Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Xavier
M ost of the rich think I’m stupid. A little “touched” is one of the terms I’ve heard.
Actually, most people do. Until I start ‘talking’ to them via either writing or my phone.
Their preconceptions don’t bother me.
Information flows more freely when others think the big man has a feeble mind.
It works for me, so I cultivate it.
The storm clouds taunt the edges of the sky, making the blue ocean turn to gunmetal with choppy white waves. I sit back at the open bar that overlooks the port in the small seaside down of Bala, not that far from Sabine City.
Nothing is far enough away from Sabine City.
The man on the dock ropes the large boat to its moor, and my mind drifts like the foam on the sea.
I think back to when I was seven and my step fucking father tried to drown me, tried to kill me in a drunken rage.
My mother managed to stop him in time, but I found my strength, then.
Not in body, but in mind, in spirit, in intelligence.
And after that moment, I decided I needed to do some things.
Learn to fight. Learn to swim. Learn. I needed to learn. I needed to be smarter, and not just for myself. But for my mother, too. I had to protect her just as much as I needed to protect myself.
So I bided my time, took the drunken beatings for her when I could, and tried to get her to leave. She was staying with him so we could have the money to eat and a roof over our head, but to me, it wasn’t worth it.
It wasn’t until I was ten that I was able to kill the monster.
Unfortunately, I lost my mother and my vocal cords in the process.
I sip the starshine—sweet, strong, it’s the type the underage society kids drink. It isn’t a drink I’d normally choose, but I want to see what’s popular in other parts of Sabine.
The man crosses to the other side of the boat—I couldn’t tell aft from starboard—and loads a pallet with the prettiest blue and purple flowers on top.
If there was an inspector, he’d look at the flowers, then at the bottles of regular cheap bubbly and white wine beneath. He wouldn’t think to search for a fake bottom. This contraband shipment is small, only twenty bottles. There isn’t enough on the pallet to risk it. At least that’s the idea.
When he takes the pallet, wheeling it down the ramp, I rise, leave cash on the bar, and go to greet him in the universal way that men like him understand.
With money.
He does a double take at seeing my height, my size, but I don’t mind. Most do that. But the guy mumbles about the troubles he’s had getting the stuff here, of extra fees and the near miss with a boarding from Sabine’s water patrols.
All that means is that he’s gunning for more money.
I’d respect him more if he just said it outright, instead of stumbling around the subject and lying.
Instead of writing to him to express my displeasure, I do what I do best and impersonate a mountain. Not saying or signing a word.
I just hold out the money in the envelope.
He starts to stammer.
I just hold it.
“Look,” he says, eyeing me, “maybe you’re a little slow, but the price went up.”
He and I both know that if there’s a fight over this pallet who will win. Question is, is he stupid enough to take that risk anyway?
“Lemme break this down for you,” he tries instead. “If you don’t give me another fifty percent, I’ll be taking this back.”
And get in trouble with his boss? I don’t think so.
But I’m beyond fucking bored, so I reach out and put my hand on the handle, dwarfing his.
He swallows hard, and then he steps back, holding out his hand for the envelope.
Not yet.
Instead, I tuck it back in my pocket and check over the crates. Everything’s there, as expected. His boss wouldn’t fuck with Killian, especially after he offered him a lucrative deal with these shipments.
I straighten and wheel the pallet to my truck to load it. Then I hand the envelope and the empty pallet to the guy. I reach into my back pocket, grab my notepad and pen.
Next time, don’t fuck with me. You could have earned a bigger tip.
I wrap the note around a twenty, then hand it to him.
I don’t look back as I get in the truck and drive back to the city.
On a whim I take the scenic route, down along the coast, near the exclusive holiday towns. There’s a rumor they’ll have a ball or an event for the Season in Crystal Beach, so I drive through there.
Big, gated places that lead to the private beach. Leafy and green and beautiful, the kind of idyllic that could make a man think this world isn’t fucked in the head with its insane hierarchy and social mores.
It needs something fresh, coconut, or what goes with coconut. A rum…and a cocktail. One with the clitoria to color it purple or blue, and maybe a white flower. An iris…
It’s money, the idea of a bespoke cocktail that isn’t sparkling wine. And it could be something we do for each of this Season’s events.
I take the road back to Sabine City, eager to share the thought with Killian. In a few hours we open anyway, so I want to be there, put everything away, but I think he might go for it.
Yeah… a pretty cocktail topped with a pretty flower. Just like the mouthy green-eyed Omega from the ball.
Not that I’m ever going to see her again.