bikes on the street.
“Seriously?” I say.
“To be fair, he lived here before the place became a gym.”
“What was it before?”
“Weight Watchers.”
“Why would he choose to live here?”
“Maybe he had some ambitions, and they just didn’t manifest. Or maybe he’s got other issues. He could be a masochist. I don’t know.”
I’m having doubts about my plan to hit up Fat Mike for more information. A criminal like him is untrustworthy enough, but can I really trust someone who literally lives next door to a gym and yet still doesn’t have the fucking discipline to take care of himself?
“Let’s go inside,” I say.
Trips takes the lead and knocks on the front door. Fat Mike answers, wheezing. He’s a gargantuan man, like two NFL linemen fused together in a science experiment gone wrong.
“What’s up, Trips?” He says. “Razor, good to see you. Come on in.”
We enter. Fat Mike’s place is a lot cleaner and nicer than you’d expect from looking at his house on the outside. The only hint that this place belongs to a guy named Fat Mike are the two empty extra-large pizza boxes sitting on his coffee table. Otherwise, it’s a perfectly average home, with a big television, a PlayStation — paused in the middle of a game — and even a bookshelf filled with travel guides, cookbooks, and thriller novels.
Fat Mike takes a seat on his worn-in couch, while Trips and I stay standing.
“You a reader, Fat Mike?” I say, wandering over to the shelf and picking up a travel guide for Myanmar. “Planning on traveling?”
“Doesn’t hurt to dream big, baby,” Fat Mike says. “Though I don’t think a trip to Bagan is the reason you’re here, is it?”
“Nah, bro, we’re not here about that,” Trips says. “Razor’s got a few questions for you about that game you tipped us off to.”
“What can I do for you?”
“How’d you find out about it? Who tipped you off?” I say.
“Couple customers of mine mentioned there was this rumor about a big game going on at the place I told you about. Said it’d been going on for a couple sessions, maybe a few weeks, and word was getting out. The two people who tipped me off travel in different circles so I figure, if these two independent sources are hearing about it, then it’s probably something I should tip my boy Trips off to.”
“What customers?” I say.
“That’s private information. Sorry, but I like to keep my business quiet. Someone buys from me, it doesn’t matter who comes knocking, their secrets are safe.”
“No, Fat Mike, that’s not how it’s going to be.”
“That’s how it is and that’s how it will always be. Not going to change, not even if you say ‘please’ and offer to suck my cock.”
I reach back and take out my gun. Before the fatass can move his bulk out of the way, I cross the distance between the bookshelf and his couch and I press the barrel of my gun right to his forehead.
“God damn, Razor, calm the fuck down,” Trips says.
“Back off, brother. This is between him and me. Stone’s given me a job and I’ll be dead before I let down the club,” I say, then I turn my attention back to Fat Mike. “Tell me everything you know about the Makris family. Tell me who your contacts are, how they found out, tell me fucking everything or I will blast your fucking head off.”
“Trips, get your maniac friend off me,” Fat Mike says.
I shoot a glare at Trips and he stays in his place.
“These sons of bitches tried to kill me the other night. And they tried to kill a fucking innocent woman, a woman that I give a shit about. These motherfuckers are bad for this town and, unless you talk, I will start to think you’re on their side. Trust me, you don’t want that to happen.”
Fat Mike’s mouth moves faster than any part of him has probably ever moved in his life.
“Razor, Razor, Razor, look, brother, I don’t know much. My two customers — Eddy Trevante and Doc Santoro — don’t know shit. They just heard about the game in passing. But, shit, I’ve heard of the Makris family before. Buddy of mine used to do collections down in LA until the Makris family decided they wanted his territory. He got uppity with them. So they cut his dick off and mailed it to his mother postage due. Fucking postage due. They’re a bunch of evil, olive oil-sucking Greek motherfuckers.”
“You know where they’re hiding?”
“I don’t know a damn thing. I swear. Hell, if I knew they were in town, I wouldn’t have answered my fucking door. At least not without my shotgun. Why? Have you been starting up beef with them?”
“You heard they shot me, right?”
“Yeah, but a little shoving for turf ain’t no thing. Any bodies been put in the ground?”
I give Fat Mike a weighted look.
He shakes his head. “Fuck. If you thought things were bad now, you’re in for a fucking treat if the dick-chopper himself, Kael Makris, comes to town. Look, I don’t know nothing else. It’s all just rumors, innuendos, and dead bodies with these guys.”
I take my gun away from his forehead. Partly because it feels like he’s telling the truth, partly because he’s sweating so profusely that I’m worried the damn salt in his sweat will corrode my gun.
“All right, Mike, I believe you,” I say. Then I take a step back and put my gun away.
“Man, you all need to fucking relax with this gun-to-the-head thing. You know weed is legal, right? Fucking smoke up and process your anger instead of unleashing it on innocent people. It isn’t healthy, bro,” Fat Mike says. “If you need something to light up, I’ll hook you up. Even give you the friends and family discount.”
“No, Mike, I don’t need that,” I say, then I look over at Trips. He’s still looking at me like I’m a maniac for pulling a gun on Fat Mike. “
Let’s go. We’ve got more searching to do. Let’s call Blaze, Gears, and a couple others, get them out with us. We’ve got to hit up street corners. Come on.”
I don’t wait for him to respond; I head for the door. After shaking his head and letting out a sigh that tells me he’ll definitely be bringing this shit up later, he follows.
“You shouldn’t have treated Fat Mike like that. He’s a friend to the club,” Trips says.
Damn, we’re not even outside before he whines. I’ve got so much on my mind — like Florence Nightingale’s continuous lying and a looming trip to Omaha — that putting up with my best friend doubting my play-calling is more than enough to break my patience.
“I needed to be sure he wasn’t holding back. He’s your friend, not mine. We’ve got to find these guys before they can do any more damage to the club,” I say to him. I keep my voice low. Fat Mike is in the next room and can probably hear every damn word we’re saying. Trips might trust him, but I don’t. “Stone gave me this job, so you need to follow my lead.”
I throw open the door.
And come face to face with the chief of police.
Chief Barnes is flanked by four officers and he smiles maliciously. He’s an older man, well beyond fifty-years-old, but still thin like a twenty-year-old. And he stands with perfectly straight posture thanks to the stick he keeps holstered up his ass.
“Got a tip that some suspicious activity was taking place in here. And I have to say you boys look mighty suspicious. You wouldn’t mind coming with us, would you? We need to ask you some questions.”
Parked across the street opposite our bikes, there’s a black SUV with tinted windows. That vehicle definitely doesn’t belong to Lone Mesa PD.
Looks like I’ve found who’s protecting the Makris family.
“It suspicious activity to visit a friend, chief?” I say, taking a step closer to the man and getting right in his face.
“What were you two doing in there?”
“Encouraging Fat Mike to better himself and take a trip next door to the fucking gym. God willing, we can turn Fat Mike into Sorta-Overweight Mike. Though that doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”
“Come on man, that’s just rude,” Trips says, glancing at me sideways. “Fat Mike hasn’t done anything to you.”
“Well, whatever your noble intentions, your friend is a known drug dealer and, as your MC doesn’t have the most sterling reputation either, we’re going to take you two in for questioning.”
“To the police station?” I say.
One of the officer’s eyes flickers toward the black SUV. They’re not taking us in for questioning. If the cops are getting so bold as to go after us in broad fucking daylight, that means this war is going to the next level. Only one dick-dicing motherfucker has the reputation to do something as blatant as force the police to be accomplices in a murder: Kael Makris.
“Yeah, to the station,” Chief Barnes says.
I look over at Trips. “Brother, you remember that time Junior year where we had that thing with the football team?”
“When they thought you were going after the cheerleaders and showed you how they had dibs by ganging up on you in the locker room and kicking your ass?”
“Yeah, that.”
“I remember.”
“Wanna do it again?”
He laughs. “Those cheerleaders? Yeah, I do. That Regina Malcolm was a straight freak.”
I chuckle. “And Sally Westerhouse sure knew her way around a cock. Remember how that football thing turned out?”
He nods. “I do. Let’s get to it, brother.”
I clench my fist, get ready.
“Let’s do it.”
Then, in unison, we attack.
Chapter Fourteen
Samantha
The man I least want to see in the world is waiting for me the second I start my shift, and it’s not Kael Makris. Dr. Trent Ayers looks me up and down like I’m a piece of meat, with a smug, superior grin on his face.
“There’s a rumor going around that your position here is under evaluation.”
My heart stops like I’ve just mishandled a defibrillator.
“What?”
“Jackie isn’t happy. Not with your incident yesterday when you got sick all over Colleen’s desk, not with your disappearances, or any of the other erratic behavior you’re displaying.”
“She’s talked to me about that already. And we’ve straightened it out. Things are fine.”
He takes a step closer, his eyes bright and hungry. “That’s maybe what she told you, but that’s not what she’s telling everyone else. You know how Jackie is.”
And I know how you are, too.
“Well, I guess that’s something she and I will have to talk about sometime. You know, if she ever brings it up.”
“Based on what she’s saying, and what others in management are saying, most likely the next time she talks to you will be to fire you. She isn’t happy, Samantha.”
“And why are you suddenly taking an interest in this? It’s not even your area, you’ve got nothing to do with running the nursing department. Why don’t you stay in your own lane, Dr. Ayers?”
He chuckles. “You haven’t been here that long, and it’s really showing right now. Jackie and I have a history together. A positive one. She’s a close friend of mine. As are many of the administrators here at St. Paul’s. I may not have any official role with the nursing department but, informally, there’s a lot that I can do to help you. Or hurt you. I’d hate to see such a talented nurse like yourself sent on her way when she has so much to offer.”
From the way he’s looking at me, it’s clear the talents he’s interested in have nothing to do with nursing. I wonder what he’d say if he knew that I was already somewhat-taken by the biker that’s been roaming these halls the last few days.
On second thought, I doubt he’d care. As long as he gets his piece.
Still, I’ve heard the rumors and, if even half of them are true, he really has a close relationship with my direct boss. And half the other administrators, too.
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about your future here, that’s all. Even if things don’t work out for you in the emergency room, I could see about getting you transferred to my department. Things are still strenuous there, but in a different way. And you’ll find the interpersonal working environment to be a lot more enjoyable.”
While he tries to lure me into a supply closet for a quick fuck every time we cross paths.
Still, I can’t afford to piss off Dr. Ayers. Or anyone else. I’m already on the chopping block with Jackie Price and, if I get any more marks against me, the odds of me being employed at this hospital long enough to fulfill my brother’s debt to the Makris family go up in smoke.
“Sure, let’s talk.”
That smile of his turns predatory. If he had any more heat in his voice, the smoke alarms would go off. He’s a blatantly disgusting person; which is a shame because Dr. Ayers would be an attractive man if he didn’t act like himself.
“Not here,” he says. “Later. Over a drink. I know just the spot. Come find me when your shift is over.”
* * * * *
In an empty bar in a sketchy part of Lone Mesa, I think about my day and wonder what led me to this spot.
How did I fall so far?
Earlier today, I dealt with a puss-oozing abscess large enough that it would put the Grand Canyon to shame. I also gave a sponge bath to a man whose unique body chemistry turned the bathwater green. But none of those experiences compares to the stomach-churning nausea I feel right now as I sit across from Dr. Ayers and listen to him talk about his beach condo in Puerto Vallarta and how his favorite hobby, aside from ‘crushing it in life’, is yoga because it ‘helps him keep his core strong and his hips flexible’.
The man is one confidence boost away from becoming a self-sucking black hole of egotism.
I would drink that green bathwater with a sm
ile on my face if it got him to stop talking.
“Samantha, are you OK?”
I’m not. I’m really not. But I think about Razor and I smile for Trent Ayers because that’s what he wants to see.
“Yeah, sorry, long day. You know how it is. How long have you had your condo in Puerto Vallarta? It sounds really nice.”
“Just a few years. I bought it on a whim as a reward to myself for meeting all of my financial goals before I turned thirty-five. It was a splurge, I’ll admit, but I needed to incentivize myself for meeting my net worth goals so early.”
If he were anyone else but Dr. Ayers, and if Razor wasn’t so fresh in my memory, it’d be easy to flirt with him. But both of those factors together? Hell no.
“That’s fascinating. And you do all that on a small-town hospital doctor’s salary?”
“When you really know how to manage your money, and you have the drive to manifest your vision, there’s not much you can’t accomplish. But you have to really want it. You can’t just fall ass backwards into crushing it, you have work hard to make it happen,” he says. He takes a long drink of his cocktail — a martini crafted via a meticulous, encyclopedia-sized number of instructions Trent gave to the bartender — and he sits back in his chair. “But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here to talk about you coming over to my department. And to see what we can do for each other.”
I swallow — for the sixth time tonight, I find myself on the verge of puking — and I nod. “That’s right. You said that Jackie is planning on having me fired, but you can help me.”
“That’s true. On both counts. She doesn’t like you, Samantha. And it’s not just because you’re hotter than her, she doesn’t like how you work. Look, I don’t know how things were in the volunteering world, what with that stuff you did for that ragtag little Doctors Without Borders outfit, but there’s a certain professionalism we require at St. Paul’s. And, if you step outside the lines, well, there’s a certain price you have to pay.”
“Are you talking about dating you?”
“Dating’s a strong word. I like to keep things casual.”
