Chapter Seven
LEO
“Iknow why you did that,” I say, with Eve’s silky smooth body brushing up against mine.
“No, I don’t think you do,” she replies, her erect nipples digging into my side. If she’s not careful, it’s going to inspire round two, after we’ve barely finished the first.
“You’re trying to stop me from sorting this out,” I say, sitting up and kicking my feet over the side of the bed.
“No, I did it because the thought of your animalistic side makes me soaking wet,” she leans forward, pressing her soft lips against my skin. Every kiss moves up my back until Eve hits my neck.
“It doesn’t change the fact that this has to happen.” I turn to her. Eve’s face sinks at my admission.
“Don’t start pouting,” I clasp her face in my hand and pull her into an embrace. We lose ourselves momentarily again to the fiery passion. My God, what has this woman done to me?
“Then don’t go,” she says, inching away from me.
“He hurt you, and now it’s my turn to hurt him,” I squeeze Eve’s cheek softly.
“He’s dangerous. He’s been in prison.”
“Going to prison doesn’t make you dangerous. It makes you careless. It’s only a crime if you get caught,” I wink. Eve’s nose crinkles up with the cheeky smile on her face.
“Please stay, even if it’s only for tonight,” she protests all the same.
“And let tomorrow bring a new danger? I can’t let that happen.” I get up, pulling on my clothes that lie scattered across the ground.
“Leo—“
“Stay here; get comfortable, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Eve doesn’t fight me any longer. With a grumble and an annoyed sigh, she snuggles up into the duvet as I finish preparing.
“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” Eve asks when I step up toward the door.
“Define stupid,” I reply.
“Get yourself killed,” she sounds almost sad.
“I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself,” I reply.
With that, I leave before I am tempted to second-guess my decision. Room eight of that dirty motel is awaiting my arrival.
This ends tonight.
***
I pull into the Rio Grande Motel’s parking lot. My BMW 740i doesn’t really fit beside the cheaper Kias and Hondas. Luckily for me, I’m not sticking around long enough for the riff-raff to stink up my metallic-black paint job.
It’s quiet. The loiterers from this afternoon have disappeared with the sun.
Only one of the five lights in the Rio Grande parking lot is on, and it doesn’t do much to illuminate the area.
It’s on the closest side to the gas station.
A mom and dad step out of the store, kids in hand, licking ice creams and drinking milkshakes.
Best be rushing off now. Don’t want those kids seeing the horror of what’s about to happen this evening.
I lean over and open the glove box. My Glock-17 sits, primed and ready, atop a stack of papers.
I don’t anticipate using it, but I can’t be too careful if I’m going to just walk into this den of snakes.
Even if I had other plans for this bastard, I’ll keep my promise to Eve.
I’ll run him out of town. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to hurt him very, very badly.
I step out of the car, hiding my Glock in the waistline of my pants, held in place by my belt.
It’s only me, silence and the inky-black night as I move between the other cars towards the building. I stop outside room eight, listening through the slightly ajar window for any sound of Jeremiah. The TV’s blaring. I suppose that means he’s in.
“And you’ll sing amen and hallelujah,” a voice from the TV says. A televangelist? Is he trying to wash away his sins with a subscription hotline to Jesus? No, my friend. God’s not going to forgive these sins. I’ll deliver your punishment myself.
I knock on the door and wait for a reply.
“Who’s there?” Jeremiah’s voice calls out.
I don’t say a word, knocking a second, and then a third time.
The bastard walks over to the door and pulls it open. He’s shorter than I thought he’d be. In the food court, I only caught sight of him from a distance. There’s less to worry about than I could ever have imagined.
He’s got a scar running down his face, and patches of red against his skin. Probably Eve’s coffee from the afternoon. He’s scrawny, with no real meat on his bones, and no real muscular definition. He’s dressed in a pair of oversized neon orange swimming trunks and a crusty wife beater.
“What the hell do you want?” he spits.
I’m about to come up with some tall tale to win Jeremiah’s trust when it hits me. This dickhead knows who I am. He’s the one who told Eve about the family business. There’s no point putting on a show. Getting right down to the bottom line is how I prefer to work, anyway.
“Jeremiah, right?”
“What the hell do you want, Mr. Drug Lord?“ Jeremiah replies. He stands there with his arms crossed, already defensive. He’s got his answer ready, long before I ever have to say it.
“I’m here to offer you an ultimatum. Leave Austin. Go back to the sewer you crawled out of in Wyoming, and forget that poor girl,” I say.
“An ultimatum usually comes with a plus and a minus. You haven’t offered me much of a carrot, so what’s the stick?”
“The carrot? You get to go with working legs. The stick is you might not walk out of here at all.” I return.
“You’re talking mighty fierce for a young man,” Jeremiah snaps his neck left and then right. “You really feeling that sure of yourself?”
That’s what I want to hear. He’s got some fight in him, after all.
“Let’s find out,” I say. I drive my head forward, smashing my forehead against the bridge of Jeremiah’s nose.
He crumbles back into the hotel room. I’m right there with him.
I kick the door shut with the heel of my boot, and wrap Jeremiah’s shirt in one of my fists.
I pull him towards me. I drive my fist into his jaw with his forward step.
Then I give him a second and a third, until he looks ready to collapse.
Jeremiah stumbles and hits a table slightly off the kitchen. He takes in a few deep breaths, clutching his jaw in his hand. He can thank Pastor Edmund on the TV for the miracle of still being standing. Very few men meet my fists and go on walking.
“You son of a bitch,” Jeremiah hisses, before charging towards me. I make a single sidestep, and throw a wicked right hook towards him. It’s enough to send him spiraling to the ground.
Jeremiah gets up onto his hands and knees. He’s panting for air. A tooth drops to the ground and, as he turns up to me, I see a blood waterfall’s pissing out his nose.
“That’s all you got?” Jeremiah’s puffing and panting. He stands up straight, presses a thumb against his nose, and cracks it back into place. “It’s gonna take more than that, pretty boy.”
Jeremiah launches himself towards me, a barrage of fists coming with him. Those that connect make my vision go starry. Along with the punches, he starts kicking, too.
“Prison taught you a few things, eh?”
But, his blind swinging has no pattern. It’s just careless frenzied movement. He’s fighting to fend off an attack rather than hitting to hurt me. Prison taught Jeremiah how to hit hard, but it didn’t show him how to protect himself. He fights for survival, not the sport of it.
That’s where we differ.
Somewhere between a punch and a kick, I send another fist forward. It connects with Jeremiah’s cheek and his legs turn to jelly. He fumbles over his feet, and stumbles back to the kitchen table. This time, I don’t give him the honor.
I follow up, swinging left, right, bouncing on the balls of my feet, my hands protecting my face.
Almost every strike connects with the jaw or face, though a few are brushed off by his forearms. His rapid return swinging connects occasionally.
More than a few leave me feeling dizzy. One, in particular, catches me right under the left eye.
There’s an instant puffiness, letting me know it’ll swell and bruise.
After a while, Jeremiah seems to give up.
I use him as a punching bag. His hands drop to his sides, and he eats fist after fist until there’s no fight left in him.
He collapses to the ground, huffing and puffing for air.
I drop at his side, clutching his long hair in my hand and lifting his head off the ground.
“You had enough, old man?”
“Enough?” he questions. “I’ve only just started.”
Jeremiah’s a lithe bastard and horribly devious.
He was taking my beating, just to catch his breath.
Now that I’m down on bended knee, he slips from my clutches and snakes himself around my body.
He hooks his arms under mine, locking his fingers together behind my head.
His legs cross over mine, his feet hooked beneath my knees.
Before I can react, or fight my way free, Jeremiah plunges his teeth into the back of my neck. A roar tears out of me, as I feel him tear through the flesh. Less than half an hour ago, Eve’s lips were right there, trying to get me to stay home.
I struggle to get a grip on him, and his maniacal grunting only amplifies my adrenaline. I manage to stand up straight, even as he locks his arms and legs around mine. He tries hitting me again, and though most of his punches connect, they’re weak attempts at taking me down.
Jeremiah doesn’t release his grip on me. It’s a foolish mistake. I launch into the air with everything I’ve got left in the tank, crashing Jeremiah into the ground beneath my full weight. He winces and wheezes at the impact of my enormous size against his frail frame.
A couple of broken ribs in exchange for a tetanus shot? Probably not worth it.
As he’s lying here winded and weak, I kick my legs over him and drop down on his belly. This time, I start hitting until my knuckles bleed and he stops moving. My body is exhausted. My mind soon follows.
At least I sent the message I came here for.
He doesn’t stay out for long. He comes to, his swollen eyes flickering open and shut. I pull the Glock 17 from its resting place. With my free hand, I squeeze Jeremiah’s mouth until there’s enough of an opening for the barrel to pass through. I shove it down deep, watching his squirming begin.
He’s deathly afraid.
That’s how I want him.
“If I see you near Eve again, I won’t be so gentle.”
Jeremiah doesn’t reply, because he can’t with a gun shoved in his mouth.
It takes a lot of strength for me not to splatter the contents of his skull across the Rio Grande Motel’s beige carpet. But, I made a promise to Eve. If I plan on having any sort of future with her, I’ll do so without lying. No good home can be built on a shaky foundation.
I get to my feet, and limp to the door. One of the kicks Jeremiah sent my way must’ve hit my knee as it feels sore. My head’s pounding as well.
I leave, battered and bruised, but at least I won.