And then:
“Mason? Mason! Jesus fucking Christ, man, stop! You’re going to kill him!” Dave’s hands are all over me, tearing at my clothes, trying to get me to still myself, but I’m gripping by a power larger and stronger than myself. Dave isn’t a small guy, and yet it takes him a long time to pin my arms to my side. “Fuck, Mase, he wasn’t gonna kill ya. You know he wasn’t.”
“Bullshit! He would have done it and he wouldn’t have fucking thought twice. You were gonna stand there and watch him do it, you sick fuck!” I rip myself free of him and spin, shoving him away from me. “Don’t fucking touch me. Don’t you fucking dare!”
Dave looks stunned. Mac’s unconscious on the floor, and his breathing is labored. His nose is shattered, and the index finger on his left hand is practically hanging off, skin scraped away so badly that the bone is exposed beneath. “Shit, Mason. You really fucked him up. You think he’s gonna go easy on you now? You’re a fucking mad man!”
“I don’t care if he goes easy on me, man. Let him come for me again. I’ll finish the job next time.” If I stand here any longer, Dave’s going to gather his wits and grab hold of me before I can make a run for it. I push past him, ready to turn and fight again if I have to, but Mac’s coughing and spluttering all of a sudden, making pathetic groaning noises, and Dave rushes to his side, calling his name.
My eyes don’t see straight until I’m halfway across the street, my feet already marching on a direct route toward the gym. The place is locked up, though. The shutters are down. I can easily get in, sure, but if Zee or Michael aren’t there then what’s the point?
I turn back and jump into my truck, speeding away down the street before anything else can turn to shit. I don’t know where I’m going, but I do know one thing: I’m no longer safe. My life is in danger, and it’s all Lowell’s fault. I’m gonna make her pay. I’m gonna make her pay for what she’s done.
******
It’s late. I spent the afternoon trying to track down Ben again—this time for my sake as much as his own. No joy, though. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet, and I can’t help but worry that maybe the guys at French’s have caught up with him already.
I have more luck with Lowell. Following the string of aggressive text messages I send through to the burner phone I know she always keeps in the pocket of her pantsuit, I finally receive a response:
2134 W Renshaw
That’s all it says. The first line of an address. I plug the information into my cell phone and pull up a route to the location, and then I burn across there, my hands itching like crazy as I try to strangle the steering wheel. The address, as it turns out, is an innocuous looking drug store on the outskirts of town—a twenty-four hour place that seems to sell everything and nothing all at once. I find Denise in the feminine hygiene isle.
“So you’re on your period? Is that why you just destroyed my fucking life?” I grab hold of her by the shoulders, shoving her roughly. She staggers sideways into a shelving unit stacked high with pink and purple brightly colored packs of…of god knows what. At the far end of the aisle, a young woman with a ponytail, wearing a set of green overalls looks up, eyes filled with judgment.
“Careful,” Lowell advises, straightening her suit. “Don’t want to rile the natives. Wouldn’t go down well.”
“You’re one sick bitch, you know that?” I want to knock her fucking head off, but smashing Lowell’s skull will come with a set of consequences, just like beating the crap out of Mac will. Assaulting Lowell ends only one way: with me serving a very long sentence in a very dangerous prison. I have to squeeze my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms in order to stop myself from unleashing on her. “I’m not sure what you wanted to happen when you decided to go over to Mac’s place, but you’ll be happy to know I’ve basically got a contract out on my head, I’ve lost my job, and I’m going to have to pull Millie out of school so those sick bastards don’t try and kill her, too. Are you happy? Are you fucking happy?”
Lowell brushes her hair behind her ears. She normally wears it scraped back close to her scalp, but today her shoulder length blonde hair is free. It makes her less severe somehow. I’d be a fool to be tricked by this simple slight of hand, though. She’s just about as severe as they get, and she’s proud of the fact. “If there’s one thing you ought to know about me, Mr. Reeves, it’s that I’m only ever happy when I’m chasing down a felon. You made me very unhappy when you failed to provide any information on Mayfair. So in return, I made you very unhappy. That’s how this arrangement works, okay?”