I pull up to my apartment building and park around back. It isn’t anything fancy, a small, one bedroom close to Montecito Heights.
I jump the stairs two at a time, the stairwell smelling fresh with must and cheap cologne. I wish someone would tell the super that crappy cover-up attempt doesn’t work.
The shit still stinks.
I barrel into my apartment with only one thing on my mind. Liv. But my thoughts of her are erased instantly as I’m met by two large, tattooed meatheads standing in my living room.
I backpedal toward the door, knowing I am outmanned and outmuscled. Look, I’m not afraid of a fight, but I also know when the cards are stacked against me, and these two are not here to break bread or converse over a cup of tea. Their expressions tell me everything I need to know. We’re here to fuck you up.
“Fellas.” I grin, but they aren’t interested in small talk. They both lunge for me, and I swing blindly, my fist connecting with one of their jaws, but I’m tackled down to the ground. I hear my front door slam closed as I’m socked in the eye, then kicked in the kidney. I roll over in pain. Fuck, these guys have hands like hammers.
The bald, Mr. Clean-looking motherfucker lifts me off the floor and pins me to the wall with my feet dangling. I am a quarter of their size and easily tossed around like a rag doll. I try to fight, head-butting him right on the nose. It explodes with blood, but he’s only dazed for a second. He shakes it off as blue birds circle around my head. It feels like I just whacked a stone.
“You have an outstanding balance owed to Pony,” The tanned Hulk holding me hostage relays with a thick Russian accent. “He’s ready to collect.”
“Well, I’ve been on a payment plan. He’s getting his money.”
I’ve been waiting for this. It’s been days since the Bowman passed, and my fate has been hanging in the balance. He was the only one who could keep the collectors at bay, and now that he’s gone, there’s no one to protect me. There’s no shade over the debt that has been passed from father to son.
Bicep Charlie shakes his head sternly, a red river of blood pouring from his crooked nose. “No more payment plan. The total. You have two weeks, or you’re dead.”
“C’mon, where am I going to get that kind of money in two weeks?” I try to reason with them.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Maybe pimp out that pretty face of yours,” he suggests in a low, accented timbre.
“Nah,” his beefy friend chimes in. “He’s going to be unrecognizable by the time we’re done with him.”
Motherfucker. That’s my cue to fight. I kick my leg out and catch Muscle Beach’s lost bodybuilder right in the balls. He goes down and unfortunately takes me with him. Not the outcome I was hoping for. He has an ironclad hold on my shirt. We scuffle on the floor, but it’s only momentarily and definitely doesn’t give me the break I was looking for. Goon number two jumps in, and that’s when the beating begins. I never had a chance. I was overpowered from the start, but I had to try. They never would’ve been able to catch me if I ran.
The pain sears through my cheekbones, nose, and ribs as they mercilessly use my body as their personal punching bag. I don’t know how long it lasts as I drift in and out of consciousness. My head banging against the cheap, imitation wood floor with each skull-crushing blow.
When they finally let up, I’m blind and barely breathing. I just lie there as they step over me, a pile of useless bones.
“Two weeks,” one of them repeats. “The clock starts now.”
Then the door clicks closed.
I’m alone. Broken. Worthless. Left to rot in my own pool of blood.
All the secrets, fears, and insecurities I’ve been suppressing for years surfaces in every injury. In every broken rib and black-and-blue bruise. I know I’m fucked up. Way beyond the point of playing it off. They wanted to send a message, and they did.
I’m totally screwed.
When I’m finally able to move, I reach for my phone still tucked away in my pocket. I bring it to my mouth and speak. There’s only one person I can call.
“Siri, call Fender.”
The phone rings, and rings, but he finally picks up.
“Yo, what up, man?
“I need you to come here,” I croak.
“Come where?” The concern is immediate.
“My place. Kick the door down if you have to. Don’t tell anyone. Not even Slash.”
“Brea—“
