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I work on piloting the car out of the parking lot, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure there’s no one following. “My name is Haven Marchenko. I know you’ve been through hell. I also know you have no reason to trust anyone with my last name. But you are safe with me. I swear on my own life that no one will touch you. Now let’s go get you some dinner and we’ll make a plan.”
Veronica gradually loosens her grip on her backpack and begins to relax. By the time we get several blocks away and pull up to a diner that serves halfway decent burgers, I learn that she dreams of becoming a makeup artist and had been saving up to go to cosmetology school while working in her father’s bakery.
Even as I listen and smile and murmur appropriate words to set her at ease, my anger continues to simmer at a low boil. There are times when I feel like my blood must be acid, eating me alive from the inside. This is one of those times.
As for the men in the room I’ve just left behind, let them be fooled into believing that the ink on my chest means something to me. Let them assume that my loyalty isn’t a mask.
The truth roars through my veins with an intensity that threatens to rupture my skin.
We’re parked now and Veronica’s voice chirps in the background as my hands curl tightly around the steering wheel. She hasn’t noticed how I glare at the derelict motel across the street where homeless addicts nap in the stairwells and desperate half clothed women parade on the sidewalk out front. It’s one of ours, that motel. An ugly emblem of sin and corruption that defines the family I was born to.
And I’d happily turn every brick of their fucking kingdom to ashes.
Chapter12
Conner
The shadows are long and the sun is about to dip below the horizon when I pull into the parking lot of the Back Door strip club. Music pumps out, one of those hyper popular country rock songs that gets people line dancing atop counters.
Two bikers in leather cuts loiter against the colorless brick wall and smoke something other than cigarettes. They freeze with narrowed eyes when they see me coming. Then the biker on the right slaps his thigh.
“Holy shit, it’s Conner Wiseman.”
The other guy focuses. “Who?”
“Cyclones quarterback.”
The second guy perks up and now they’re both staring. I probably look like a weirdo when I wave at them but I don’t want to be a dick.
“Give ‘em hell next season, son,” says the biker who slapped his thigh. He coughs and spits on the asphalt.
“That’s the plan,” I assure him as I give Haven’s club a good look from the outside.
The neon sign above the entrance looks like it’s been around longer than I have. The words Back Door are underscored by a thick purple line with the head of a snake. Stripper joints aren’t my thing at all. I’m just not a fan of women feeling obligated to take their clothes off for money. I can’t really picture Haven in charge of a place like this.
The interior is nothing fancy. Most of the wooden tables and chairs are clustered close to the stage at the back. A rustic, no frills bar dominates on the right. A dancer dressed as Superwoman blows kisses to the front row as she collects her tips.
“Well, well. Looks like trouble just walked in.”
My head turns at the cheerful female voice. A woman observes me from the wood paneled hostess podium to the left and clucks her tongue. Her curly red hair frames an attractive face dotted with freckles. She wastes no time sliding around the podium to stand in front of me, conducting a frank appraisal.
“You’re taller than you look on television.” Her accent has a musical quality.
“Because on the field I’m always surrounded by huge men.”
She tilts her head back and laughs. “Our girl is not in the office right now.”
“Haven isn’t here?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? I’m expecting her back any minute. Take a seat wherever you like. She’ll enjoy the surprise. My name is Fiona.” She winks and keeps an eye on me as I find an empty bar stool.
The guy minding the drinks resembles a furious bull and registers no flicker of recognition when I ask for a beer. Within seconds he slides a tall glass across the table and grunts when I toss over a fifty with instructions to keep the change.
The stage is temporarily empty, the music volume low key. I count two dozen customers sprinkled in the seats. Some are well dressed corporate types with barracuda sneers and flashy watches. Others look like kin to the bikers I spotted on the way in. One scruffy loner naps on a table, snoring loudly. A thick-necked bouncer rattles the table and the guy jerks awake.
The beer is lukewarm but I’m thirsty and I need something to do while I wait for Haven to show up. Since her friend Fiona didn’t seem at all shocked to see me I’m going to assume that Haven has mentioned my name. I like that idea.
Even if she’s storming around in her epic heels and howling that I’m a pompous ass, it means I’m on her mind. I have every intention of staying on her mind. Why should I be the only one with a new obsession?
