“In hock. A guy down in Margate is holding it for me until I get enough scratch together.”
“We’ll work on that.” I eye the Pizza King t-shirt. “And I don’t ever wanna see that fuckin’ rag on you again.” I shake my head. “I assume you still got your cut.”
“Hanging up in the back of my closet.”
“Get it the fuck out, cause the Kings are gonna ride again.” My brain skitters to my neatly folded cut in the bottom of my duffel bag.
I turn toward my bike ‘cause I can’t stand the look of doubt in Speed’s eyes. Can’t blame him for it, but it hurts just the same. Five years ago, my word was gold. I said jump, and these guys asked how high, but I lost that privilege, and I’d have to break my ass to get it back.
I wheel out of the diner parking lot and head for The End, feeling pretty damn lucky I still have my bike.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull into The End’s lot. Half the letters on the sign are missing. Weeds have taken over theparking lot, some reaching my knees. The blacktop has cracks and craters that could swallow up my Harley. The windows are boarded up, and the front door hangs at an odd angle.
The place looks way worse than Maggie or Speed described.
I carefully ease the door open, not wanting the splintered wood to collapse around me. I wouldn’t have believed it, but the inside looks worse—way worse.
Cobwebs the size of tablecloths hang from the ceiling, and inch-thick dust coats the scarred wooden bar top. The few stools scattered around the bar are rickety and standing at odd angles. The rest of the room is empty, no tables, no chairs, just cracked linoleum peeling and curling up, exposing the wood floor underneath.
In short, the place is a disaster, but luckily I have a vision. Rip up the flooring, sand the bar and throw out anything that isn’t nailed down. Then get rid of the fuckin’ plate-glass window in the front. Seen too many drunks go through them during a fight, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. I’d acquired quite a few skills over my years inside, including basic carpentry.
I actually like working with my hands, and ripping out all this crap and making it look new would fill me with satisfaction. An army of roaches must’ve read my thoughts because the little fuckers skitter around looking for cover. Have fun, you bastards, ‘cause the only thing I hate worse than dirt is bugs.
I make my way through the main room, and a constant pounding greets me when I hit the back hallway. I listen closer, then follow the constant thumping to a closed door at the end of the hall. I stop outside the door, but I can’t make out the sound. Maybe a hammer hitting metal? Only one way to find out, so I shoulder though the door.
“What the hell?”
Chapter Four
DEUCE
“Shit!” The person wielding a large hammer stops mid-swing. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Are you Sammy?”
A face smudged and smeared with dirt. Work gloves and dusty, stained, baggy, denim overalls. Odd pieces of hair spring from a red bandana tightly covering any other hair.
“Who’s looking for him?” The voice is a deep rasp, and if I was on the phone, I’d be wondering if this is a male or female.
The strap of the overall slips down, and I smile. My eyeful of side boob escaping from a very skimpy tank top under the overalls tells me this is most definitely not Sammy.
“A buddy of Sammy’s said I should look him up ‘cause he was looking to sell this place.” I strategically left out the part of my buddy being my cellie in the joint.
Her dark, almost-black eyes peer through me, then she throws back her head and spits out a throaty laugh, and, yeah, my dick notices. “That’s priceless,” she says around her laughter. “The only buddies he has are in the joint.”
“Oh yeah?” I’ll play this out and see where she goes with it. “So, is he your father?”
“If that’s what you call someone who’s spent most of my life behind bars.”
I’m guessing her to be early twenties, although with all the dust and dirt on her, it’s hard to tell. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, and more hair escapes the bandana. Springy tendrils of thick, dark hair frame her face.
“And this place isn’t for sale, so you can move your ass out and let me get on with it.” She raises the hammer, and those perfectly rounded, ripe tits shimmy. Even though it’s been a while, I’m shit-sure they’re real and braless.
“You gonna keep staring at my tits?” Fuckin’ love deep voices on a woman.
“You gonna keep hitting that safe with a hammer?” I ease around the broken-down desk where she has a small safe teetering on top. “‘Cause it ain’t doin’ any good.”
“Can’t get the damn thing open.”
