Текст книги "Devil Smoke"

Автор книги: Max Henry

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As though on cue, Easy enters the kitchen through the same door, eyeballing the room behind him as though confused why she was in here with me. He marches up to where I stand, frowning at the beer I’m holding.

“What you’re after,” he announces, holding a tiny snap-lock bag before me between two fingers.

I reach for the goods, only to have him snatch the tiny package out of my grasp.

“Show us the dough.”

His eyes track the movement of my hands as I produce my wallet and place three bills on the counter. He nods his head, taking the tens and dropping the bag on the counter. Average rate.

“Pleasure doing business with ya.” He whacks me a healthy slap on the back, and then thumbs at the goods. “Come find me when you’re done—let me know what ya think.”

I meet his keen stare, well aware of what he’s asking me. If I were a fraud, I’d pocket the dust and leave, much like I’d hoped to. But he’s challenging me, testing how addicted I am. If I were a true junkie, I’d be tipping this out while we spoke, diving in and throwing any rules of social convention aside.

I pick the baggie up, fumbling with my thick fingers to open the seal without spilling the lot. “Sure thing.”

No sooner has he left the room, than I find a clean spot on the counter and carefully tip half the contents out into a small pile. Using one of my credit cards, I cut the goods into two neat lines, albeit thin, and roll a twenty. One of the girls from the bonfire enters the room, heading straight for the fridge and ignoring the fact I’m about to down this shit in plain view. I freeze—the realization I’m standing in a crack house preparing to get high again smacks me in the face like a bucket of ice water. Of course she doesn’t care. Everybody does it in plain view. It’s not anything unusual in a place like this.

I’m what’s unusual in a place like this.

I’m stare at the dust, telling myself I should take it to shake this filthy feeling, of living my life as a fraud. But if I start actually justifying the use like that, when will it stop? Is this how Ty started? Longing a few precious moments where he didn’t detest himself so much?

Fuck it—it’s one night.

The hit is quicker each time I down this shit, finding its way through my system like an old friend visiting my home. By the time I’ve cleared away the residue and pocketed the second half for later, the drug is doing its job, giving me a comforting feeling of being enough. The admission pains me to make, but I can totally see why Ty got hooked on this shit. When your world is full of cheats and liars, finding something that genuinely makes you feel good about yourself is rare—the Holy Grail.

Some bury their pain with alcohol, others with the distraction of a good-looking woman, but a few will chase that satisfaction only a dance with the Devil’s disease can bring.

And I’m clearly becoming one of them.

FIGHT NIGHT

Ryan

Gunter’s still deep in conversation with Taylor, talking about some bullshit theory of the Nazi regime. Same old shit, every time. I nestle closer to his broad chest, tucking my hands between my head and his sternum, and watching Eddie as he explains the finer details of how to expand his network of mules to Easy. They’re discussing the viability of using body packers—junkies who stuff themselves full of drug packages to cart them through sticky areas like across a border. I hate the idea they’d use people like that, let alone the thought of what would happen to those people if things went wrong. A package bursts, the mule dies, and these assholes would leave their body to liquefy in the sweltering sun on a roadside somewhere, denying all association. What an end to a life.

Gunter’s arm shifts across my back, his shoulders moving with his gestures while he speaks. I close my eyes, the murmur of his deep voice beneath my ear as I listen to Eddie talk, and commit every detail of the conversation to memory. I’m invisible to them, a pretty face, nobody to be feared. But they’re wrong, so wrong, and by the time they realize that, they would have pushed me too far.

The only damn thing tethering me to these assholes is the knowledge Eddie can unlock the secrets of my past. I’ll forever be in Hank’s debt for picking me up that night, but without him around I’ve never felt any true obligation to stay living with his sons. I was always free to leave, but I choose to stay, because staying with Gunter means staying close to Eddie. Sure, it hurts a little when Gunter whispers the words ‘I love you’ for only me to hear. I’m lying to him, pretending I return the sentiment, but I don’t. I can’t. Gunter’s a brainwashed giant, incapable of understanding anything other than the pull of basic human instincts: eat, kill, sleep. He’s Eddie’s perfect foot soldier, believing in the rights of the white to reign supreme, and that’s just something I’ll never come to terms with.

Every person should be treated as an equal . . . except for those who believe otherwise.

I open my eyes when Gunter jolts forward, tipping me off balance. He breaks conversation when he realizes he’s almost dropped me on the floor, hoisting me onto his legs again with a strong arm around my waist. “Sorry, sugar.”

“It’s okay.” I give his chest a pat, and resume watching Eddie.

It’s easy to pretend I care about the big idiot. I’ll never love him like he wants, but I’ve always felt affection for Gunter. He’s like that over-sized dog, which as much as it irritates the hell out of you for stepping on your feet and getting in the way of your legs, you’ll always have a soft spot for it. Because how can you not when as huge and overbearing as they are, everything they do is done out of misplaced love for you?

Movement across the room snags my attention, and I look up as the arguing couple from earlier fly into the room in a blur of color. They scream at each other, the girl waving her finger in the guy’s face as she hollers something about being unfaithful at him. He whips his hand back, striking her across the face with a firm backhand. She drops to her knees, instantly subdued, and sobs. Drunk love.

Gunter’s shaking chest jiggles me as he laughs quietly to himself. “About fucking time.”

I move to go to her, check she’s okay, when his arm tightens around me. “Leave it, Ryan. Bitch got what she deserved, disrespecting her man in public like that.”

Anger flashes through me in a hot wave, gone as quickly as it arrived. There’s no point getting mad, no use trying to fight about it when Gunter’s surrounded by half a dozen men who think exactly the same way. I’m outnumbered, and massively under-qualified by their standards to take them on in a battle of morals.

I look across to the girl again as she pushes up to stand. Her hands are shaking as she brings them to her hair, smoothing her ponytail down, and then running her palms over the front of her clothing. Her man’s long gone, clearly not concerned with what he’s done to her. She looks around the room, catching my eye and breaking the contact as her chin drops to her chest. I feel disgusted that in this place, among these people, she needs to feel ashamed. Of what? That her man just hit her? The anger that she should be showing swells within me instead, heating my flesh once more as she starts toward the front door, presumably to go after her guy.

But the feeling quickly washes away when I lock my gaze on to the person who’s walked out of the kitchen—the sexy-as-fuck guy from the Lion who I spoke to not even half an hour ago. My rage subsides to a mixture of lust and panic. I’m relishing the chance to look him over again, to feast my eyes on what my hands only wish to have a chance at, but at the same time I’m silently freaking out because the idiot is walking our way. What the hell?

Did he not get it when I told him to stay away? His sights are on Easy, his expression stern and focused. What the hell does he think he’s doing? His gaze catches mine as I shift around to face him, and the intense look he gives me with those damn brown eyes does nothing short of devour me right where I’m sitting on my boyfriend’s lap.

I fight back a sudden urge to leap off Gunter and tell him we’re through.

Suicide if you did, girl.

Pre-empting things turning to shit like they have so many times before when users have approached Eddie’s inner circle, I pick up the closest empty bottle I can find and hot-foot it toward him. His brow furrows as I approach, only just visible in my peripheral. I daren’t look directly at him for fear of giving away what I’m doing. I have no doubt Gunter’s watching me.

My skin begins to slick as I close the final steps between the mystery guy and myself. Seconds slow to hours.

Our strides cross, my shoulder level with his, and I drop the bottle, right on cue and right on his foot. “I’m so sorry,” I profess for our spectators to hear. As he bends down beside me to retrieve the bottle, I catch a whiff of his scent and my heart stutters; musky cologne, petrol, and wood smoke—an intoxicating combination. God, I hope I can pull this off. “Outside. Now,” I hiss through clenched teeth as he passes me the bottle, straightening up.

His eyes narrow for a fraction of a second, his thumb lingering over mine as I take the bottle from him. He blinks, slowly, and it’s the cue I need that he understands.

My feet kick back into action, carrying me to the kitchen so I can ditch the bottle and hook through the adjoining washroom door to duck out the side of the house. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark, the light from the bonfire in the back yard flashing against the fence intermittently. I step carefully along the narrow space between the wall of the brick house and the fence, doing my best not to stand on any of the junk that litters the lawn and cause a commotion. I’m mere steps from rounding the corner of the building when a large shadow cuts all light from the bonfire, sending the area into black and forcing me to shoot a hand out to the fence to steady myself. The silhouette is as black as night, the features hidden by the backlight of the fire, but my nose tells me without a shade of a doubt who it is.

He smells so damn good.

“Why did you do that?” The sexy stranger steps into the walk space, closing the gap between us to less than an arms length. I itch to reach out and touch him, but cross my arms over my chest instead, pressing the knuckles of my left hand to my lips.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” I ask. “I told you to stay away.”

“Never have liked bein’ told what to do.”

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, turning and slumping against the brick of the house. “You’re suicidal, you know that?”

He chuckles, his face still hidden in the dark. “Was,” he corrects. “Tried that once, didn’t work.”

My chest tightens at his candid admission. I feel hurt that he’d try to do such a thing. Why?

“Tell me,” he asks, moving closer still. “Why do you care so much what I’m doin’?” His legs brushes against mine as he comes to a stop directly before me. “You goin’ to go back and snitch?” In his new position the fire outlines the strong profile of his face.

I lift my hand to touch his jaw, and drop it quickly when I realize what I’m doing. “I’m not a snitch.” I’d never do anything like that to help those bastards.

“How do I know?” He raises his left arm, placing a hand to the wall beside my head, boxing me in.

My eyes roam his inked flesh. “You’ll have to trust me on that one,” I say, quiet and breathy.

Conversation nears to our left, in the back yard. I turn my head to check we aren’t about to have company, my heart picking up speed. His breath tickles my ear as he leans in, placing his lips close to my ear to whisper, “I can’t help but wonder”—his nose caresses the shell of my ear—“if you taste as good as you smell.”

Holy hell. The voices from the yard move away, yet my heart keeps a rapid tempo, my pulse pounding in my temple as I try to decide what the hell I’m supposed to say to that. He saves me the hassle by speaking again.

“Guess I’ll never find out though.” He steps back and the cool night air rushes between us.

I stare him dead in the eye. “Why?”

He smirks, his arm still pinned beside my head. “Come on, darlin’. You’re not that stupid.”

“Because of him,” I mutter to myself. Damn Gunter. Damn myself for sabotaging my chances by choosing to be with man I don’t want. “It’s complicated,” I try to explain. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “I don’t.” His gaze roams my face, lingering on my lips. “You’re a beautiful girl, but obviously not very smart.”

I glare at the guy. As insanely turned on as I am by him, he has no right to pass judgment like that. “Neither are you if that’s your assumption of me.”

His chest shakes with the gentle rumble of his laughter. “So feisty.” He pulls his arm away, stepping full back so he leans on the fence opposite me. “You’ve got a lot of pent up anger in there, huh?” He points his thick finger toward my head. “I got ways for you to burn that off.” The cocky bastard winks at me.

And I blush like a fucking schoolgirl.

Dropping my chin to hide my face behind my hair, I utter out what I hopes sounds like a disgusted, “I bet you do.”

His boots move closer, and he wraps his hand around the side of my neck, using his thumb to lift my face. “You decide to leave that asshole, you come find me, huh?”

I snort. “Good one. How can I do that when I don’t know your name?”

He drags the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip, his nostrils flaring as he does. “You’ll know what it is soon enough.”

I stare after him as he turns away and leaves me hanging there, wondering what the hell he meant by that. What does he want from Easy? Or Eddie? Why is he here?

Why do I care?

CONFLICTION

Bronx

Her skin, so soft. Her smell, so good. And her concern, so confusing. Why does she care so much about if I start shit or not? Logic would say she’s doing it solely to protect her best interests, but my gut screams something else. She fucking likes me, I know it. I can feel it, and that excites me no end. Like it shouldn’t.

But damn. She’s fucking gorgeous.

I look to where she slipped inside through the side door, and pull in a deep breath before turning away and heading for the bonfire. The pressure in my chest is familiar. It’s the same damn buzz building that I get when I push myself those extra reps at the gym, the same pressure that wells up when I start a mismatched fight with a bigger opponent. It’s my drive to win, my motivation to better my odds kicking in. Only this time it’s over a girl. A God damn girl. The caveman in me wants to knock her over the head and drag her from under that skinhead asshole’s nose while I beat my chest like a fucking animal. But the lover in me wants to spend countless hours sweet-talking her and bringing her around softly.

I’ve got fuck all chance of pulling off either.

I snatch a drink from the steel drum and find a position near the flames on an upturned crate. A guy to my right watches me look around in vain to find something to crack the bottle on, and offers a bright green opener my way.

“You think they’d get twist-tops,” he muses.

I nod, chuckling. “Or in the least I’d carry somethin’ to open a fuckin’ beer with.” He gives me a wry grin and takes the opener from my hand. “Thanks.”

“No sweat.”

We each go back to our neutral state, staring into the flames as we sip on our brews. I straighten out my right leg, and pull the small bag from my jean pocket, palming it as I consider the need. I could throw this shit in the fire, walk away and remind myself I’m not that guy, that I don’t do hard drugs. But that feeling, that buzz, that freedom. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.

The guy beside me watches from the corner of his eye as he takes a scull of his beer. I nod at him, and figure I may as well make the most of it given I’ve paid for the shit. I can start afresh tomorrow, find a way to make myself a familiar face that doesn’t require constant dealing with Easy. I set my beer down between my feet, and carefully open the small bag, squeezing the opening so it balloons into an oval. Forming the shape on an ‘L’ with my left hand, I gently shake half of the contents onto the dip between my forefinger and thumb. Clasping the bag in my right hand, I block a nostril and inhale the dust off my flesh. It bites, and then numbs, taking hold with the skilled hands of a professional and easing my anxiety. I shake out the last of the gear and repeat the actions, all under the scrutiny of my neighbor.

“Got any more?” he asks as I inhale the last of the residue from my hand.

I shake my head. “Sorry, man.”

“Can I take the bag?” His eyes are fixed to the crumpled slip of plastic in my hand.

“Sure.” I hand it over and watch as he wets his fingertip, then proceeds to clean out whatever he can get off the inside of the bag, pressing it to his gums after each sweep.

My shoulders set watching the guy—this is what I could become if I’m not careful. I could be just like him a year from now for all I know. I’d probably feel more appalled by it if the high hadn’t set in from what I’ve just inhaled.

I pick up what’s left of my beer and down it in a single go before tossing the empty bottle into the flames. I’m still thinking about the guy beside me, about Ty and his addiction, and about the likelihood of me ending up the same when I stand and head back to the house. My thoughts are a million miles away, my false confidence assuring me I’d never end up addicted in that way, when I come close to bowling over somebody as I take the first step on to the back porch.

“Can I help you, son?” Startled from my thoughts, I pull up fast, dangerously close to crashing into, of all people, Eddie. His eyes narrow on me as we face off.

“Nah, I’m good.” I hold his gaze for a beat before continuing. “Thanks for the hospitality . . .” I play the part, pretending to have no idea who the asshole before me is.

He takes the bait. “Eddie.” His eyes remain narrowed, suspicion raging in the colored flecks. “You’ll have to forgive me, son, but as much as I appreciate your polite gesture, I don’t have the slightest fuckin’ clue who you are.”

“Just a man passin’ through.”

“Everybody’s got a name,” Eddie retorts.

I smile with my newfound chemical confidence. “Name’s Bronson.”

He looks me over slowly, seemingly satisfied that I’m telling the truth. “And how the ’ell did you find out about this little get-together?” Eddie jams his hands in his pockets.

“Word of mouth at the Lion.” My heart is dangerously close to beating itself right out of my fucking chest, but I steel my expression and concentrate on my words, trying not to show how shitfaced I am.

Seven tense seconds pass before Eddie reacts, breaking his confrontational stance to laugh and slap me on the arm. “Manners,” he muses, nodding his head toward the living room. “Some of these fuckers could learn from you.” He tosses an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “You like cars?”

I crack a tentative smile, and nod. “Sure.”

“’Course you do; every body likes cars. I’ve got a bit of a show and shine next month. You’ll be there, son.” Eddie jabs me in the chest to cement his point. He takes a moment to stare into my eyes. “Been looked after while you ’ere?”

I nod again, feeling like one of those novelty dashboard toys. “Yeah.”

“Need any more?”

“Nah, I think I’m good.” Besides, I don’t want to know what obligations come with a ‘favor’ like that.

I’m doomed to find out anyway. “’Ave one on me.” He grins a twisted promise as he reaches into the breast pocket of his polo shirt and pulls out a small bag of the good stuff.

I look between him and it, craving what’s inside that plastic, but wary of what I’m entering into by taking it from him. Again, he robs me of the privilege of deciding what to do when he pushes it into the pocket of my jeans, all the while holding my gaze with sharp eyes.

“Consider it a reward for ’aving such good manners.”

Manners. Sure didn’t have many with me.

HOME COMFORTS

Bronx

“How did it go last night?” King asks, pushing a drink along the bar towards me.

“Easier than I thought.” I take hold of the bourbon and turn on the stool, looking out over the common room. “Makes me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Feel like I missed somethin’.”

King takes a swig of his drink and stares off into space across the bar while he thinks something over. “You feel that this job’s too much, you better tell me now.”

“It’s not.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

I hesitate before answering, giving him all the confirmation he needs. “I have a habit of fuckin’ things up.”

“Ty didn’t seem to think so.”

“He’s too forgiving.” I turn slowly back to face the same way as King, fiddling with a loose corner of the label on my bottle. “I’m less lenient on my errors than he is.”

I catch King in my peripheral, watching me closely. “Look, Bronx. If you’d done anything that made me question your suitability for this, I would have heard about it by now, right?”

I shrug.

“Right?” he presses.

“Right.”

“And I ain’t heard a thing. So that right there tells me that whatever the fuck you’re beatin’ yourself up over is a load of shit. We all make mistakes sometimes.”

“I guess.”

“But?”

“But I think I’ll be gone for a while this time.” I spare a quick look his way, before returning my focus to the bottle in my hands. “If I want to earn their trust, they’ll be followin’ me before long, checkin’ me out. I’m not about to lead them back here.”

“If you’re sure.” He takes a swig of his beer, staring off into nothing again.

“Positive.”

Elena enters the common room through the doors that lead out back, Dante in tow. She frowns King’s way and tugs Dante by the hand, heading upstairs.

“How’s things going for you?” I ask, watching King’s boy and his mama make their way up the steps.

King watches her leave the room, longing evident in his expression. “Complicated.”

“She’s settled in, though?”

“Think so. She hasn’t really said much either way.” He sighs, swirling what’s left of his drink in the bottle. “She blows hot and cold like a broken air conditioner. I never know what I’m goin’ to get.”

I turn on my seat to face the bar again, resting my elbows on the top, the same as King. “How did you know she was worth it?”

“How do you mean?” He casts me a sidelong glance.

“She was Carlos’s woman, right?”

King nods.

“When did you decide she was worth the trouble, then? I mean, surely it was easier to just walk away?”

“I could have.” King nods, staring across the bar again. “But I guess there just came a time when I knew I couldn’t walk away anymore. When all I thought about was Elena, I figured it was time to let her know that. What she did with that knowledge was her decision—I was just the mug who was along for the ride.”

“But it didn’t work out?” Nobody is a stranger to the fights King and Elena have. Their relationship—if you could call it that—is volatile at the best of times, not aided by the fact Carlos would love to get his hands on the woman, just to show that he could.

“Don’t know yet. Our road’s still got a ways to go.” King casts me a curious look. “What makes you ask?”

Sharp blue eyes haunt my thoughts. “Nothin’.” I lift my drink, taking a ridiculously long time to take a meager sip.

“Whose is she?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.

“Who said there even is a she?” I say, my voice rising.

“The fact you look like a teenage boy caught with his dick out over his dad’s Penthouse says there is.”

“Fuck off.” Silence falls between us, and I risk a look in his direction.

He stares at me, one eyebrow raised. “Well?”

“Fuck. She’s Gunter’s.”

“Who the fuck is Gunter?”

I twist my lips to the side in thought. Who exactly is Gunter? It’s a good question. “I think he must be like us, the Butchers. He has to be the muscle. Fuckwit doesn’t look smart enough to be anythin’ else.”

“But he’s trouble if you piss him off.”

“Oh, yeah,” I reply without hesitation. “Lots.”

King sighs, scrubbing both hands over his face. “You lot are more fuckin’ trouble than a house full of horny teenage boys. In fact, I think teenage boys would be easier to keep on task.”

“Dude, you have to see her,” I try to explain. “She’s fuckin’ amazing.”

“She could have a golden cooter for all I fuckin’ care,” King says, slapping his arms down on the bar top. “She’s still not worth it if it’s going to fuck up what we’re trying to achieve.”

“Who says it will?” I frown, my back going stiff.

“Because when there’s a woman involved, it always gets fucked up.” King growls, clenching his fists at the sides of his face. “Fuck this shit! Why does everything have to be so damned hard around here?” He slams both fists down on the bar, making our drinks jump. “Just sort it, Bronx. I’m serious. You screw this up and dump us in the shit because you’re thinkin’ with your cock in your hand, and I’ll fuckin’ put you to ground.”

I raise both hands, silently apologizing. We all know he lost his head a few weeks back, and we’ve all seen him angry, but this level of impatience is new, even for him. Poor bastard’s probably got the biggest case of blue-balls waiting for Elena to soften up—figures.

He spins off his stool and hesitates before laying a kick into the baseboard of the bar. The wood splinters under the pressure, but doesn’t break open. He clenches his jaw and growls at the damage, as though he expected more, before marching toward his office. The door swings closed with a resounding bang, the pictures on the wall either side shaking where they hang.

“Sheesh. You pissed him off good,” Dog remarks, coming to stand beside me. “What did you say?”

“Think it was more what I didn’t have to say,” I tell the prospect, pushing to stand. “Let him know I’ve gone when he shows his head, eh?”

“Sure thing.” Dog nods.

I’ve got some decisions to go make, and whatever I choose, I get the feeling I’m going to be letting somebody down. Yay, to be me.