Mayhem truly is tiny, with the entire town stuck in a game of six degrees of separation. Everyone knows everyone, and eventually, Faith and I will smack into each other without me having to do a thing to put myself in her way.
We make the quick drive from Tyler Cliff toward the north end of town. It’s the first time I don’t feel the need to fill the silence with humor. Instead, uncharacteristic sobriety strains against every one of my nerves as we pass through the residential southside.
Before we hit the red-light district, my brain automatically focuses on Faith when we drive by the intersection of Main and Sunrise. The taste of her lingers in my mouth. My body jolts to life as if by a lightning strike. Time rewinds itself, and she and I are back in high school when we had our first kiss. Hell, I even had to jerk off last night to ease the pressure of blue balls.
Because my lips touched hers for thirty whole seconds.
The control this woman has over me is ridiculous.
Faith has always been my kryptonite. And hell yeah, you bet your ass I wanted to do a lot more than kiss her, but I didn’t think she would appreciate me doing obscene things to her body right there against her front door. Besides, when we do have sex—and we will—I have every intention of making the woman beg me to fuck her.
Unfortunately, she’ll make me work for the words. But like Philip Dormer Stanhope said,In truth, whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well; and nothing can be done well without attention.
I don’t remember where I read the quote, but it seems perfect for my situation with Faith. But anyway, I wonder if she’s awake, even though ten is early by Mayhem standards. I remember her glucose level is vital and worry if her number is in range. Did she eat a decent, balanced meal tonight? Is she too hot? Too cold? Lonely? She goddamn better be lonely because if I find out she’s with someone, trust and believe I’ll snap the unlucky bastard’s neck. I don’t give a single shit if it makes me a chest-thumping Neanderthal.
Unga Bunga, motherfucker.
Faith is mine. But I’m hers, too.
Some men might be too proud to admit giving themselves to a woman.
Those who know me understand I’m not most men.Thank fuck. Most men these days are nothing more than little boys. Me? I may be insane and will think nothing of ripping off a pedophile’s arms to beat him to death with them, but I’m honest and loyal.
My philosophy?
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
The motto got me this far. Hopefully, it’ll get me to the ripe old age of at least fifty—which, living in our hazardous life, is ancient.
We drive a little farther until neon lights break the dark. Quiet suburban blocks roll into a loud bustling boulevard where groups of tourists mingle with locals gathered outside the brothels, strip clubs, and bars that line Main Street. The red-light district is a five-block strip of decadence that generates enough revenue to maintain the Unholy’s stronghold on Pennsylvania, cementing our status as the region’s most powerful gang.
I pull behind Last Call and park next to Ferryman’s red 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge. We totally give the man shit for the extraordinary amount of time and energy he invested in his car. The payoff was worth it, though, because it’s gorgeous, and I’m not even a fan of muscle cars.
Before I slide out of the driver’s seat, I grab a bag from the backseat that contains the tools of our trade. You know, the usual. Zip ties, duct tape, knives, hammer… I follow Wraith in through the back entrance, where a bouncer waits for us.
“Ferryman has the little prick in the storage room,” Dex announces.
Wraith nods as he walks past the hefty security guard.
I slap the ginormous man on the arm as I stroll by him. “Who said Tuesday nights are boring?”
Last Call, like Talon, is more of a local hangout, which is why I’m shocked a dealer would pop up here. I’m not complaining. Glad we caught one. It’s like Crow said. They’re cockroaches, and we’re the exterminators who came to clean house. Sure, Ferryman can get the job done, but he’s new at the enforcer gig. Also, he’s still on duty.
Wraith and I are free to have our fun with this bug, who crawled out of his crevice and deliberately wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
I almost feel sorry for the guy because he’s going to suffer before we let him die.
We skim the back of the room as we make our way to the storage area, where a second bouncer blocks the closed door.
The balding, middle-aged owner abandons his spot behind the bar and beelines for us, shaking his head. “The balls on this one. To come here and try to sell that shit in my place.” Wally skids to a stop, his expression pure piss and vinegar. “I haven’t poked my head in, so I can’t tell you how much of him is left for you to question.”
Ferryman knows the rules. He’ll have hurt the bastard, but the guy will be alive and intact enough for us to do our job.
“No worries, Wally. Go back to your customers.” Wraith shoos the older man away. “We’ve got this.”
Wally points an accusatory finger at me. “Promise me I won’t have repaint like the last time.”
I cringe before walking Wally back to the bar. “Dude, no. The last time was an accident. How was I supposed to know the guy was a bleeder? We’ll take this elsewhere. Pinkie swear.”
