Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I lie on my bed and tap my fingers against my abdomen while my thoughts drift back to the dress shop, or, more specifically, Bitsy in the dress shop. Beefer would tell me I need a woman. Maybe he’s right. The only satisfaction I’ve ever known has been from my own hand. Maybe if I took a woman to bed. Maybe if I had one that would put cherry-colored lips around my—
“You ready?” Bitsy pops her head in.
My head jerks up. “You done already?” I ask, trying not to appear guilty.
“Yep.” She gives me an odd look. “Were the eggs bad? You look like something isn’t settling right in your stomach.”
I force out a laugh. “No. It’s all good.”
But the night’s awkward for us. I sit in the chair instead of on the sofa. Bitsy gives me a wounded look and then wraps herself up in the blanket like a human burrito.
The captions swim in front of my eyes, interspersed with images of plump, glossy lips, long legs, and a high, spankable ass. I end up getting a blanket for myself and covering my lap. Maybe I do need a woman.
* * *
A call at three in the morning wakes me up. The caller ID says it’s Beefer. “Leka here.”
“You—I—” Beefer stops talking.
I sit up and shove my feet into the boots beside my bed. “Where are you?”
“Marjory’s.”
“You in danger?”
There’s a long pause and then, “Not yet.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.” I disconnect and stick the phone in my pocket. A peek inside my girl’s room confirms she’s still sleeping. I leave a note on the kitchen table in case she wakes up and I’m not back.
I tuck my gun into the shoulder holster and tug on a coat for concealment. At Marjory’s, it’s dark except for a tiny light from the kitchen sneaking through the glass. The front door’s unlocked when I try it.
Gun out, I go in low. The front room is clear, but I hear faint sobs coming from the back. My gut tightens. I straighten and walk toward the sounds.
The scene in the kitchen hits me harder than I thought it would, but I’m not surprised. Beefer’s oldest daughter is laid out on the stainless steel table. Her sparkly nightclub dress is torn. There’s an ugly bruise forming on the right side of her face. She’s crying, softly, almost as if she can’t breathe without a sob coming out.
Mary’s applying salve to the bruises and cuts and murmuring nonsense like, “it’s going to be okay.”
I holster my gun. “Where’s Beefer?”
Mary jerks her head to the back door. “Outside. Calm him down, will you? We can’t handle a fight.”
I find Beefer standing against the fence in the alley. He’s taking drags on his cigarette as if the stick holds the only oxygen in the world. Around his feet are a half-dozen butts. Beefer hardly ever smokes.
“What do you want to do?” Mary’s not going to be the one to dictate what we should do in this case. If we can’t handle a fight now, we’re never going to be able to hold this territory, and I don’t know about Beefer or Mary, but I’m tired of being bossed around.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He flicks the butt on the ground and lights up another, the flame shaking heavily in his hand. “Nothing. Cesaro said it was his right. Right of the king,” Beefer sneers. “He’s going to be here for three more nights. Clancy’s wife is taking her girls to Florida to see his mom.”
Clancy’s girls are eleven and twelve. I nearly vomit.
“Beefer, this isn’t right. Let’s do something.”
“What do you suggest? Killing Cesaro? The entire organization will come down on our heads. This is his loyalty test. I took it and passed.” The hand holding the cigarette shakes violently. “I took it and passed,” he repeats before folding in half and puking his guts out.
I take off.
I arrive home in minutes, but it feels like hours. The apartment is exactly how I left it. Bitsy’s still in her bed, her lips parted, a tiny snore wuffling between them.
I rush over to the closet and pull out her suitcase. I’ve got half of her dresser packed before I run out of room.
Bitsy struggles into a seated position. “Leka. What is it? Did I oversleep? Is it time for school?”
“We’re going on a trip,” I tell her, stuffing my old duffel full of clothes. I zip it shut and toss her a pair of jeans. “Get dressed.”
She blinks in confusion. “Now? I have a science exam.”
“Yeah. Now.”
“But—”
“Now!” I scream and slam my fist on the empty dresser.
She lurches to her feet, clutching the jeans to the front of her Powerpuff Girls sleep shirt. Tears glint in her eyes. I never yell at Bitsy. Never.
I rub a trembling hand across my mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but we’ve got to go.”