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Chapter One
Mike
“Damn, it’s gettin’ hot as hell out here,” Mike told Manny, his best friend and business partner, as they began to wrap up their last property for the day. It was only late spring—it shouldn’t feel like eighty degrees already, but his sweat-drenched chest showed otherwise. Mike used the hem of his Stockley Lawn Service T-shirt to wipe the grime and perspiration off his forehead. “Have Jason finish unwrapping the palms, then let him know he can take the other truck back to the shop. Me, you, and Craig can finish the last of the mulching.”
Manny used their two-way radio to relay Mike’s instructions before he hauled a large bag of black mulch out of the truck bed and hefted it onto his shoulder. Mike did the same as they walked side by side toward the large flower bed framing the wraparound porch that was already blooming with new lilies. Mike’s landscaping company had been working Mr. Reynolds’s lawn for over four years, and Mike admitted it was one of his prouder properties that he displayed on his website to attract potential new customers. But Jim Reynolds was the best, always forthcoming with the compliments. He let Mike have creative control, and most of all, he paid them on time.
Mike turned toward the two-story house. Speaking of… “Have you seen the old man today?” he asked Manny before his gaze shifted to the tall bay windows on the back side of the house. It was where Mr. Reynolds would sit and drink his RumChata latte and read the Virginian-Pilot while they worked, but Mike just realized he hadn’t seen him at all today. Jim was the retired owner of the Delectable Cuts franchise. Now, his two daughters and son-in-law ran the business while Jim enjoyed the good life.
Manny dropped the bag on the ground and went to grab another. “Umm. I don’t think so.”
Mike’s stomach rumbled. He typically brought his lunch to work, but every other Thursday, he looked forward to the best damn submarine sandwiches on this side of the Mississippi. Around lunchtime, Mr. Reynolds always came out onto the porch and asked them what kind of cold cuts they wanted to eat since the man was never lacking a refrigerator full of meats.
“Both of his cars are out front, so he didn’t go to the Y to exercise,” Manny continued as Mike’s brain began to conjure up bad thoughts.
“Maybe he got a ride or someone picked him up,” Mike reasoned.
“Or not. I’ve never seen a friend or relative visit in the middle of the day since we’ve been coming here. Besides, Jim is always around when we work,” Manny answered.
Shit. That’s true.
“Damn… what if he’s in there and needs help? I saw a movie about an old woman living by herself. She was carrying a laundry basket down the stairs when she tripped and fell, and there was no one home to help her. She was just lying there crying, ‘Help me, help me, ’” Manny imitated in a frail, annoying-ass voice that made Mike grit his teeth. “Help m—”
“Will you shut the fuck up? I’m being serious. And that wasn’t a movie, it was a goddamn commercial.” Mike scrubbed at his face with his black bandana before he shoved it back inside his hip pocket and made a beeline toward the porch steps.
“What are you doing?” Manny asked, watching him as Mike cupped his hands to the pristine glass window so he could see better inside. “Maybe he went out of town or something. Leave it alone, Mike.”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know, Man. He would’ve told us if he wasn’t gonna be home, right?” He squinted as he surveyed the eat-in kitchen and a portion of the family room to the right, but the wall prevented him from seeing farther inside. Nothing looked out of sorts, but his gut was telling him something was wrong. Mike knocked hard on the window, then the doorframe, but didn’t get an answer.
“Jesus. You’re gonna break the damn glass. Stop.” Manny stood watching him.
“He should’ve heard that, right?” Mike asked, his nerves going crazy. What if Jim was in there needing help and they were all right there and did nothing? “I’m going inside.”
“Mike. You can’t just go in there,” Manny hissed, but it was too late.
Mike had already removed his switchblade, popped the lock, turned the knob, and was easing the back door open within seconds.
“Don’t just walk in there, Mike… fuck.”
“I’m a concerned citizen. I have the right to check it out,” Mike rumbled, then disappeared inside.
“What fuckin’ law is that?” Manny called after him, but Mike ignored it.
“Yo, Jim, it’s Mike! You in here?” he called loud enough for his voice to carry to the second floor. If the old man was in his bedroom watching a riveting marathon of Bonanza, Mike didn’t want to give him a heart attack. “I’m just checking on you, buddy. We haven’t seen you today.”
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the immaculate home, not a dish in the sink or a throw pillow out of place in the family room. Hmm. Maybe he did go out of town. But Mike still wanted to knock on Jim’s bedroom door just to be certain. Despite Manny’s ridiculous example, Mike had heard stories of elderly people who lived alone and had accidents where no one found them for days.
“It’s Mike, Jim! We’re almost finished with the yard if you wanna come take a look?” Mike felt a bit foolish, like he was talking to no one, but an unnerving feeling prickled at his spine just before he heard a rush of footsteps behind him. Too fast to be Jim’s.
Mike spun and ducked just as a steel bat was swung at the side of his head that would’ve surely split it in two. The weapon struck the oak banister behind him instead, causing it to break and splinter as Mike locked eyes on his attacker, a younger man he’d never seen before. Mike leapt backward at the second wild swing that aimed for his right side. Motherfucker! Bloodshot, furious green eyes were lasered on him as the man held the bat in a two-handed grip and raised it high over his head, intending to do some serious damage, but the man had no idea who he was fighting. Years of bar brawls, holding-tank feuds, and club fights had made Mike the crazy son of a bitch he was today. While he was no longer a gang enforcer, he still possessed the mentality… and the skill. He was always fearless, irritated, and didn’t give two fucks about anyone that wasn’t his crew or family.
His attacker’s next attempt to crush his skull left his abdomen vulnerable, and Mike balled his fist and slammed it into the man’s midsection hard enough to make him double over. He could’ve swung again and nailed the guy in the jaw, but Mike wasn’t going for permanent damage. The bat hung unsteadily in his aggressor’s left hand as he stumbled backward into a table, trying to grasp on for purchase, but ended up toppling over it. The two-foot glass vase in the center of the foyer table went crashing to the ground, covering the marble floor with shards of crystal and long-stemmed hydrangeas.
“I called the police!” the man barked, wiping at the blood dripping down his cheek from where he’d been nicked by the glass. He appeared to struggle to take in air as Mike stood over him, barely winded. “They’re coming right now!”
Fuck. “Look, man. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. But I came in to check on Mr. Reynolds. I work for him. Didn’t you see us out there for the last two hours?”
“Bullshit.” The guy appeared to be in his twenties, maybe twenty-five, and recovering from one hell of a hangover or bender. He had on a blue-and-red-silk wannabe Hugh Hefner robe, one Versace slipper—the other was across the hallway—and several gold necklaces hanging around his throat. He screamed spoiled, entitled millennial. Mike knew that Jim had a few grandkids, but none of them had ever come to visit while they’d been there.
