Don't Judge (Nothing Special 4)

Sitting in his Jeep, his hair still damp from the shower, the coolness of fall making him reconsider leaving the top off, he contemplated why he’d lied to Jake. The guy wasn’t proposing marriage to him. Well… actually he was proposing. Proposing an evening of more vigorous sweating and exercise. The best damn exercise. Maybe after seeing what God and Day had, Ruxs and Green, Syn and Furi, shit even young Curtis was in a relationship. If a young man like him could keep a three point eight GPA and still hold on to a man who will be the number five draft pick in the NFL this year, then surely Michaels could manage to find someone.

On his way to his favorite sports bar the Jaws suspense theme blasted from his cell phone. It was God. Fuck. Activating his Bluetooth, he answered on the second ring. “Michaels.”

“Need you to get over to Mechanicsville. Marrietty said there was some activity at the factory. If it looks safe, peek around in there; if not, just sit on it for a while.”

“Got it.”

“Markson and Rivers will come relieve you at six… you still got that thing?” God’s deep, commanding voice had him considering the right answer.

“Uh. Yeah, but I can pass.”

“Markson and Rivers will relieve you at six.”

The click was the end of that conversation. A peek at his dashboard showed it was only one o’clock. Goddamnit. “Looks like drive thru it is,” he mumbled. He’d really been looking forward to some wings, beer and about fifteen shots of whisky before he had to go and schmooze with his father’s stuck-up poker-police club.

Sitting across the street from the condemned factory on Glenn Street, Michaels tossed the wrapper from his last chicken tortilla wrap in his gym bag and slurped down the rest of his water. He’d been sitting for an hour and hadn’t seen a soul. Not even a car drove into the parking lot. The many windows to the warehouse were filthy and covered in months’ worth of grime, but they weren’t so obscured that he wouldn’t be able to see movement inside. What the fuck was Marrietty talkin’ about? What activity? He figured he’d wait a few hours and then take a closer look inside. It was already overcast, so the fading light would help. Tilting his head back against the headrest, he sighed at his situation. As if feeling his mood, his cell phone notified him of a text message.

“How’s it going???”

Great. Day.

“Nothing yet. All’s quiet”

“No. I mean did you get any ass yet??”

Michaels cursed at all the winking emojis behind the question marks. Damn he hated that Day knew that much about him. He was the last person Michaels wanted in his head.

“Fuck off”

“Sorry already taken. No jacking off while on the job… ttyl”

“Ugh. Bastard.” Like he couldn’t get laid. If he wasn’t so picky he’d be balls deep in a hot, artificially tanned, overly muscular ass right now. But that was his choice. Shaking his head, not wanting to think about it anymore, he pocketed his cell; released the safety on his 9mm, tucked it in his back and got out of his Jeep. He walked down the sidewalk, went in a couple shops, and circled back around the other side of the street. He had a partial view of the back of the gutted-out building and tried to look as closely as he could without being obvious. I don’t see a damn thing.

It was still too early to go inside, so he went back to his car. The hours trickled by at a snail’s pace before Markson and Rivers finally pulled up in their black Dodge Charger. They didn’t acknowledge him, and after a few minutes they both got out and began walking up the street. They looked like complete opposites but complimented the hell out of each other. Markson was their weapons specialist, wasn’t even six feet but he was thick and packed a lot of muscle, strong as an ox; and could handle any weapon from a .22 handgun to a rocket launcher. Dressed in all denim except for his buttoned-up white collared shirt. Rivers was at least 6’5”, had played basketball for Georgetown, but injured his knee his senior year and lost his chance at the NBA. After working for the DEA for eleven years, he was serving as God’s strategies specialist and had been recruited personally by him. A mastermind if he’d ever met one.

Michaels waited for any type of signal that they wanted his assistance. When they were about to disappear out of sight, Rivers reached in his back pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Standing against the wall of a closed hardware store, he propped one foot up and causally leaned against it to smoke.

Great. Everything’s cool.

Chapter Five

Michaels pulled up to the all-brick, colonial style home. He saw several cars in the curved driveway and sighed a frustrated breath. He really was not in the mood for cards with cops. He wasn’t in a complete rut because he had the greatest job in the world, but there was a huge void in his life right now, and being stuck in his father’s house with these pompous, brass-kissing bastards wasn’t the best thing for him.