6. Chapter 6
It’s unnerving how quickly my brother, Coyote, needs to track down Miguel’s information. Ten minutes after I talk to him, he hands me a file with his address and personal profile. “Anything else?”
“Forget I asked.” Coyote owes me a favor after I helped him out with his girlfriend problem but he’s less of an asshole than I am. Whether he owed me or not, he’d still get me the info I wanted and keep it to himself.
I neglect to thank him as I head to my bike.
Last night, after I dropped X at her apartment, I thought of heading to Chrissy’s but it didn’t appeal. My quasi-girlfriend pales next to the little stick of dynamite and I’m not a guy to play games. I’m still a guy; just because I have a girlfriend, doesn’t mean I don’t look at other woman, but I don’t spend any amount of time thinking about them. X is different though, which bugs the shit out of me. She’s gonna be hard to forget.
She’s a hot one, nice tits, great ass and bucket loads of swagger. I like that she doesn’t pretend otherwise. It’s the mouth on her that really gets me. She’s the first woman I’ve met that stares me in the eye and says it like it is, even at her peril. I think she knows when to shut it down, but only exercises that particular option on rare occasions.
Still, she’s not for me and the sooner I get the job of breaking her ex’s legs done, the sooner I can get her out of my head. I’m still walking away from Chrissy because it’s time. She’s expecting too much from me. Getting clingy, dropping hints. I don’t think X is like that – well she’d be demanding, no doubt, but unlike Chrissy, there’d be no subtlety. Life with X would be chaos and that would break me.
Like prison almost did.
Nine fucking years of watching my back, looking after the fucks who couldn’t look after themselves. It’s how I met Eight. His older brother was my cell mate, a lifer for killing his ex-wife’s boyfriend. He was also a target that needed protecting.
A year after I was paroled, he was murdered. Two men showed to pay their respects. Me and Eight. I knew Eight was a one-percenter and so we didn’t really hang out until my parole was done. He’s six years younger than me, brought me in when I was 29. One year as a prospect and four years full-fledged.
I sigh as I think of me and X together. Even if she was for me, her dad would never approve. Too much water under the bridge. Too late to backtrack and pretend I’m a good guy. Paulie knows I’m not. Besides he’d make us get married and that is never going to fucking happen. Not with anyone.
Which brings me back to the boyfriend, Mig-fucking-uel. I can’t figure out why I’m jealous of the prick because that’s not really an emotion I’m familiar with. No way she was living with him, even if she did have the key to his apartment. Paulie wouldn’t approve and X may be all mouth and ass, but I have no doubt she’s a good girl who listens to her dad.
I roar away from the clubhouse, stop at home to hang up my cut and switch from my bike to my truck, then head towards Reno. I’m gonna solve X’s problem quick so I can move on. I gotta corner Red though. Get him to look at her car. Get it reliable so she isn’t fucking walking the streets in the middle of the night. Maybe I’ll talk to Eight and Hangman about reducing the protection fee we charge her old man. Or dropping it altogether, so Paulie can hire help and X can get some sleep and study time.
I involuntarily shudder at my thoughts. What the fuck is wrong with me?
According to Coyote’s information, the ex-boyfriend works mostly during the day. It’s just after midnight when I get into Reno and I figure it’ll take five minutes to convince Miguel to back off. Then I’ll stop by Belmonte’s to let X know it’s done. Given that she’ll be prepping for tomorrow, I expect I’ll find her there. Maybe I’ll hang around. Give her a ride home.
Stop it Reaper. What the fuck are you thinking? Head to Hook’s and call her. Tell her it’s done and to piss off. Yeah, that sounds better.
I drive by the apartment building where Miguel lives, park my truck a couple of blocks over and walk back. Other times, I’d ride my bike in full throttle, park wherever the fuck I wanted but I’m not on a Jury job and don’t want this bullshit on Hangman’s radar. This is personal and I want it to stay that way.
The place isn’t exactly the Hilton, but it’s not shabby either. It’s maybe 30 years old, has eight stories and a parking garage. It’s an apartment building though and I hate apartments. If you gotta leave fast, there’s no place to go except out the front door and if that’s blocked, what’re you gonna do?
At the secure doors to the lobby, I hit all the buzzers and wait. The door buzzes almost immediately. Don’t matter what time of day or night it is, someone always opens the front door without asking.
Miguel’s apartment is on the 7th floor of the building and I curse the prick out as I climb the stairs. No way I’m taking the elevator. Don’t like ‘em any more than I like apartment buildings.
At the top, I scope out the floor. There are eight units with the same bland doors, dull green, all in need of a paint job. Miguel’s apartment is just off the stairs. At least there’s that going for me. The hall’s empty so I stroll to the ex’s door and twist the knob hoping it’s open. I can pick a lock, but I’m not an expert.
The door gives way and I decide Miguel is a fucking idiot for not locking up in Reno, which makes me relieved that X is done with him even if he was the fucker who made it happen. The lights are on and so’s the television in the living room, but there’s no one in it or the kitchen. The dog that X talked about is on the couch, stretched on his side, looking at me, his tail thumping.
He’s almost as ugly as the mutt Coyote’s sisters have, but at least he looks like a Spot. I put my fingers to my lips and he drops his head on the couch like he understands me.
Some watchdog you are, I think as I pull my gun.
One of the bedroom doors is open. It’s full of so much crap no one could find the bed if there was one. No asshole, though. I check the bathroom. Nothing. That leaves the other bedroom, the door closed and I wonder if Miguel and the new girlfriend are inside fucking around. It makes me hesitate. Even if the bitch deserves to get her ass kicked, I’m not big on being the one to do it. Still I’m here, so why not scare the shit out of her too. I give the door a solid kick and it slams open and hits the wall with a bang.
The first thing I notice is the overwhelming smell of shit, followed by the cloying telltale scent of blood.
I flip the light switch and see Miguel or what’s left of him. He’s definitely past the point of threatening. He’s naked, his head thrown back, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. What really bothers me is the blood soaking into the bed. The fucker’s clearly been tortured. Stab wounds in his legs and arms, missing fingers, ears cut off, toes broken, compound fracture of the tibia, junk unrecognizable. I know this happened before his throat was slit, because I’ve seen this kind of shit before.
In the Hell’s Jury chamber when we’re looking for information.
I back out of the room, going over in my mind what I touched. Just the door handle and I clean it off with my bandana. I’m tucking it into my back pocket when sirens split the air – more than one, growing closer, then stopping outside the building.
The fuck?