Crush
It had been a few days since I had last seen her.
I missed seeing Brianna right away in the morning, fucking the shit out of her to start my day. But I also missed the way her eyes lit up when she saw me when she walked into her apartment after a shift, or the way she would kiss me just because she could.
I was turning into a sap, that much I knew. It was something in the way that I had felt more complete than I had in a long time when I was with Brianna. And with her, freedom seemed possible. Before, I could understand what it meant to live for someone. But now I knew what it meant to die for someone. Maybe that’s why it hurt so bad to see her—to feel her—pull away from me.
Nevertheless, I had bigger things to do and a certain King fish to fry. I know my best chance at killing King was to turn Prince. And I planned on doing just that today. With him successfully over on my side, the operation I had boggling around my mind could be set in motion. But I needed Prince.
I rode to the small condo that I rented, one that King didn't know about. I used my father's name and my mother’s maiden name just to be sure that he couldn’t sniff it out. I walked in, the dingy smell of dust greeting me. I hadn’t used this place in months—it was a backup house away from my rooms at the warehouses or my own private townhome that I rented from King. This one was small and cozy—and most importantly, it was mine.
It had warm yellow walls that reminded me of Brianna’s hair, and I shook myself free of her. Thinking about her in a time like this was a fucking liability. Really thinking about her at any time was a liability, but I couldn’t help myself. I walked into the kitchen, looking around at what all I had stocked. Dishes, some non-perishable foods. I rinsed out a glass from the cupboard and searched around until I found my trusty bottle of whiskey. I poured out two fingers and shot the liquor back. I reveled in the kick and then poured another two fingers.
I stood at the kitchen island with my glass of whiskey. I heard the sound of Prince’s bike as he rode up. He killed the engine, and I counted the number of footsteps to the door. Ever since Brianna had turned cold, I had become increasingly paranoid. But there was just him. I sighed in relief—this was going to be a fucking nightmare of a conversation. I could feel it. Prince walked in the door, and I thought for a fleeting second maybe I should pat him down. But I didn't want to take the chance of betraying my biggest potential ally.
I saw his hands shake as he lit a cigarette, not even bothering to ask if he could. Prince never asked if he could smoke—he just did it, wherever and whenever he wanted. It had started as a way to get back at his father who had a rule not to smoke in the penthouse or at the meeting table. After a fistfight, the two resolved that Prince wouldn’t smoke at the table. But everywhere else was game.
He found me in the kitchen and took a seat on the worn stool across from me at the island. Prince was silent, and I poured him a glass of whiskey. He toasted to me, and we drank. I refilled our glasses, and we stood there for a second in silence. Prince seemed uneasy, and I found myself looking at him skeptically. There was no use pussyfooting around. I cut to the chase.
“King’s a dead man,” I said flat out. “Give everyone the freedom that they deserve. You, me. The guys.”
I thought about mentioning Brianna, but I hesitated. I didn’t want to drag her into this; it was still too new. And she was far too pure to be used in the same conversations as murdering the evilest conman to walk the planet. Prince looked at me cautiously, the cigarette dangling between his lips as he exhaled. I could see the balance of the scales move in his head as he weighed his options.
“You know the money will dry up,” he refuted.
I scoffed. “I don't care. I have had enough money, pussy, and drugs to last me a lifetime. But I want freedom. That has eluded me the entire time I’ve been in this club. I live by my rules, no one else’s.”
Prince took a drag as the silence fell around us. It filled the room, something similar to the kind that always happened with King. But this was a little less strong and a little bit more flexible, allowing us both some room to breathe. I sipped at my drink, waiting for his response. He hung his head down, crushing the butt of the cigarette on the counter. He looked at me in the eyes before he spoke.
“I can't kill my father, Crush,” he said finally. His words hit me like a cinder block, and I was a little shocked. Prince shrugged and ran his hands through his short hair. “He's more than just King to me. He's Dad.”
I bit my lip. I remember that King was abusive and horrid to Prince as a child. I used to see the bruises and scars when I first started the club. When Prince was a teenager, it got more brutal. Oftentimes, I was the one Prince came to when he needed help fixing or mending whatever his father had broken. But I knew that Prince felt that there was something there—it was hard to kill your own flesh and blood.
I remember a night, way back in the day—that was one of the worst times. It was late, past any respectable hour to be awake. I couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, almost a decade under my belt for the club, and I was moving up. I wanted to be the sergeant-at-arms. That was the next prize.
I was staying at the newly acquired east warehouse, overseeing its running and conversion to suit the needs of the King’s Men. There was a knock on my door. I looked at the clock—it was three in the morning. I slid out of bed and opened the door, and there was a teenage Prince standing on the other side.
His eye was black, and his long blond hair was matted with blood. He was scrawny, not yet having grown into his body or his muscles. An easy target on the street if you didn’t know who his father was. But in the club, no one touched Prince. That was a simple death wish if you did. King kept him guarded more than he did his own supply crates of drugs and weapons.
“What the fuck happened to you?” I grunted.
“Dad,” he answered, looking down to the ground in shame. My eyes widened.King did this?I thought. I was shocked. Prince was hisson, and the man practically worshipped the kid. But I guess everyone has a different side behind closed doors. “Can I stay in the warehouse tonight?”
“Yeah, man,” I nodded. “Do you need anything?”
“Just an ice pack,” he shrugged, looking down at the ground sheepishly. “You wouldn’t by chance have a trimmer I could borrow?”
I put my hand up for him to wait. I went to my bathroom, and after digging around some of the drawers, I found my electric clippers. Walking back out, I handed the trimmers to Prince. He took them, and his hands shook as he took the razor from me, but based on his face, he was pissed off. Not scared at all.
“What do you need the trimmer for?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I’m cutting my fucking hair,” he seethed, turning his head up to meet my eyes for the first time. I had only seen the kid a few times in passing. “I can’t stand seeing him in the mirror when I look at myself.”
I told him there was an open room just down the hall from me, and if he needed anything to knock on my door. He nodded and replied with a meekthanksbefore heading down the way. I stood in the doorway, watching him as he went into the safety of the room. It wasn’t long before I could hear the din of the trimmer.
In the morning, Prince’s hair was cut close to his head. It was a little choppy but not terrible for a thirteen-year-old boy who was going through more shit than most adults had to deal with. He was sitting at the big breakfast table, alone, Chef having cooked up a mighty fine meal for the kid. He looked…different. Much less like his father than before, his features softening. But it was more than appearance for Prince—it was a statement.
“Hey,” I greeted Prince, walking up to him. He turned and looked at me, his black eye already fading. I sat down across the table from him, my own plate of food in front of me. “You’re not your father, man. Got that?”
