Текст книги "Devil Smoke"
Автор книги: Max Henry
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DEVIL SMOKE
Copyright © 2015 Max Henry
Published by Max Henry
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: November 2015, by Max Henry [email protected]
Edited by: Lauren McKellar
Cover Image: Eric Battershell
Cover Model: Don Allen
Cover Design: Louisa of LM Creations
Formatting by: Max Effect
NOTE TO READERS
Devil Smoke is fifth in the Butcher Boys series and needs to be read in sequence to be fully appreciated.
If you haven’t already, please read the series in the following order:
Devil You Know
Devil on Your Back
Devil May Care
Devil in the Detail
Devil Smoke
PROLOGUE
From the moment we’re born, we’re graded. How well we feed as a baby, how fast our tiny bodies grow, our first word, our first step. And all the while our parents wonder, is it enough? Are they doing enough?
This fear of the inadequate, this need to fit in with what’s associated as ‘normal’ is passed on to us as children. We start school, join a sports team, and again we’re critiqued on whether our best efforts are enough. Did we get acceptable marks on that last test? Did we score a home run in the weekend’s game?
Enough.
Who’s to decide if we’re enough? Surely if you manage to get up each morning with your health intact, then that’s a success on it’s own? What is it about the human psyche that constantly seeks affirmation that what a person does is acceptable by the standards of their peers?
I want to give you a fairytale about a man who carried the burdens of expectation with him day to day and found a way to shake them. I want to give you a fairytale about a man whose fear of inadequacy was shaken, and who found an acceptance of himself that allowed him to make choices without hesitation.
But I can’t, because life has no magic eraser. Ailments of the mind are never cured, simply managed.
No. All I can offer you on this gifted day, wherever you are, is the promise that this story—my story—can prove that sometimes our demons don’t need to be fought. That sometimes, the only way to win is to play the same game. That sometimes, all it takes is the comfort of a kindred soul for you to be able to dance in the dark, hand in hand with the monsters that have hidden under your bed since that day you first failed and weren’t enough.
Because you know what?
You are enough.
So get up and fucking believe it.
SLIDE
Bronx
“You don’t have to do this.” Ty leans forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. “Nobody’s forcing you to.”
I hesitate with the card poised over the four lines of coke I’d been cutting, and sigh. “Man, you know as well as I do that the people you’re fuckin’ sending me in to slaughter with do this shit for breakfast. If I’m goin’ to have to get wasted, I want my first hit to be among people I trust.”
He nods, and eases back in his chair. The scowl on his face tells me he’s still not convinced.
I can’t expect him to understand. Ty was married to the stuff for years. It almost killed him twice. He’s worked hard to get himself away from the grip cocaine had on him, and here I am willingly sticking it up my nose when I’m the perfect example of health and wellbeing.
Crazy.
But it’s a necessary evil if I’m going to convince not only Eddie’s crew but also myself that I can be a part of their world.
Hooch sits to my left, rolling a dollar bill into a makeshift straw. He inspects the job I’ve done cutting the powder ready to snort, and nods. “You want first rights?”
I stare down at the stuff, and shake my head. “Nah, you go first.”
He shrugs as though it’s my loss, and pulls the tray of goods towards him. A couple of deep breaths later, and two of the lines are gone. Hooch holds the bill out toward me, and I take it, eyeing the end that’s been stuck up his nose.
“Brother, you can’t get squeamish about shit like that,” Hooch says with a laugh.
“It’s better if you don’t think about where half the gear you’ll use comes from,” Ty agrees. “It’s not always clean, but when people are that far gone they don’t care. Best you can do is avoid it by carrying your own kit.”
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling like such a newbie to all of this still. Give me a room loaded with iron and I’ll make myself at home, but throw me in to a room full of recreational drug users and I feel as green as the first day I stepped foot inside a gym—confused and not sure where to start.
“Dive in, brother.” Hooch pushes the remaining lines my way.
I ignore the pointed stare coming from Ty’s chair and lean over, sticking the dollar in my nostril and blocking the other to take the first line. The bitter taste hits the back of my throat, and I swallow a couple of times before switching nostrils and inhaling the last line. My nose tingles, and I wriggle it side-to-side trying to shake the creeping numbness. I glower at Hooch as he rumbles a deep laugh beside me, rubbing a finger under his nose as he does.
Ty watches on, serious as a heart attack.
“How you feel?” Hooch asks.
I look around the room, at everybody going about their business like my body isn’t about to crack out some crazy reaction. I’ve been warned what it feels like. I was prepped on what to expect, but the unknown, the knowledge there’s no turning back now has me on a high of its own.
“Not so different,” I say, leaning back in my seat.
“Give it a minute.”
Ty shifts in his seat, fingering the ankle of his jeans, all the while trying not to look at the gear still laid out on the table. He’s failing miserably at hiding the war waging within as he stares intently at the dollar bill that’s slowly unfurling itself beside the small metal tray. I’m just thankful Hooch had the foresight to make sure there was just enough of this shit for the two of us, otherwise my gut tells me we’d be wrestling Ty off the table.
“Things still going good at the Lion?” Ty asks, rubbing a hand over his face with a grimace.
“Yeah,” I answer, placing my hands behind my head. “Got given an invite to a party or some shit tomorrow. Details are sketchy on where it is, but from what I found out, Eddie’s supposed to be there.”
Hooch elbows me in the side. “On the up, eh, brother?”
I laugh, dropping my hands to my sides. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”
“How did you find that out?” Ty asks.
“Old biker named Horse,” I say. “Dude’s at the bar most nights, so naturally I struck up conversation with him. Guy’s a hard shot, but he seems genuine enough. I asked about where people were scoring, and he told me about this crack house an hour out of town.”
“Who does he ride with?” Hooch asks, crossing an ankle to his knee.
“Unit called the Devil’s Breed.”
“Based in Sioux City,” Hooch explains to Ty. “What’s he doin’ in Omaha?”
“Not patched in anywhere. Guy’s a nomad.”
“Fair enough.”
“You ready for the next stage?” Ty asks warily. “You up to talking to Eddie?”
I smile at my best friend, wondering why exactly it is he thinks I’m not. “Fuck yeah. I’m born to do this shit.”
Ty narrows his gaze.
“What?” I rise from my seat, grabbing a club slut around the waist as she passes by. “You said it yourself—I’m the best fit for this job. You changin’ your mind, man?” I run my nose up her neck, eliciting a groan from the slim brunette.
Ty slides his gaze over to Hooch and shakes his head. “I think it’s hit.”
Hooch laughs, throwing his head back. “Yeah, brother, I think it has.”
I look between the two of them, my face aching with the smile I’m sporting. I don’t even know why I’m grinning, let alone what the fuck is so funny. “Why you assholes laughin’? Thought I had this shit nailed,” I say, gesturing to the gear on the table.
“Yeah, brother,” Hooch says, still chuckling. “You’ve got it nailed all right.”
I flop back into my seat, bringing the slut with me. Her bony ass digs into the tops of my thighs, her oversize belt that masquerades as a skirt riding up to her naked crotch. Feeling at ease in my skin and fucking high on life itself, I watch a couple of prospects argue over something at the bar while I run my hand up over her bare pussy. She writhes about on my lap, turning her head to kiss me, but copping my jaw instead when I turn away. Not after you for that, love. King steps in to split the two prospects up, and it’s not until I catch myself eyeing every glint of light that reflects off his watch while he gestures wildly at the pair, that I realize Hooch and Ty were right—the coke is taking hold.
Nothing to it.
“You feelin’ good?” Hooch asks.
“She’s feelin’ good,” I say with a laugh, planting my hand firmly over the slut’s box to shunt her further up my lap.
Ty stands abruptly from his seat and marches across to the bar in a right fucking mood. If the guy has an issue with me doing dust and fucking sluts, he should have thought about that before he volunteered me for the role. Fuck him. This stint with Eddie’s crew is going to be a piece of cake—too damn easy for a guy like me.
I’ve got this.
“What do you think?” Hooch asks, slapping me on the leg to get my attention. “Think you can pull this stunt off?”
I grin at the guy, my fingers buried in the moaning slut’s cunt, and nod. “Of course I can, you tool. It is me you’re askin’.”
“Thought you might say that.”
He smiles at me and gets out of his seat to go join Ty at the bar. I kick my feet up next to the residue on the table and recline back, opening up the woman’s legs as I do.
Ty’s got nothing to worry about. He’s given the job to the best man.
I’ll show these fuckers how to take down a drug crew, single handed, and still have time to polish my boots.
DROP IT LIKE IT’S HOT
Bronx
Rubbing the underside of my nose, I step through the front gates of the house the party’s being held at. Moonlight casts eerie shadows across the cars parked on the lawn, semi-blocking the path. The shit Hooch hooked me up with is taking its hold—I feel on top of the fucking world. Mentally dialing it in, I step up to the front door and shell out my house fee to the ’roided-up asshole blocking the entranceway. He steps aside, eyeballing me as I pass by. Fuck him. What the fuck do I care? I’ve made it in to one of Eddie’s parties, and tonight I plan on showing those assholes back in Lincoln why it is they picked me to do the job.
A simple objective on paper, but one that’s laced with danger. I have to get close enough to Eddie to have access to his network of dealers. I need to be trusted enough to have a chance at that information. And once I have it, I have to make myself scarce before he realizes that somebody on the inside is bleeding the information to the Fallen Saints. The rest . . . it’s up to King. Once I’ve played my part I’m out, walking away from this and looking for a warm place to have a long overdue vacation.
Somewhere to sit and think about what I want from the rest of my life.
Heavy metal thunders out of huge speakers set up both inside and outside of the house, Slipknot singing something about the devil inside as I make my way through the open plan living area to hunt out Horse. Empty bottles line every available flat surface, overflowing ashtrays spilling their contents onto the carpet where they sit, and discarded food trays are stacked haphazardly on a lamp table jammed in one corner. A couple sits tangled in each other on one of the two sofas, several more people leaning against the available wall space while they talk. A blonde woman dances to a slow and sensual tune only she can hear in the middle of the room, providing a captivating show for two dirty fuckers sharing a pipe. All of ten people are in the place, and at least half are too wasted to move. The party’s everything I expected.
I just hope there’s more.
I make my way through the open doors and out onto the back deck, stepping out of the lights inside the house and back into the welcoming dark. A bonfire rages in the middle of the lawn, providing light for the people scattered around the yard in closed groups. A couple of young women dance around the flames while people of all ages sit on upturned crates and piles of scrap timber, drinks or smokes in hand.
“Thought you’d show your face after all?”
I jolt after a hard slap to the back, and turn to face Horse. “You think I wouldn’t?”
“Never doubted you.” He gives me a shunt to the shoulder, which damn near throws me off balance all over again.
The guy’s a unit: six-four on a quiet day, and built like a fuckin’ bulldozer. A mess of copper hair falls around his face, partly hiding the lines of weather and age that give away his years. Arms like tree trunks sprout from his well-worn T-shirt, scars lining the flesh in raised lines. He’s seen his fair share of violence over the years—that much is clear—but as rough as the asshole looks, there’s something that sets me at ease around him—probably the leather cut he wears which states his allegiance to the Devil’s Breed.
Call me weak, but I’ve kind of developed a trust for the Harley-riding type during the last few months.
“You thirsty?” Horse asks. “Let’s get you a drink, you lonely fucker.”
He throws his arm around my shoulders and steers past a group of men who talk and drink in a tight circle, leading me toward a steel drum cut lengthways, filled with ice and cold brews. I take the drink Horse offers, and look around for something to pop the top off with. He chuckles, snatching the bottle from my grip and ripping the top off with his teeth.
“Fuckin’ soft these days,” he mutters, handing it back.
I take the drink and tip it his way with a grin before downing half the cool beverage.
“Who you here with?” I ask, looking around the yard for more Devil’s Breed cuts.
“My old lady,” Horse says with a grin. “Left the others behind tonight. Half the bastards don’t trust this lot anyway, so I’m hard pressed to get the assholes to front.”
“Why do you come then?” Nomad or not, it’s unusual to see a biker out on his own amongst a crowd that’s seems more foe than friend given the stares he’s getting. Or is that because of me?
“What can I say?” Horse looks around the yard at the mix of people enjoying the hospitalities. “They have good grit.” His expression falls and his eyes glaze over as he stares out into nothing.
“You goin’ to introduce me to your lady, then?” I give him a gentle nudge with my elbow to snap him out of wherever he’s gone.
“When she gets back from the john, sure.” Horse shakes his head with a chuckle—about what, I’m not exactly sure. He reaches into the drum to get himself a drink. “You’ve never told me why it is I don’t see you with anyone,” he points out, tapping the top of his bottle into my chest before opening it. “Why’s a pretty boy like you always showin’ up on his own to the Lion?”
I shrug, wondering if things would be any different if I wasn’t undercover. I’ve never had trouble finding a woman when I need one, but none of them ever stay. And certainly none of them leave on good enough terms for me to be able to call up for a night out. “Haven’t found a woman who sticks yet.”
Horse makes a knowing grunt, and throws the hand holding his bottle out to gesture towards the house. “Here comes mine now.”
I cut my gaze across the back yard to see a blonde woman in what appears to be her forties crossing the lawn toward us, a huge smile on her face. She looks every bit the part, decked out in black leather pants and with an off-the-shoulder leopard-print top underneath her leather vest. She throws her arms around Horse’s neck, giving him a kiss and providing me with a clear view of the property patch claiming her as his.
“Bronson, this is my old lady, Molly.”
I ignore the niggling feeling of dishonesty hearing Horse use the name Ty decided would be best for me, and nod in her direction. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Theory was, going by my actual name was too risky, so Ty thought it best to choose a name that sounds similar, saving me the hassle of trying to remember what I answer to. Bronson, Bronx, there’s barely anything between them, but enough to keep my anonymity.
I hate it.
Molly laughs and slaps a hand against my chest. “Please. I’m no ma’am. I’m not well behaved enough to be treated so ‘properly’.”
“Got your hands full with this one, have you, Horse?” I tease.
He smiles down at his lady. “In the best way.”
A broken piece of my heart jabs painfully in my chest watching the adoration they have for each other. Playing pretend is one thing, getting smashed on coke is apparently becoming another, but I’m still the same guy at heart—a guy longing for that companionship that everybody but me has. All I want out of life is to be enough for someone to want to call their own.
Yeah, I’m a closet romantic.
I take another swig of my beer, awkwardly seeking distraction from the couple in front of me who seem to have forgotten they’re not alone as they tangle tongues again. Tipping my head right back, I drain the last of the bottle, cursing the fact the buzz from the line I did before walking in here is already waning. I bring my head down and look around for somewhere to get comfortable while I people watch and try to figure out who Eddie is—if he’s even here.
Tossing the empty bottle in a nearby bin, I take up another drink from the drum and head over to a dark corner of the yard, passing through the smoke drifting away from the fire. A woman laughs loudly to my left, slapping her friend on the arm as she throws her head back with mirth. I find myself smiling, her amusement infectious despite the fact I have no idea what they’re even talking about. Her laughter fades as I pass, along with my smile while I make myself at home on a discarded tire. I crack the top off the beer with the sharp edge of the framing for the wooden fence behind me, and stretch my legs out, crossing my booted feet at the ankles.
The two girls I spotted earlier continue to dance by the fire as I roll the bitter beer across my tongue and swallow. They’re lost to the music as they weave their bodies around each other—hands wandering and eyes full of empty promise. I cast my gaze around the circle, checking out the faces that stare into the flames as they drown their sorrows. None of them raise any suspicion, or seem the type to be in control of an up-and-coming drug crew. The whole place appears kind of subdued, a mix of young and old, here to get wasted and forget the trials of another week for a few hours. A part of me doubts Eddie would even show at something so mundane.
Everything about the place brings a kind of comfort laced with regret, memories from teenage years I lost not so long ago surfacing at the familiar sights. It was at a house party like this that I killed my first. And it was alone like this that I first sat and thought about the fact that my life would never be the same as I tried in vain to rub the blood from my hands onto my jeans.
Everything’s so simple when you look back on it. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, so I’m told, but to me it’s simply the reincarnation of my nightmares. Thinking back on the nights that followed, where I made wrong choice after wrong choice and changed the path of my life irrevocably does nothing but leave me with a hollow ache in my chest. Regret can be poisonous, and when you consume enough of it and let it seep through your bones, it can be a kind of living death.
Which is why most of the time it’s easier just to pretend to live—to do what everybody expects of you and be who they want you to be. It’s less of a drain on your soul than trying each day to right your wrongs.
A young skinhead takes up position on the tire beside me, breaking me from my solo musings as he pulls a pouch of tobacco out and proceeds to roll a smoke. He twists the end and lights it, the smell telling me the mix in his pouch is a little more than what you’d get over the counter at your friendly Seven Eleven. Holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat, he lets its out slowly through his nostrils while turning to look me over at the same time, resulting in a cloud over his face.
“You here alone?”
I eye the kid up, wary of the cool tone he’s used to ask the question. He’s young, green, and there’s no way this skinner could be a man with a reputation for brutality like Eddie. “Nah. Just having a bit of quiet.”
He nods. “Yeah, me too.” The kid casts his gaze over the back yard, watching the other partygoers for a while before speaking again. “It’s kind of funny, yeah? I mean, we come here to be social, but here we are hiding out in the shadows to get time alone.”
“Doesn’t say much for our chosen company, does it?” I run my gaze over the back yard again, trying to spot where his ‘company’ is. If the kid’s a skinner, then that means there should be more neo-Nazi assholes here, which in turn means one thing—Eddie’s right-hand man, Easy.
He laughs, waving his cigarette my way. “You’re on to something there.”
“Don’t like the people you’re here with?” I ask, coaxing him in to giving up something about his group.
He takes the bait. “Most days they don’t bother me, but places like this they’ve always got to start a fucking pissing contest, prove who’s the bigger guy, you know? I just want to drink and get high, unwind, not start that shit.”
“Tell them that, then. Do your own thing instead.”
The kid snorts. “Yeah, and get kicked out of our fucking house. I like having a roof over my head, thank you.”
“Can’t be that bad, can it?” I ask, knowing full well with his kind of crowd it probably is.
The kid turns toward me, holding up his hand to show a swastika tattooed on his wrist. “Full allegiance, or nothing at all. It’s a lifestyle, not a hobby.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s your lifestyle, though.” I pull my feet in, wary that the kid might flip if I’m questioning his loyalty to the cause. One thing about these ‘white power’ fuckers is that they’re fiercely protective of their kind.
“Far from it, but I don’t have a choice,” he says with a laugh, shaking his bald head, and taking me by surprise. “Been brought up with my old man preaching the shit. Have a big brother who believes in the rebirth of the Third Reich. A mother who left us when my father got himself locked up for murdering a negro. No other option if I wanted to stay housed and fed.” He looks my way, an empty void behind his eyes. “But who wants to hear my story, right?”
I can’t help but feel a little sorry for the kid.
“Oi, Tommy!”
The kid’s head whips about to search out the source of the voice. “What?”
“Get your skinny white ass over here. Been looking for you.”
I follow the kid’s gaze to a battle-hardened face sporting more neo-Nazi tattoos than I’ve seen on a single person. The older skinner steps towards us and away from the flames of the fire, allowing me a better view of him. The ink seeps from his neck to his temples and across his brow. Predictably, he wears tapered stonewash jeans, loosely laced Docs, and a white T-shirt with some punk rock band on it—the uniform of the ‘chosen race’.
“Easy wants you out front.”
“Why?” the kid asks.
The asshole leans down and smacks the youngster around the head, frowning. “Because he fucking asked, that’s why. Now get up.” He throws a glare in my direction, showing his dislike of the fact I’m watching the whole exchange unfold. “You get new eyes for Christmas?”
I wink at the fucker and push off my tire, stretching out my back, arms over my head. I’m opening the most vulnerable part of myself up to him, showing no fear, and gambling that he isn’t carrying a knife. The scowl on his face tells me he knows my game. Good. Let him know that I’m not here to fuck around. Assholes like him don’t scare me, never have. Part of the reason why I ended up with a reputation as a no-holds barred street-fighter before I reached my twentieth birthday.
“Good talkin’, kid.” I give the young skinner a nod, and head toward the house.
Shit’s exactly as I’d suspected—the kid’s a part of Easy’s crowd. And if Easy wants him out front, something must be going down. I’m not about to fuck it all up at the first hurdle and prove Ty wrong in choosing me to do this. I’m also not about to miss out on the opportunity to draw this evening to a close early.
Not when the memories dredged up by being here are driving me mad with the need to get back to King’s clubhouse and lose my mind in a bed of free booze and pussy.
