19. I Want to Be Your…
Chapter 19
I Want to Be Your…
MARCO
I whistled.
For the first time since finding out about the attack—actually, since about a month before that—my shoulders were loose. My gut wasn’t twisted with helpless rage, helpless worry, or helpless guilt.
I was back to doing what I loved.
So I whistled.
“That song’s—” Cole started, but I held up a finger.
“Don’t say it. I don’t wanna hear how old it is.”
It wasn’t like I was in high school or some shit when it came out. I was pretty sure it was older than me. But not by much, and I didn’t want that reminder of my age. It inevitably led to me thinking about how it was almost double Callie’s. Her innocence, paired with that little fact, should’ve been enough to make me pump the brakes. Step back so she could be with someone her own age. At least pretend I was a good man by losing a couple of minutes of sleep over it.
I wasn’t doing any of that.
Good thing we got our heads out of our asses before some other punk ass got what doesn’t belong to them.
The we wasn’t intentional, but it was there—even in my own damn thoughts.
“It’s not that,” Cole said. “The day Maximo pointed out that Backstreet Boys would be on the oldies station was the day I started taking calcium for my old bones and finding gray hairs.”
Since he was five years younger than me, I shook my head. “That ain’t the reassurance you think it is.”
“All I was going to say was the music video was the most played one on MTV.” He tilted his head. “Of course, that was back in the eighties when MTV played music videos, and not shitty movies and shittier shows.”
Great. I’m one early bird special away from driving twenty under the speed limit and a seven o’clock bedtime.
“Fuck off,” I muttered, making him chuckle.
He’d been doing that more often lately.
Which was fair ’cause so had I.
My phone vibrated with a text.
Freddy: She asked for oatmeal for dinner.
It was followed by an annoying fucking GIF declaring him the winner.
When I’d left her room the night before, I’d been thinking about how Callie refused to answer where she wanted to stay once she was released. It wasn’t that I wanted her in my house—though I very much fucking did—it was that I knew it was the best place for her. I’d been waiting for the elevator when a nurse ran over to tell me that Callie had just asked for honey for the following morning, but they didn’t have any.
It wasn’t exactly a grand gesture to sway her, but it was something.
Only I wasn’t the only one who’d received that intel.
The pretty-boy bastard had already been there at breakfast with some fancy-ass artisan honey. The little plastic bear bottle I brought was shit by comparison.
I left his gloating message on read and checked the time.
This prick better hurry up, or we’re gonna miss dinner.
And it’s my overnight. It doesn’t matter if she ignores me the whole time, I’m gonna break an extra finger if he cuts into that.
Like I’d summoned him with my mental threat, voices carried from the next room.
“But this is a sure thing.” I lost part of what he said when the door slammed closed behind him, but it was League of something.
I glanced at Cole, who mouthed, “ Video game .”
Christ. Gamblers would place money on the elderly mall walkers if they thought they had an edge.
“So what you’re saying,” another voice said, “is that cash you’re carrying isn’t to pay off a tiny fraction of your considerable debt?”
“It is. It’s to pay off the whole thing. I just need a small deadline extension and a loan. After the weekend, you’ll have your money. All of it.”
“It’s funny, you said that last time.”
“But this time, it’s a sure thing.”
“And you said that the time before.” He sighed and tried to reason with the gambler—which was about as effective as stapling Jell-O to a tree. “How about you play it smart and put that tiny stack toward what you owe rather than risking it?”
“Because the interest is killing me. I’ll be paying you back until I’m in a retirement home.”
“You ain’t exactly painting yourself as an ideal loan candidate.”
“No, no, I’m not saying that. I have a new job. I can get back on track. I just thought you’d appreciate getting the money sooner.”
The idiot is gonna hustle himself into a ditch.
“You had a new job.”
“I… What?” the dumbass said. “I have one. My shift starts?—”
“ Had . It’s hard to work in a kitchen with a broken hand. Maybe two.”
The man has a flair for the dramatic.
After finding out a few days earlier that Nico Benson had threatened Callie, we were done waiting. We’d tried to visit his apartment, but he’d abandoned the dump. Cole had done his thing to find that Benson’s phone connected to the same Wi-Fi every payday like clockwork.
The Neon Lounge.
It was supposed to be a retro jazz club with all the charm of old-school Vegas, fifties fashion, and so much neon, the electric bill had to be more than the place earned in a month. Unlike Benson’s bad bets, it was a safe one to assume the only reason it remained open was because the owner was a bookie who took unregulated bets.
Since Benson owed a shit-ton and was a headache to deal with, Larry had been happy to work with us. I’d figured it would take a week or so before we got our hands on the bastard.
It’d been under twenty-four hours before Larry called to say Nico was drinking at his bar, begging for a word with the bookie.
We took the opening he’d set and leaned into it. I started whistling “Sledgehammer” again as we exited from the back room into the office.
Benson’s brows lowered in confusion, and he tried to shuffle back toward the door. Two of Larry’s meathead bouncers moved to block the path. He bumped into them and jolted forward.
He might not have pieced together why we were there, but the dumbass was smart enough to know it wasn’t good. His panicked gaze darted around to see he was trapped.
I handed the short-handled sledgehammer off to Cole and walked toward Benson. He must’ve decided risking it against the meatheads was the better option because he shoved into them, reaching for the door and shouting.
With the distance between the back room and the lounge—not to mention the Rat Pack song being blasted through the speakers out there—it was pointless. No one would hear him scream.
I grabbed his wrist in one hand and forced his index finger up.
“Look, I don’t know what you think I did, but you’re wrong,” he rushed out. “I never did anything at Black Resorts. I loved my job there. I want it back. I wouldn’t fuck it up.” His wide eyes darted to Larry, then back to me. “If Larry, like, works for Mr. Black or something, I didn’t know. I’ll give you the money. I’ll work in one of his kitchens for free.”
“Hey, I’m no one’s employee, kid,” Larry bit out, insulted by the insinuation. “No offense to your boss, but I worked hard to build this on my own. I don’t want him spreading that misinformation that it’s not mine.”
I’m sure Maximo will somehow find the strength to carry on without all this being his.
“Then why—” Benson started.
I held the eye contact as I snapped his finger like a pencil.
“What the fuck? What the fuck, you big, crazy bastard?” he screeched, his face going pale and clammy.
My face stayed blank as I rearranged my hold and repeated the process with his middle finger.
His screech was high enough that all dogs in a mile radius were probably losing their minds.
His body swayed, but passing out wasn’t a gift he deserved.
The meatheads moved with experience, one slapping his cheeks while the other pulled a water bottle from his pocket and dumped it on Benson’s head.
Keeping him awake, alert, and aware of the pain.
I pulled him over to the metal desk and pressed his hand to the surface. He tried to curl his fingers and twist from my grip, but it didn’t work.
I flattened his palm and gestured to Cole for the sledgehammer, but he didn’t pass it over.
He set the head on the prone hand and kept hold of the handle without putting additional pressure on it.
The weight was already enough, and Benson used his good hand to claw at our holds.
I released his wrist, grabbed the other one, and broke his index finger before he had time to plead.
It started when I was done. “Please. Oh my God, please stop. Whatever this is, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
“You know,” Cole started as he tilted his head to where Benson sank to his knees, “I wonder if this terror is how Callie felt when you trapped her in the fridge.”
Benson’s eyes went huge before his flop sweat dripped in, and he squeezed them shut. He blinked rapidly and talked even faster. “That’s what… That was nothing. We had a connection. I told Chef that. She’s my?—”
Cole pressed on the hammer. “Your what ?”
“My nothing. She’s my nothing. I talked to her. I wasn’t the one who hurt her. The cop who interviewed me already verified my alibi. It was just talk. All talk,” he blubbered, snot running down his face as he spewed some podcast bullshit. “Women respect high-value men who are assertive.”
“There’s a difference between assertive and creepy as fuck.” He pushed a little more, casually twisting the handle in his hold. “Was threatening her in the garage also you shooting your shot?”
“See, that’s the part that pissed me off most,” Larry cut in before jerking his chin up.
One of the meatheads came forward, fisted Benson’s hair, and kneed him in the face. I could hear the crunch of his nose over his screams as blood splattered everywhere.
Larry leaned over the desk to glare down at where the bleeding man was trying to curl into a ball. If he wasn’t careful, he would dislocate his own shoulder.
It would take the fun out of things.
“I’ve been patient with you,” Larry said, unmoved by the man’s sobs. “But when I find out that you used me to threaten a woman, implying that I would come after her, that patience disappears. A man’s reputation is all he has. And I’ll be damned if I let people think I’m the kind of pussy who would attack a woman.” He jerked his chin again, and his meathead kicked Benson in the gut. “Or the kind who’d trap one in a fridge or parking garage.”
Benson heaved like he was going to throw up, and everyone paused so he didn’t pass out. Once he seemed to have it under control, he shakily climbed to his knees and tried to adjust his shoulder. It was obviously dislocated.
Fuck.
Since that could pinch the nerves and dull the pain, Cole lifted the sledgehammer just long enough to swap in his other hand.
“Okay, we’re even,” Benson tried frantically. “If you let me go now, I won’t call that cop.”
“What part would you tell him?” Cole pressed on the handle. “That your nose was broken because of your illegal gambling or that your hand was broken because you tried to force yourself on our woman?”
I wasn’t sure he knew what he’d said or whether he meant it how it came out. All I knew was shit was getting tied into knots, and we needed to separate our friendship from our pursuit of Callie before it imploded in our faces and we lost it all.
Bones crunched under the weight of the sledgehammer. Muscle and tendons popped. His hand was red and rapidly swelling like the skin would burst.
The man screamed and fell, using the desk to try to yank his hand free. Cole eased up but didn’t remove the sledgehammer.
“What happened here?” Larry asked when he could be heard over the sobs.
“Nothing.” Benson was smart enough to catch on after only the first ask. He rolled his head to look at the bookie through unfocused eyes. “I was mugged across town.”
Larry bent so he was in his face. “If I see a cop so much as stroll by, I’m coming after you for every cent you owe. If you thought the interest I charged before was bad, wait until you see the scumbag rate. And that’s nothing compared to what Maximo Black will do. Understood?”
He frantically nodded.
With one last glare and a chin lift from Larry, his meatheads surrounded Benson. Cole gave the sledgehammer a hard jab before lifting it so the bouncers could haul the poor bastard away.
Once they were gone, I pulled the envelope from my suit coat’s inner pocket and handed it to Larry. “Thanks for the help.”
A grin split his face as he peeked inside before stashing it in a locked drawer.
He could’ve asked for the money he wouldn’t be recouping from the injured chef.
Casino vouchers.
An inclusive overnight at Nebula.
A favor from Maximo—something that was basically priceless in that city.
He wouldn’t have gotten it, but he could’ve been greedy enough to press for a piece of the gambling action in the warehouse fights Maximo held.
He hadn’t gone for any of those.
All he’d wanted was a behind-the-scenes tour of the Sphere and the ability to choose its facial expressions for a week. He hadn’t even taken Maximo up on his offer to run an ad for The Neon Lounge on that eyesore.
That must’ve gone against his code of doing shit on his own. I respected it.
It wasn’t paying off since the place was mostly empty, but I respected it.
“Couldn’t have him smearing my reputation,” he said.
I handed him my business card. “Let us know if he gives you trouble.” I tilted my head toward the cabinet armed with alarms and industrial locks. “Unless you take a wager from him again, and then you’re on your own with that.”
“Nah, I have enough other clients. I don’t need his excuses and bullshit.” He sighed and shook his head. “If he would’ve just given me the cash he brought, I might’ve let some shit slide. But he tried to work me…” He lifted a shoulder. “Tell your boss I appreciate him pulling the strings for the tour, but I hope to never cross paths with him.”
Smart man.
I lifted my chin and silently walked out with Cole. Once in my SUV, I glared at one of my closest friends. “You took the fun part.”
It was a surprise, too. Not that Cole was afraid to get his hands dirty, but it wasn’t his usual role. He ruined people’s lives digitally, not physically.
He shrugged. “Payback for you getting that song in my head.”