Sex & Mayhem 01 Road of No Return (18 page)

“Yep, let’s do this.” Stitch nodded and walked over to the garage where he stashed the two pounds of coke he was responsible for. All three of them had one of those packets, but they were making the trip to their contact together for increased security. If this worked out, each one of them would be making five thousand, so the stakes were high.

Gator had orchestrated all this, and he seemed so proud of it, he’d be smoking a cigar if he weren’t driving. “Boys, we have a long way ahead of us, we can’t let Smoke wait,” he said and made his engine roar.

Captain grinned at Stitch from behind his goggles. “Apparently, we’ll need gas masks not to get lung cancer.”

“I’ll manage.” Stitch shook his head and zipped up his jacket with the drugs tucked under his T-shirt in two sealed plastic bags. “Let’s make this quick.”

He jumped on his bike, and soon they left town, sliding farther and farther away, chasing the setting sun. Gator skipped the highways, and so they drove through small towns and townships, past beat-up buildings, and some that had been abandoned long ago. The plastic became sweaty against Stitch’s skin, and burned him with each breath. It almost felt as if he were smuggling the drugs inside of his own body.

He liked the roar of the engine, not having to talk to anyone, having his thoughts enclosed inside his helmet. Sometimes, just going out for a ride helped Stitch clean his mind, but today, his brain was only getting more clouded by the mile. They needed this money, his family needed it, but if he ended up in prison or dead, he wouldn’t get to see his kid grow up. He knew Gator was hungry for more, to give their club a higher profile. Stitch would be lying to himself if he thought he didn’t know how this venture would develop. They would get more of the guys to mule, get bolder with the amounts they were taking. That would bring need for more guns and more guys. The expansion Gator wanted. Stitch, on the other hand, was fine just hustling with TVs and iPads like they’d always had. It was a tough nut to crack.

After about an hour on the road, Gator pulled into the small parking lot by a beat-up diner. The place was so low profile it had two unrepaired holes in the asphalt right at the front, and it allowed Stitch to believe there weren’t any cameras inside. With only three cars parked in the lot, it seemed like a good transfer point.

Gator stretched as soon as he was off the bike. He radiated confidence. “You ready?”

Captain and Stitch got off as well and left their bikes close by, so they could see them. “Yeah. Is he in yet?” Stitch asked as they made their way up the wooden stairs. Because the ground was so damp in this area, the diner was mounted on short wooden pillars, so they walked up to the porch and entered, led by Gator, who moved like a king entering his stable. Stitch closed the procession and glanced around as soon as he went through the door. It was a sad place, with tables that had chipped edges and smudges of dirt on the floor. The upbeat pop music didn’t fit in with the ghastly, hospital-like light coming from behind the counter.

It soon became clear where they needed to go as they noticed a table in the middle of the room clouded by smoke, with a hairy older man drinking coffee and eating cheesy fries. Stitch had to stop himself from sneering at that meal, but his attention went elsewhere when he noticed two guys who looked like they’d stepped out of fashion ad , sitting in the corner and chatting over pie. It was ridiculous how strange they looked in a dump like this, across the room from the Lord of Lung Cancer. Stitch almost bumped into Captain.

To say that they were not ‘from here’ would be an understatement. Stitch hadn’t seen a guy with skin so smooth other than on TV. And if that wasn’t enough, one had the shiniest Kim Kardashian hair, while the other wore his in a sort of modern pompadour. He wanted to ignore them, but Gator nudged him with an elbow. “Get rid of the outsiders,” he ordered. Captain, the sly motherfucker, rushed to the front already, leaving Stitch to deal with the very-not-locals.

Stitch exhaled and slowly made his way to the table. He couldn’t hear the conversation itself, but the constant chuckling made it clear they were having fun. The guy who faced the room, buff and dressed in a T-shirt that showed off every asset of his upper body, blinked but smiled when his eyes met Stitch’s.

“You guys finished? The diner’s gonna be used for private… use now,” Stitch said and leaned against the side of the booth. The second guy looked up, and only now did Stitch see a detail he hadn’t spotted from afar. The freakishly handsome, chiseled face was marred by a twisted scar trailing across the man’s nose and cheek.

“This booth’s in private use,” he said in a deep baritone, leaning back. The white shirt he was wearing expanded over his chest, showcasing naked skin below his collarbones where the garment was unbuttoned.

Stitch frowned. Was this guy actually challenging him? Did he have a death wish? The one with short hair snorted and calmly had another piece of pie.

“You can take this pie to go. I think you better leave.” Stitch pulled out his wallet and put five bucks on their table.

The one with the scar and long hair showed Stitch the place across the table from him, his olive-skinned, veiny arm jerking with the motion. “Sit down.”

Stitch looked over his shoulder, feeling like in a surreal movie. Like one of those European arty-farty projects. Gator gestured at him with a frown, while Captain spoke to Smoke, not even noticing what was going on over here. Why did Stitch get the shit job of dealing with civilians?

“Why would I do that?” Stitch groaned, watching in amazement how the buff guy slapped Scar’s forearm with a laugh.

“Come on, Dom, don’t mess with him.” It sounded as carefree as a butterfly on some field in Montana.

“I don’t mess with people.” Dom grinned and looked up at Stitch. “I eat them.”

His friend started chuckling, and Stitch had the loudest freak-alert ringing in his head. The fuck was this? “Is this your next meal then?” he pointed at the laughing guy, who only got louder. Stitch didn’t want to get into a stupid discussion, he really didn’t, but these two civilians were asking for it.

Dom smiled at him and pulled his friend closer. He pressed a kiss to his temple without ever breaking eye contact with Stitch. It was like having an ice pill stuffed down Stitch’s throat. Stitch couldn’t believe his eyes. Those men really weren't from here, which was also quite obvious from their Italian accents. What was he supposed to do? Aggression would only attract more attention.

“You bet. I’ve never tasted meat so tender and sweet,” said Dom and showed Stitch the seat again. Was this an invitation for a threesome or something? The pack of cocaine was now so sweaty it felt like it was swimming in Stitch’s T-shirt. He slowly sat down and pushed the pie toward Dom.

“Better eat the fucking cake and have your dessert at home,” he hissed, feeling increasingly intimidated by the way the guy who got the kiss looked at his partner. So openly affectionate it left Stitch powerless. Could he ever sit with Zak in a diner like this? Eating pie from the same plate? If Gator and Captain got a scent of this, it could end bloody for those poor, clueless tourists.

“Relax, my beautiful American friend,” said Dom, pushing the plate with the last piece of pie to his partner. “Your colleagues are still in the kitchen.”

“What ‘colleagues’?” Stitch lowered his voice, looking to the kitchen door and the single waitress far away at the other end of the diner. He chose to ignore the ‘beautiful’ comment. “You guys better leave if you don’t want to get your heads bashed in.” He made sure to make it sound more like a warning than a threat.

Dom leaned forward and sighed, a small gesture he made with his hand enough to pull Stitch lower, to listen to the silent words. “I’ll tell you something because if I weren’t practically married, I’d fuck the likes of you any day. You, your friends, and I aren’t the only armed people in this establishment.”

Heat exploded all over Stitch’s body for a whole array of reasons. No guy ever dared talk to him like that. His buttocks clenched on their own accord, but his brain desperately tried to pull itself out of the murky waters of homophobic inadequacy. Guns. He needed to focus on guns. The short haired hunk just smiled as he swallowed the last piece of pie. He didn’t seem at all bothered by talk of armed men. Stitch didn’t like the idea of Italian strangers with guns in a diner they were doing fucking drug deals in. He didn’t like it at all. But even more men in the kitchen? He could smell trouble from a mile away, and it didn’t smell half as good as the cologne of the guy sitting next to him.

“How many?” he whispered back, looking to the kitchen door. He needed to get them all out.

Dom sighed and gestured for his friend to get out from behind the table. “Your friends already passed whatever it was they had on them to Mr. Cloud there. My guess is that the six people in the kitchen are waiting for all three of you to be in one place.” He grinned, but unlike so far, his hazel eyes remained cold. “See, I’m keeping your precious head safe by just talking to you.”

Stitch slowly nodded, ignoring the gay aspect of the situation in favor of staying alive. When the other guy got up, the table creaking against the floor in the quiet diner sounded like an elephant in a glass store. Stitch grabbed his cell phone, to text Captain. Fuck.

Stitch froze when Dom put his finger against his chest, only to frown. The freak factor became all the worse when Dom spoke, and this time he sounded like the most local of locals, Louisiana born and bred, as if he’d pressed some switch inside his head.

“Listen, you never met us. In fact, you’ve never met a true Italian in your life. If any word about us bleeds out of your mouth, I will find you, I will choke you with your own cock and slit the throats of every single person you love. Understood?”

Stitch swallowed. He could lash out, punch the guy, pull out his own gun, but all those ideas seemed futile. It wasn’t just the raw confidence the guy exuded, Stitch had confidence too. Maybe if they weren’t dealing drugs in the middle of nowhere, Stitch would take it as a bluff, but right now, he knew they were in way over their heads, and he wasn’t taking a risk on assuming these guys were just messing with him. As if the situation weren’t surreal enough, the other guy, who clearly must have heard every word his partner said, looked away and stretched with a yawn, looking like some goddamn fashion ad, all tall and handsome. That was a trophy boyfriend right there if Stitch had ever seen one.

Stitch nodded slowly.

Dom snorted and eased back into the Italian accent as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Calm down that heart. You need nerves of steel to deal in this business,” he said and casually walked over to the door. Not ever looking back, he let his partner go through first and stepped out. The metal door slammed shut with a ghastly creak.

Stitch was glued to the seat, but he knew he needed to act fast. Gator had been acting with all the confidence in the world, but it turned out he knew shit, they had no idea who they were dealing with. He got up even though he wanted to sit in this booth forever. His fingers never texted as fast as they did now.

‘
When I come over, duck under the table. Just do it.’

He walked in slow motion, every step weighing at his feet as if they already had rocks tied to them so they'd drown quicker in the swamp.

Captain raised his eyes to Stitch. To any outsider, he wouldn’t seem nervous, but Stitch recognized the slight frown, Captain’s upper cheek pushing on the eye patch and creating a fold. He was tense as a string next to Gator and Smoke who were enjoying a conversation so smiley it looked almost like flirting.

Stitch approached their booth, aware of every sound in the diner. The steps of the waitress by the counter, the insects making noise outside of the window, and finally, the creak of the kitchen door. The moment Stitch heard the latter, he yelled to Gator and Captain.

“Duck!”

Stitch threw himself under the table in the booth opposite to them to avoid the onslaught of bullets raining through the air. The waitress screamed, a thud of a dozen boots resonated on the floor, Smoke gurgled, five bullet holes dripping with blood on his chest. Stitch watched life leave his body like the last puff of smoke he would ever exhale.

The seats exploded with sponge, marked with the chaotic pattern of bullet holes. The noise took Stitch’s senses into overload. He curled up on the floor of the booth and frantically fumbled with the gun under his cut. Across the aisle he saw Captain and Gator, who had already pulled out their guns, but the moment they dared to fire, the kitchen men switched to assault rifles.

“Drop your guns!” came as another cascade of bullets burned out. Stitch tried to breathe as quietly as possible, but it still came out as a rasp when he met Captian’s gaze under the counter. They were sitting ducks.

Captain swallowed and looked to Gator, whose mouth was open, all teeth bared. He looked like a cornered pit bull, still wondering whether he’d turn the attacker into a bloody pulp or die trying. Stitch’s blood turned cold when their president shuffled closer to the aisle, moving the gun as if wanting to shoot, but Captain reacted immediately. He grabbed Gator’s wrist and hissed into his ear, back arching under the table, which was now covered in fresh biowaste, straight from Smoke’s head.

Stitch shook his head, slowly putting his gun on the floor. “We’re putting them down,” he yelled to the attackers, taking lack of bullets in answer as a promise of survival. If the Italian wasn’t lying, there were six men, all armed, now in an advantageous position. With guns that were much more efficient than their handguns. He would not die because Gator couldn’t hold his gun in his pants.