am I.”
I probably went too far, but at least the kid is sufficiently scared now. His mouth is gaping open, and he’s so pale, the zits on his face are standing out like red siren lights.
“Now run along and get me some real food to eat and maybe I’ll let this slide, just this once,” I say.
“Is…is pizza OK?” he stutters.
“Yes, pizza’d be perfect.”
“I’ll…I’ll order it,” he says, already backing up towards the door. He hits it ass first and spends a couple of cringey moments trying to get it open without taking his wide, scared eyes off me.
“Bring it to my room,” I say once he finally gets the door open. He nods, turns, and strides away.
When I follow him outside, he’s already inside the reception area, the phone pressed to his ear.
Good. He’s handled. I just hope he’s not calling the cops.
But my feeling of triumph is short-lived. The night I and Colt had, no, created was pure magic, unique and perfect, out of this world amazing, one of a kind. But was it just a fucking one night stand?
12
Colt
Me and Blaze share a tiny bedroom in the bunker. There’s just enough room for a steel frame bunk and getting on and off it. Not enough room to turn, not for big guys like us. Most of the guys sleep in one room filled with camp beds, and I’m thinking that might be better, or at least airier, as I try and fail to get some sleep in this airless, windowless room. Every time I doze off, try as I might to hold on to the images of Brenda’s soft, milky skin, the pale pink of her nipples, and the deeper pink of her lips invariably turn to images of Mitch’s blown up body.
His messed up, bloody face is so clear in my mind, I might as well have been there to see it. I wake up with the sound of the explosion ringing in my ears, my heart pounding, sweat beading on my forehead and running down the sides of my neck, and memories of Brenda so faint and faded I can’t call them back to mind.
After the fourth time it happens, I give up, lower myself off the top bunk, take my clothes that I’ve tossed into a heap on the floor and go into the hall to get dressed.
If we’re not doing anything, if we’re just sitting tight in this airless concrete box in the middle of the desert, I might as well get Cross’ permission to do my waiting at the Lucky Star Motel with Brenda. I can even move her somewhere closer to here. Because I have a nagging feeling I won’t escape the image of Mitch’s destroyed face until I’m in her arms again.
I hope to hell I don’t run into Blaze as I make my way through the maze of hallways that make up this bunker to get to Cross’ office. Blaze will just try to talk me out of asking for this and I’ll end up listening to him, and I don’t want to.
Raised voices fill the hallway where Cross’ office is. A guy whose voice I don’t recognize is saying how there’s no way in hell he’s backing down from what was started last night. He goes on to list all the different ways the Knights have been wronged by the Sinners over the years and just how many scores they have to settle. He even goes so far as to tell Cross in no uncertain terms that they gave us the Sinners’ president, in exchange for being able to take out the rest of them. Gave us the Sinners, my ass. They gave us nothing.
I’m almost at the office before I realize the door is open and I have no business being here since this is clearly execs level shit. I turn and stride away, total silence now filling the hall behind me.
“This is our show, Butch,” Cross says in that dark, menacing tone he sometimes gets. The tone that lets everyone know he’s not a man to be messed with. “I lost one of my guys in your stunt last night and I will lose no more. You’re only in on this job because one of mine is related to you, and I wish to see justice done. But don’t push me and don’t assume any kind of command over me. You will pull back and do nothing until I say so. Is that clear?”
I can practically