“Listen, Zip, honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. We went our separate ways. I’ll be smarter, I’ll be more quiet. I’ll be –”
“Laid, good and simple. Crowe got a good look at you, you’re his. You’re gonna be f**ked and I mean that literally.”
“Zip!” I yelled, shocked.
He ignored me. “Though, this may not be a bad thing. Crowe won’t want a woman of his gallivantin’ around town, lettin’ off smoke bombs, slashin’ tires and puttin’ herself out there. You’ve been noticed. You’re gettin’ a lot of attention. It makes me un-comfortable. You get me? You were supposed to be invisible, you ain’t invisible. Everyone knows about ‘The Law’. Heavy and Frank and me been talkin’…”
Oh crap. Not Zip, Heavy and Frank talking. That was not good.
Every once in awhile they got worried about me, a lot more often lately. I found ways to calm them down but I didn’t figure this would last forever. I needed them, I had a lot to learn and they could teach me. I also liked them and I liked spending time with them.
They were the closest things to true, good friends that I had. It might be a little pathetic that a twenty-six year old social worker’s friend posse included an old, bald gun shop owner; a guy whose nickname “Heavy” said it all; and then there was Frank who looked like he could hole himself up in a cabin with fifty years of provisions and mastermind a violent world takeover on a computer.
But I didn’t care if it was pathetic, they were my friends and that’s all I cared about.
“Zip, stop and listen to me. Vance Crowe is not in the picture. I’m fine and I’m not stopping.”
“Jules.”
“Zip,” I said quietly and then, with feeling, “No.”
He was silent again. He knew what my quiet voice meant. My word wasn’t law for nothing.
“Zip, I promise, I’ll do better,” I assured him.
He was silent for another beat then he gave in.
“Jules, you be safe, you hear? Keep your eyes and ears open and your head down. I want you in here tomorrow, got me?”
I smiled. Crisis averted.
“Got you.”
“Fuckin’ loco,” he muttered and hung up without saying good-bye.
* * * * *
I was getting ready to go out and wreak some havoc on bad guys when I heard a knock at my backdoor and Nick came in.
“Jules? You home?”
“Yeah,” I called from the bathroom, finished wrapping the band around my ponytail and went into the kitchen.
Boo was telling Nick about my day, snitching on me in kitty language.
Luckily, Nick didn’t speak kitty language.
I looked at Nick.
He was tall, salt and pepper hair, blue eyes, glasses, kinda stocky. He was only sixteen years older than me and I figured most of the salt in his hair was put there by me. He was dispatch for a trucking company, and, because he loved doing it, he worked as a DJ most Friday and Saturday nights. He was responsible for my love of music, but mostly my love of rock ‘n’ roll.
He took one look at my black turtleneck, black jeans and black Pumas and muttered under his breath.
“Nick –” I started.
“I don’t wanna talk about it. Talkin’ about it flips me out, so I don’t wanna talk about it. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. The fact that they aren’t the right decisions is outta my hands. I’ve been practicin’ my morgue face for when I have to go identify your body. Wanna see it?” Nick said then he arranged his face in this kind of mock, sad, shocked look and slowly shook his head like a world with vigilante social workers mystified him.
“Good?” he asked.