Unbeautiful Page 11

  Dammit, I really fucked up when I hooked up with her.

  I grab her hand and pull it out of my jeans. “I have to go,” I mouth slowly as she glances up at me. “Or I’m going to be late again.”

  “That’s the last thing you should be worried about right now.” She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. “What you should worry about is me telling my father what you did the other night.”

  “What we both did,” I mouth.

  “But I can spin it however I want,” she says with a smirk. “I’m daddy’s little girl and you’re,” her eyes scroll over my black jeans and shirt, the tattoos inking my arms, and the piercings in my face, “just another one of Elderman’s lowlifes, at the bottom of his little minion food chain.”

  I ball my hands into fists and pop my neck, trying to stay calm.

  “I’ll tell you what. I won’t say anything to my father, as long as we start our little thing up again.”

  Little thing?

  What little thing?

  I grind my teeth, wanting to shout, fuck no! But I can’t respond that way for various reasons, one being that I know her father will kill me.

  I grimly nod.

  Her lips curl into a grin. “Good. Now give me your phone.”

  I begrudgingly hand it over.

  “I’m typing in my phone number and sending myself a text so I can have yours.” Her fingers hammer at the buttons on my phone. “You’re going to start calling me and taking me out.” She hands me back the phone, stands on her tiptoes, and kisses me on the cheek. When she pulls back, her eyes are wide, and she looks possessed by the devil. “And, if you so much as look at another girl, like the one upstairs, I will end her.” She grins and then skips off toward her Mercedes parked near the entrance of the complex.

  I’ve got to find a way to fix this, get her to not like me, because being evasive was clearly not the way to go. She seemed way less intense the couple of times I saw her before we fucked. Then again, I should have known she might have a crazy button in her. Her father is the least sane man I’ve ever met. He once dragged a guy out into an alleyway and peeled off his finger and toenails with pliers. After he was finished, he plunged the tool into the guy’s eye, all because the guy bumped into him too roughly. The stories I’ve heard are worse—cementing a man alive, lighting another on fire.

  I’ve never been one for violence, even though it has surrounded me for most of my life. While I was living with Ben and even with my father. While I was in juvenile detention and had to learn to fight more to survive getting my ass beat.

  I shake the thought from my head. I don’t have time to get smothered by memory lane right now.

  I give a quick glance around for a black Cadillac before I hop in my car. When I saw it earlier, I got nervous. It is the same car Stale drives, and I was—still am—worried he decided to be stupid and show up at my place, even though stupidity isn’t really his MO. But he’s been really concerned with checking up on me lately, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he did show up in Laramie. The Cadillac had taken off without contacting me, though. That had me worried me even more. What if the car belongs to Elderman? What if his men are watching me for some reason? They do drive similar cars.

  If it is Elderman, I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t done anything wrong that would give myself away, but I’m always expecting to get caught. It’s part of living a double life, part of living a dangerous double life. Fear is always around every corner.

  I break several traffic laws to make it to the bar on time, but it’s worth not being late and drawing attention to myself. The bar resides in the center of town between a lot of stores, clubs, and other bars. On weekends, the sidewalks around it are covered with college students bar hopping. Right now, the area is fairly quiet except for the sound of music playing from somewhere and the thud of my boots hitting the ground as I cross the parking lot on my way to the back of the building.

  A bright light above the door beams down on me as I knock. After a minute with no answer, I rap my hand on the door again, louder this time. I hear a click, and then the door cracks open.

  “Name, please,” Wenley says as he peers through the cracked door at me.

  I hammer my fist on the door. Wenley does this every time. He knows who I am, knows I can’t speak. He thinks it’s humorous when he asks my name and I can’t respond.

  “I need your name; otherwise, I can’t let you in,” he says with a smirk, his weasel nose pressed up against the crack of the door.

  Wenley is a gangly guy about half my height who weighs practically nothing, only hired by Elderman because he’s Marellie’s nephew. I could kick his ass, but then I’d have to pay the consequences.

  I easily shove the door open, and Wenley trips back. I squeeze my way inside, ignoring his curses. The door leads to a hallway that stretches to the front area of the building that opens up into a room attached to a bar.

  Right as I enter the room, the digital clock on the wall changes to eleven.

  Right on time.

  I sit in one of the chairs around a long rectangular table in the middle of the room. Four of Elderman’s men are already here, smoking cigars, drinking scotch and whiskey, and chatting about the strip club they just left. Doc hasn’t arrived yet, so I can’t communicate with any of them.

  Doc is one of the few men I’ve met over the last six months that can sign. He usually translates for me when he’s around. When I’d had my first phone meeting with Elderman, I’d worried my muteness was going to ruin my chances of getting into the crowd. Fortunately, Doc was there, and Elderman looked at my curse as a blessing.

  “It means he can’t talk,” he said through the speakerphone. Doc had given me a smile like he was glad to have me on board, which I still don’t understand. “Anything he learns will die with him, even if he’s being tortured by one of our enemies.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that I could write everything I learned down. I’d simply agreed, and then I was welcomed into the world of drug trafficking where my life and morals are questioned daily.

  “I heard a rumor about you.” A big guy, nicknamed Big Tim, wearing holey jeans and a stained red shirt sits down beside me. His nickname is fitting. His arms are the size of my legs, and he towers over me, even at six-two.

  I shrug, letting him know I have no clue what he’s talking about. But I’m concerned. Rumors are never good. I can’t help thinking of that damn car again.

  He motions for me to move closer. Normally, I’d be edgy talking to a man in Big Tim’s position, but he’s a pretty decent guy. Well, if you look past the fact that he’s one of the “clean up” men for Elderman, meaning he disposes bodies whenever there’s an incident.

  I lean forward in my chair and signal to him that I’m all ears.

  He whispers, “I heard you were going out with Marellie’s daughter.”

  My expression immediately drops. What the fuck did Haven do, run to her car and call her dad to tell him about our “date” on Saturday?

  I search the room for a pen and paper and spot a marker and napkin on the bar just behind me. Tipping back in my chair, I snatch them up.

  Who told you that? I write across the napkin.

  “Marellie.” He sounds and looks like he feels sorry for me.

  That would make two of us.

  I don’t want to, I write. She trapped me.

  “Yeah, Haven has that way about her,” he remarks as he rubs his jawline. “Want some advice?”

  I shrug then scribble, Sure.

  “Find a way out of it before things get too intense,” he says, lowering his hand to the table. “You don’t want to piss Haven off, because pissing Haven off means pissing Marellie off.”

  My mouth sinks to a frown. He’s telling me what I already know.

  Any advice on how to do that? I scrawl across the napkin. Because I tried to tell her no, and that didn’t seem to work.

  His eyes drift to the ceiling as he contemplates. “I’d just ride it out until
her obsession passes.” When I give him a puzzled look, he adds, “I’ve known Haven forever, and every once in a while, she goes through these phases. One month, all she wanted was ice cream. The next month she’d wanted cake. When she got older, her sweet tooth turned into guys.”

  So you’re saying, if I ride it out for a month, she won’t bother me anymore.

  “If old patterns repeat, then yes.”

  Thanks. I feel like you just saved my life. I should pay you or something.

  He chuckles as he reads what I wrote. “Nah, kid, I like helping you.” His gaze sweeps the table, and then he lowers his voice. “You’re one of the few left here who are still good.”

  His voice conveys an underlying meaning, but I’m not positive what that is. I never get the chance to ask him, either, because moments later, Doc enters the room with a duffel bag in his hand.

  Everyone falls silent.

  “We have big plans tonight, gentleman.” He drops the bag on the floor, slips off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. “Big, big plans.”

  Doc is an average height and weight, middle-aged man who dresses in fancy suits, unlike most of Elderman’s men. His wealth and manner of air shows he’s much higher up on the food chain than someone like me and Big Tim. Everyone respects Doc, too, or at least fears him enough not to question anything he says or does. I’m not certain yet. I haven’t seen Doc do anything like Marellie, but I’ve heard rumors about some of the stuff he’s done for business. He treats me decent, though, so for now, I’m not going to look too much into his darker side.

  Once Doc gets his sleeves rolled up, he faces Big Tim. “I need you to take Morless and Wenley and unload the truck.”

  Big Tim nods then motions at Morless who’s sitting at the end of the table. “Let’s go. We got truck duty.”

  Morless gets up from the table and follows Big Tim out of the room without asking questions. Five people remain in the room, including Doc and me.

  “As for the rest of you,” Doc says to the remaining men. “Elderman needs you at the warehouse ASAP.”

  My heart rate accelerates. I haven’t been to the warehouse in Wyoming yet, so it could possibly be the one. But I don’t let myself get too hopeful as I rise from my chair; I’ve already been to seven locations and all were busts.

  “Except for you, Ryler,” Doc says to me. “You’re with me tonight.”

  Usually, he just sends me with Big Tim or Wenley to make a drop to one of the smaller dealers. I never go with Doc directly, mainly because he is higher up on the chain of command. So either I’m moving up in the world, or I’m in trouble.

  Both outcomes unsettle my stomach, and the nausea grows when Doc removes a gun from his holster and places it on the table in front of me.

  “You’re going to need this tonight.” He offers me an encouraging smile, as if it will somehow lessen my tension. “Do you know how to use one?”

  I cock the gun. Unfortunately, I do.

  His smile expands. “Good.” He grabs the other gun and checks the bullet count before tucking it back into the holster. “Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to.”

  I nod and start to tuck the gun into the back of my jeans.

  He raises his hand. “Just a second.” He grabs a holster from the bag and chucks it to me.

  I slip my arms through the holster and tuck the barrel into the pouch on the side. The weight of the gun is a painful reminder of how deep I’m getting into the drug trafficking world.

  What if they want me to shoot someone tonight?

  What if I have to shoot someone tonight?

  What if I kill someone?

  What if I get killed?

  What if I’m getting set up to be killed?

  Fuck. I really wish I could text Stale, but the move would be too risky right now.

  Doc collects a black hoodie from the bag and tosses it to me. “Put this on over the holster.”

  I obey, slipping my arms through the sleeves and zipping the jacket up.

  He nods approvingly. “This is going to work, just as long as you don’t get too nervous.”

  I hesitate then dare sign, “Can I ask what we’re doing?”

  “I’m afraid, son, that telling you would take the fun out of all of this.” He grins then pats my shoulder as he heads toward the hallway. “Come on. We have a long night ahead of us.”

  We leave the bar and climb into Doc’s 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. Then he drives through town and toward the freeway with the radio cranked up. Songs like “Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads and “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash flow through the stereo. I try not to put too much thought into his song choices, but it’s difficult. Even with the gun, I don’t feel safe. Besides, I don’t want to shoot anyone, don’t want blood on my hands.

  After we veer up the on-ramp, we cruise north beneath the stars, away from Laramie and civilization, past fields of dry grass. The farther north we get, the more sparse cars become.

  It feels like he’s purposefully taking us out to the middle of nowhere. All I can think is that I’ve been busted, that he’s driving me up to the foothills to shoot me between the eyes and bury me in the dirt.

  I attempt to send a text out to Stale without actually having to remove my cell from my pocket, but I fumble with the buttons, pressing who the hell knows what, and finally give up after the tenth try.

  Doc doesn’t utter a word to me until he turns onto the exit ramp and brakes at a stop sign. We’re out in the middle of nowhere with only fields and trees around us. He leaves the headlights on and the light beams across the road in front of us. Then he shuts off the music and stares out the window at the desolate street to the side of us.

  “Have you heard the story of how I got into this business yet?” he asks, glancing out of the corner of his eye at me.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m surprised. As much as I respect the people I work with, they do love their gossip.” He muses over something, his attention on the road again. “I was twenty when I first met Donny Elderman. I had just recently married, and we were expecting our first child. I was working as a salesman at a local furniture store. Back then, I wasn’t known as Doc. I wasn’t known for anything, really.” He pauses, gazing up at the stars. “I wanted to be known, though. I’d always had this feeling that there was supposed to be more to life than a nine-to-five job, going home every night, eating dinner, then going to bed. Most days, I felt like I was on autopilot.”

  He reaches for his pocket and grabs a cigar, lights up, and then reclines back in the seat. “Then I met Donny, and all of that changed. Life was exciting, and I found out I was good at what I do. Don’t misunderstand me. My family always comes first and foremost, but I truly believe that, in order to be a good father and husband, I have to be happy. Very rarely have I regretted the choice I made to come into this unorthodox world. In fact, there have only been three times in my life when I’ve really questioned my choice. Two happened a long time ago, right in the beginning, and one was tonight.” He puffs on the cigar, the cherry glowing through the darkness.

  He remains silent for at least five minutes, smoking his cigar. He eventually turns on the radio again and browses through songs. I start to question where he’s going with the story or if that was the end of it when he sits up straight and rolls down the window.

  “But I’ve changed over the last couple of decades. I know how to handle regret better.” He tosses the cigar out the window then shoves the car into first gear. “I’ve learned how to eliminate it. And you’re going to help me tonight.”

  He cranks up the radio again, slams the gas pedal down, the tires spinning against the gravel as we peel out onto the stretch of road to the side of us. At first, I wonder if this is a suicide mission, if he’s going to drive across the road and ramp us off the hillside. But he cranes the wheel right at the last second to turn onto the road.

  At that exact moment, another car comes barreling by, going at least a hundred miles an hour, kicking up a cloud
of dust. We skid in right behind the speeding vehicle, and Doc works the clutch and shifter simultaneously, ramping up RPMs to gain momentum swiftly. The engine roars to life as the radio screams heavy metal.

  I grip the side of the seat as the car in front of us moves faster. Doc accelerates too, inching up right on the bumper. He moves one of his hands away from the steering wheel and reaches for the gun in his holster.

  “Take the wheel, Ryler,” he says, his gaze locked on the car in front of us. When I gape at him, he glances at me. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Just make sure not to let go.”

  I already knew the guy was out of his goddamn mind, but this is taking crazy to a whole new level. Before I can think too much on the insanity, Doc releases the wheel, giving me no choice other than to reach over and grab it.