She fluffs up her hair.
She’s nervous as fuck. I don’t blame her. This poor girl and her fucked-up study weekend. I almost feel bad she’s stuck with me. Almost. I mean, I will eat her out and pleasure her in ways her small-dicked college boys couldn’t possibly even watch in porn. I’m not gonna hurt her, but I’m not leaving my house either.
Since Isla stands there, unwilling to open her door, I get up and swing it open. In one second flat, Mr. Homer goes from looking like a kid at McDonald’s to something Stephen King would write about. He wears a black jacket, boots, and I know those are overalls underneath. Oh, the look on his chubby, rosy face. It’s priceless, and I’m happy I opened the door.
“Ludi,” he says.
I smile. “Come in.”
He eyes the steps to the driveway. He can’t outrun me, so I’m not sure what he’s planning other than admitting to what happened with my safe house.
“Don’t make me repeat myself. It makes me violent, and there’s a nice girl inside.”
“Okay.” He puts up his hands. “I can explain.”
I grab him by the jacket and throw his ass inside, then close the door and lean against it. Isla stays on the stairs, backing up a few steps. Mr. Homer huffs and puffs, head bobbing between me and her. “Look at me,” I say. “And sit your ass down.” I glance at the girl so she picks up on the next bit. “Mr. Homer.”
He sits. “I can explain. We’re short on money, Mr. Ludi.” His chin quivers. “My wife broke her leg and can’t work no more, so she got let go from the slopes. I’m on disability ’cause of my hip, and I thought instead of letting this nice place sit by itself, I’d rent it out.”
He’s giving me a sob story. A glance at the girl tells me she’s falling for it. Her face drops, and sure enough, she says, “Awww, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Homer.”
Well, fuck. “How much for a night?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Four fifty.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Four fifty?”
“But it’s buy one night and get the second one twenty percent off,” Isla says.
I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s a lot of money for a college student.”
Isla sits on the stairs, and I take a harder look at her clothes, namely the fine leather boots. Designer shit. “My parents are paying for it.”
“Who’s your daddy?” I ask.
“A deputy sheriff.”
God hates me. “What city?”
“Korentown.”
Caught off guard, I blink, thinking this must be some sort of setup. Paranoia is my middle name, and rightfully so, becauseI popped the sheriff of that department just yesterday so a new deputy could ascend.
The sheriff dealt with a gang from New York, and we needed our own man inside. The deputy sounded interested, but needed more convincing, and so Nikola sent me after his boss as a warning of what could come if he missed the lovely opportunity of working with us. He’d have to work with someone, and if we didn’t hire him, the New Yorkers would.
He’s one of those good boys, but will letsoftactivity slide, namely he’ll turn a blind eye as our trucks make their way through the States. He’s a hustler and obviously likes to spoil his kid with nice things. I don’t blame him.
“I’m an only child,” she adds.
“Mm-hm,” I say. I’ll deal with her later. “Mr. Homer, you understand you broke the law when you rented out my house.” My safe house, of all places, but I can’t say that. And hey, I sound like a cop. All authoritative and proper and shit. “You broke the law,” I repeat. I like the sound of those words coming out of my mouth instead of Judge Stanley’s when he sentenced me to seven years at the age of sixteen. What else had the judge said? I purse my lips. “And now you will pay.”
Mr. Homer drops to his knees and starts crawling, bawling, begging for his life.
Oh, come on. I bang the back of my head on the wooden door. “Get up, man.”
“Please, please, don’t kill me, Ludi. You can have all the profit. One hundred percent of the profit.”
“Get up.”
