One Week Later
Spawn came in from a run to get more booze. Whatever grudge between us after I’d stolen his girl had lasted all of about two seconds after I walked out of the room. He glared at me, I glared at him, and then we both laughed. I got a girl talking to one of the club members, passed her off to Spawn, and let him go to town.
It was easy to forgive for taking pussy when it was not so much the great steak you couldn’t afford as it was just another fry in the basket McDonald’s gave you.
“Satan,” Spawn said with a nod as he entered.
“Spawn, I hope you got the good shit,” I said, “as I’m damn well tired of drinking like I’m Sonny.”
“Blue Moon, Guinness, some local porters—not anything with the word ‘light’ in it.”
“Thank fucking God,” I said.
I flipped on the TV. And wouldn’t you fucking know it, Miss Cook was on, doing a feature on local funding for one of the sports teams in the area.
“You ever do anything with that girl?”
Since that week?
Nope.
I’d fully expected her, by now, to have reached out to me. I was no fool—yes, she was playing me, but she wanted me. If she was anything like the other girls, she would easily give in to temptation and present her naked body to me later.
But goddamn, by now, I should have known she was no normal girl.
And as a result, she was fucking living in my mind, and it was driving me goddamn insane. No woman should ever have that effect on me. It was…
Well, put it like this. The last fucking woman to have that effect on me was my wife. And I had outright refused to let anyone touch me as she had once she passed away.
So why the fuck was this happening without my control now?
“She’ll come back eventually,” I said, but it wasn’t very clear if I was saying it to myself or to Spawn.
Sonny came through the door a second later with some mail.
“Any lawsuits today?” I cracked.
“No, but there is a letter addressed to you.”
“What, some fan club—”
“No, it has your actual name on it.”
Sonny knew well enough not to say my full name in front of Spawn or anyone who could overhear it. Now I was worried. That either meant some government agents wanted a word with me—we could fuck with many things, but Daddy Government wasn’t one of them—or…well, I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know what the “or” might be.
I grabbed the letter. It was handwritten, “Samuel Briggs.” Whoever had done this…they fucking knew it would piss me off. I didn’t have friends outside the club. Whatever family I had, I hadn’t spoken to them in ages. Even my wife’s family had distanced themselves before her death; her passing gave them an excuse to step away entirely.
I let Sonny handle the rest of the mail as I tore open the envelope. Inside was a piece of paper, folded twice, with a note handwritten in blue ink. I turned it over and started reading.
“Dear Sam,
The fact that Asher has not returned to me in Las Vegas tells me how my recent request was received.”
I felt a pit in my stomach. I didn’t know the guy’s name was Asher, but I knew damn well the only person calling me “Sam” like this was someone unafraid. And no one in government would know who the fuck Asher or whatever some recent request was.
“I understand that you are uninterested in joining the ranks of the King’s Men. I would advise you, however, that such stubbornness will only result in a tragic outcome. I will be sending another messenger to you in the coming weeks. I would advise you to treat my men with more respect and to consider our offer more carefully. There will come an end to diplomacy, and when the pen is placed down and the gun gets picked up, you are either by my side, or you are in the line of fire.
Best,
