"You're not fucking listening, I need Jake." He said angrily, his nostrils flaring.
"You're the one not fucking listening." I said, producing the gun from behind my back and aiming it between his eyes. "He's not fucking here."
The man actually smiled at me. And if I wasn't about to piss myself I would've taken more time to admire his very white very straight teeth surrounded by very full lips. But it was the way he smiled with his eyes, an evil glare radiating from his iris's that made even his smile scary.
"Go ahead and shoot," he said, grabbing the barrel of the gun and pressing it to his forehead. "You don't have the balls, girl" he taunted, still smiling.
I mirrored his sarcastic smile and was about to squeeze the trigger when Jake's voice stopped me. "Her balls are bigger than yours, man." Jake side-stepped the stranger and joined me in the entry way.
"I see that now." The man replied, sounding more annoyed than afraid.
"Who the fuck is this guy?" I asked Jake. He took the gun from my hand and placed it back in the drawer. "This is Abby, my wife. Abby, this is..."
The man interrupted.
"They call me, King."
Jake
Brantley King had a dirty cop problem.
Not that the notorious gun runner had anything morally against dirty cops, they just weren't on his side of dirty. A few of the fuckers actually made the mistake of going up against him. They either had balls bigger than grapefruits or were truly the stupidest mother fuckers on the planet.
I didn't care either way.
I had a job to do.
Not that I was going to get back into wet work full time, but just this little taste should hold me over for a while and keep me home in bed with Bee at night.
And there was no place on earth I'd rather fucking be, then in bed with that girl.
Logan Beach was just a two hour ride north so it didn't take me long before I was burying one of King's problems in the woods.
Well, parts of his problem.
It felt so good to welcome the devil back, even if just for a short time. I felt so fucking good in fact that I found myself humming as I finished covering the last hole, patting down the dirt with the flat side of a shovel before covering it with brush and branches.
I lit a cigarette.
Pure satisfaction coursed through my veins.
My cell rang.
"Yeah."
"Brotha, you still around?" King boomed through the phone. "I got a situation here I could use your help with."
"Yeah man, what you need?”
"Gotta put the fear of God into some piece of shit."
"Done." I said, flipping my phone shut. I took a deep drag and blew the smoke into the night.
I put the last of the brush I'd gathered on top of the freshly packed dirt. When I stood back I couldn't help but smile.
Life is good.
KING
COMING SOON
The day I got out of prison I was tattooing a * on a *. The animal onto the female part.
A cat on a cunt.
Fucking ridiculous.
The walls of my makeshift tattoo shop pulsed with the heavy beats of the techno music coming from the biker party raging on the floor below, shaking the door as if someone were rhythmically trying to beat it down. Spray paint and posters covered the walls from floor to ceiling, casting a layer of false light over everything within.
If those bikers weren’t so vital in my new plan I would have tossed them out hours before. But the truth was that I needed them more than I cared to admit.
The little dark haired bitch I was working on was moaning like she was getting off. I’m sure she was rollin’ because there was no way a tattoo directly above her clit could be anything other than fucking painful.
I really needed a different hobby because this one was becoming annoying as fuck. Back in the day I could just zone out for hours while tattooing, finding that little corner of my life that didn’t involve all the bullshit I had to deal with on a daily fucking basis. It didn’t help that the tattoos people were requesting were becoming fucking dumber and dumber. Football team logos, quotes from books you know they’ve never read, and wannabe gangsters wanting tear drops on their faces. In prison the tear drop tattoo represented taking a life. Some of these little bitches probably couldn’t step on a roach without cowering in the corner and crying for their mamas.
But since my cliental consisted mostly of bikers, strippers, and the occasional spring breaker that found themselves on the wrong side of the causeway, I should’ve lowered the bar on my expectations.
When I was done with the purple cartoon cat tattoo, I applied vaseline, covered it with wrap, and disposed of my gloves. Did this girl think that guys would be turned on by this thing? It was good work, if I didn’t say so myself, especially for being out of commission for three years, but it was covering up my favorite part of a woman. If I undressed her and saw it…I would flip her over.