Perversion (Page 13)

Gil shifts from one foot to another, sizing up Sandy, who fakes a yawn. “You ain’t foolin’ no one, homes. I can see in your eyes how much you want to throw a punch,” he taunts. “Go ahead. Do it.”

Sandy remains still with a knowing smirk on his face.

“Oh wait,” Gil jabs his finger into Sandy’s chest. “You can’t. That would be breaking the treaty. You can’t fucking touch me, white boy.” He spits on the ground. “Fucking puta.”

“Where exactly were you and your boys last night? I mean, since you weren’t jacking our shipment and all.” Sandy asks, his patience wearing thin. His eyes narrow on the shorter man in front of him as he leans forward against his pool stick.

Gil adjusts his bandana. “We were taking turns with your fucking sister,” he snickers to Memo. “What’s the fucking truce say about that?”

Sandy’s head turns my way asking a silent question.

One I’m about to answer.

“You know, I learned something new about our little truce recently,” I begin, rounding the table with my pool stick in hand. “Something even Marco probably doesn’t know. But I’m going to do you boys a favor and share it with you so you can go back and school your fearless leader on the finer points of Lacking gang politics.”

“Oh yeah, Grim?” Memo steps up to me, rolling back his shoulders and sticking out his chest. I want to rip the little star tattoo off the corner of his eye and shove it up his fucking nose. “Educate us, then. What, exactly, is it that you learned about our little agreement?”

I look over Memo’s head to each of my brothers and jerk my chin.

“Go ahead, Grim,” Memo hisses. “Educate us.”

So, I do.

I break the pool stick over my knee, and smash the half in my right hand across Memo’s face then backhand him with the half in my left, sending him crashing into the tables behind him. There’s a scuffle behind me. I turn around just as Gil sails by me, joining his brother in the pile of hurt, courtesy of my brothers.

I lean over the two moaning and bleeding thugs and wink. “Bar fights don’t count.” I toss the broken pool stick on top of them.

Haze laughs. “Now that’s the kind of education that can’t be bought. You’re welcome.” He pours the rest of his beer over them and then drops the bottle itself. “Oops.”

“If I find out it was you or your boys who jacked our truck, I won’t be beating you with a pool stick. I’ll take my time shoving every inch of the broken ends down your fucking throats until your insides come out of your assholes,” I warn. “Are we fucking clear?”

Two garbled groans bring all the response I need.

I pull out a wad of cash from the pocket of my leather jacket, peeling off a several hundred-dollar bills. I toss them onto the bar. “For the trouble,” I tell Sheila.

Sheila smiles at me seductively, stuffing the bills into her bra. “Always great to see you, Grim. You guys have a good time?”

I push open the door.

“Always.”

We step out onto the concrete sidewalk. I tug a smoke free from the box. The lighter is out of my pocket, but the flame never gets a chance to reach its destination because we’re suddenly surrounded by a swarm of men in armored vests, blinding us with flashlights. The sound of guns being cocked echoes through the alley.

I don’t know who the fuck these guys are, but they aren’t locals. I know all the locals. Most of them were either on the Los Muertos payroll or mine.

Or both.

“I swear, officers. They kicked their own asses,” Sandy laughs as the three of us are spun around and thrown up against the brick wall of the bar.

“We aren’t here about a bar fight,” a man says, stepping into my line of sight. He’s the only one of the dozen or so officers not wearing a protective helmet or a vest. He’s got a military-style haircut and beady eyes shining with amusement.

“A little to the left,” Haze says in his thick southern accent. “Now stroke up and down and don’t be afraid to get a little rough.” He grunts when the reply is a sharp kick to the back of his knees.

I glance over at the man who I assume is the one in charge. “Then, what the fuck do you want?” I hiss as another officer digs his knee firmly into my lower back, holding me still so he can fasten a familiar pair of steel bracelets around my wrists.

Fucking prick.

“You and I are going to have ourselves a little talk,” he explains.

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “And who the fuck might you be?”

He produces a badge and holds it up so I can read it.

Captain Marshall Lemming. Lacking County. Gang Task Force Division.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I’m hauled off the wall and pushed into an awaiting van while my brothers are patted down.

“That’s right, Tristan Paine. Say your prayers,” Captain Lemming says, standing by the open door. “‘Cause you’re gonna need ‘em.” Slamming the doors shut, he slaps the top of the van. The driver takes off.

I silently recite the oath I took when I pledged myself to Bedlam.

My Life.

My Death.

My Loyalty.

My Honor.

For Bedlam.

For Brotherhood.

For Always.

I chuckle to myself. I don’t know what Agent Marshall Lemming of the Gang Task Force wants from me, but what he doesn’t know…is who the fuck he’s messing with.

Seven

Gabby and I run our biggest cons at night because that’s when the biggest scores are had.

Under the cover of darkness, I work best. I find comfort in the shadows. In being wrapped within the night like a warm wet blanket of nothingness. I can breathe easier. My chest feels lighter. I’m calm. Focused.

In the vast emptiness between sunrise and sunset, I become invincible. Resilient.

At night, I’m all instinct. I smell, feel, anticipate.

What I don’t do is overthink. Dwell.

Or, worst of them all: hope.

In the darkness, I just exist.

I am free until the sun rises…when I’m a prisoner once more.

When I was younger, I fell in love with magic. I learned every card trick there was from library books and unmasking magic TV specials. I used to put on shows for Gabby that included escaping from complicated knots and trick handcuffs. But what’s magic besides a sleight of hand?

It’s a lie.

And lying is what I’m damn good at.

My ability to spin a tall-tale or two lead to stealing wallets and conning people into taking stray pets for the thrill of it. Now, I’m using it to earn for Marco. The thrill is there, but it’s muted, hindered, lost under his pile of mounting threats.

The inside of the casino smells like stale cigarettes, spilled beer, and burnt coffee. We’re not supposed to be in here. It’s Bedlam territory. But that’s also why it’s perfect.

It isn’t like anyone would recognize us here.

We’ve made friends with a few of the cocktail waitresses by giving them a small cut, and they don’t ask questions or ring any alarms when they see us working. I’ve also been straightening my hair over the last few years since my crazy curls stand out like a reflector on a dark highway. I’ve dyed it a few shades darker than my normal honey blonde to help blend in.

Tonight is starting off well. Gabby and I are working a con we’ve run a few times before.

Gabby walks away, her long dark hair swooshing behind her. She gives me a nod as she passes me by on the slot machine I’m pretending to play. She’s just faked losing an expensive engagement ring at another slot machine. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she frantically looked around for it, then loudly announced a thousand-dollar reward would be waiting at the casino cage for whoever returned it.