I didn’t plan on ever using this knowledge, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I’m out of options to save my own ass.
“The young, pretty kind,” I divulge, feeling a small pang of regret that I’ve just royally fucked up her life, all because I can’t handle my own shit.
His eyes automatically darken. I can no longer tell if I’m digging myself an escape route, or my own grave.
I should pack a bag and leave tonight. Tell Cindel to go back to her parents in New York. My legs begin to bounce, so I decide to stand instead. I roll my shoulders, as if it might make me appear bigger against this manslayer.
“Wow! Would you look at the time! I need to close up the shop. So… if you don’t mind? Ya know… Fucking off?” I trainmy eyes to remain on the pin-up girl in the center of the clock, but I can still feel his eyes watching me. His stare boring into the side of my head.
The chair groans when he stands.
Can I grab my knife in time?
He slowly rounds the desk, and I listen to his footsteps as he makes his way past me. I dare not look away from the clock as I watch the seconds lazily go by. Only once I hear the scrape of metal against metal, followed by a thundering slam does time return to normal. I blink. The hand is once again, moving at a normal pace around the face of the clock. Voices outside carry past the thin bay doors. Perhaps he wasn’t alone, the idea of taking on more than one of him unsettles me.
Tires crunch over gravel, just as I crack the door and see a dark colored Audi pulling onto the roadway. I stand there watching as the taillights disappear down the darkened road.
Fuck me; I thought for sure I was a dead man when he brought up the money. I know an opportunity when I see one, and right now I see the moment to leave.
I knew my fate was sealed when I started skimming from the bets placed at the club. Eamon asked me to be the new bookie a few months back, I never intended to do it this long, but when I saw my stash growing, I naturally became greedy. I had shit parents and couldn’t depend on anyone but myself. The way the Murrays throw money around is fucked up. I deserve more than the table scraps they throw me.
My plan had always been to save enough to leave; build a cabin in the mountains, maybe even bring my girl. Live an honest life.
I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised the money started burning a hole in my pocket, and I found myself at Cha-Cha’s three times a week with enough coke up my nose to put down an elephant. I’m cut from the same cloth as my folks, I suppose.Shit human beings through and through. What I squirreled away would have to suffice. I wasn’t about to stick around and see what the Murrays had in store for me once they learned my hand was in their cookie jar.
Grabbing my keys and phone off the desk, I throw on my leather jacket, lock the door, and make my way to the Harley out-front. I straddle the bike, briefly checking my phone notification from earlier, when I was preoccupied.
Cindel: I saw another Harley today! I think it was a “Fat Bob.” I could actually hear it coming! I’m at your place. Waiting in bed for you.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I steel my spine and text back.
Brodi: Hey, sunshine. I figure you’d be sleeping by now. I’m going to be later than usual. You should go home.
She sends back a sad face emoji.
Brodi: I’ll meet you at Benny’s tomorrow.
I add, knowing by then I’ll be halfway to Ohio.
I tuck the phone inside the inner pocket of my jacket, pull my helmet on, and secure the strap beneath my chin.
Sticking the key into the ignition, I check for neutral before I turn the fuel tap on. Engaging the choke, I use my right foot to kickstart the bike. It roars to life, instantly shaking away my swirling thoughts.
I love this bike, even though the solo headlamp has become foggy as of late. It’s overdue for a cleaning, it’s barely bright enough to light my way on these winding roads. Though I know each turn like the back of my hand, you still have to be cautious for the occasional opossum hanging out in the middle of the road. Those little fuckers could definitely throw you from your ride.
My feet rest on the pegs, as I add just enough throttle to bring me through the first of many turns. My cares fall awayas I ride past darkened warehouses and empty side streets. It’s late. Businesses are closed and most people are asleep at this hour; it’s just me and the open road.
Just as I emerge from a banked corner, a blinding set of lights comes on from down one of the side streets. The unforeseen vehicle peels out from its current position and comes straight for me!
I straighten my front, while attempting to add enough throttle to get out of the way but not lose traction. The mystery vehicle barrels toward me, and I know I can’t get out of the way. The car hits me from the back; my bike ejects me onto the hood of their ride. They slam on the brakes, and I slide from the vehicle’s dented hood, and onto the road in front of it.
My body screams at me from every joint, and I can’t feel my left arm. A succession of car doors slam, while orbs of light dance across my vision. Where’s my bike? Is it salvageable? Who the fuck hit me?
Fuck my arm! It’s definitely dislocated.
Footsteps approach, scraping along the grooved road edges, where I apparently lie. The assholes stop on either side of me, as I attempt to blink away the starry light show. I heard a shutter sound, as if a phone was taking a picture.
Two silhouettes stand over me, outlined by the car’s headlights. One figure walks away, with a phone held to their ear. I can barely make out a masculine voice say, “we have it handled.”
