Unbeautiful (Unbeautiful 1)

Dammit, I really fucked up when I hooked up with her.

I grab her hand and pull it out of my jeans. “I have to go,” I mouth slowly as she glances up at me. “Or I’m going to be late again.”

“That’s the last thing you should be worried about right now.” She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. “What you should worry about is me telling my father what you did the other night.”

“What we both did,” I mouth.

“But I can spin it however I want,” she says with a smirk. “I’m daddy’s little girl and you’re,” her eyes scroll over my black jeans and shirt, the tattoos inking my arms, and the piercings in my face, “just another one of Elderman’s lowlifes, at the bottom of his little minion food chain.”

I ball my hands into fists and pop my neck, trying to stay calm.

“I’ll tell you what. I won’t say anything to my father, as long as we start our little thing up again.”

Little thing?

What little thing?

I grind my teeth, wanting to shout, fuck no! But I can’t respond that way for various reasons, one being that I know her father will kill me.

I grimly nod.

Her lips curl into a grin. “Good. Now give me your phone.”

I begrudgingly hand it over.

“I’m typing in my phone number and sending myself a text so I can have yours.” Her fingers hammer at the buttons on my phone. “You’re going to start calling me and taking me out.” She hands me back the phone, stands on her tiptoes, and kisses me on the cheek. When she pulls back, her eyes are wide, and she looks possessed by the devil. “And, if you so much as look at another girl, like the one upstairs, I will end her.” She grins and then skips off toward her Mercedes parked near the entrance of the complex.

I’ve got to find a way to fix this, get her to not like me, because being evasive was clearly not the way to go. She seemed way less intense the couple of times I saw her before we fucked. Then again, I should have known she might have a crazy button in her. Her father is the least sane man I’ve ever met. He once dragged a guy out into an alleyway and peeled off his finger and toenails with pliers. After he was finished, he plunged the tool into the guy’s eye, all because the guy bumped into him too roughly. The stories I’ve heard are worse—cementing a man alive, lighting another on fire.

I’ve never been one for violence, even though it has surrounded me for most of my life. While I was living with Ben and even with my father. While I was in juvenile detention and had to learn to fight more to survive getting my ass beat.

I shake the thought from my head. I don’t have time to get smothered by memory lane right now.

I give a quick glance around for a black Cadillac before I hop in my car. When I saw it earlier, I got nervous. It is the same car Stale drives, and I was—still am—worried he decided to be stupid and show up at my place, even though stupidity isn’t really his MO. But he’s been really concerned with checking up on me lately, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he did show up in Laramie. The Cadillac had taken off without contacting me, though. That had me worried me even more. What if the car belongs to Elderman? What if his men are watching me for some reason? They do drive similar cars.

If it is Elderman, I’m not sure what to do. I haven’t done anything wrong that would give myself away, but I’m always expecting to get caught. It’s part of living a double life, part of living a dangerous double life. Fear is always around every corner.

I break several traffic laws to make it to the bar on time, but it’s worth not being late and drawing attention to myself. The bar resides in the center of town between a lot of stores, clubs, and other bars. On weekends, the sidewalks around it are covered with college students bar hopping. Right now, the area is fairly quiet except for the sound of music playing from somewhere and the thud of my boots hitting the ground as I cross the parking lot on my way to the back of the building.

A bright light above the door beams down on me as I knock. After a minute with no answer, I rap my hand on the door again, louder this time. I hear a click, and then the door cracks open.

“Name, please,” Wenley says as he peers through the cracked door at me.

I hammer my fist on the door. Wenley does this every time. He knows who I am, knows I can’t speak. He thinks it’s humorous when he asks my name and I can’t respond.

“I need your name; otherwise, I can’t let you in,” he says with a smirk, his weasel nose pressed up against the crack of the door.

Wenley is a gangly guy about half my height who weighs practically nothing, only hired by Elderman because he’s Marellie’s nephew. I could kick his ass, but then I’d have to pay the consequences.

I easily shove the door open, and Wenley trips back. I squeeze my way inside, ignoring his curses. The door leads to a hallway that stretches to the front area of the building that opens up into a room attached to a bar.

Right as I enter the room, the digital clock on the wall changes to eleven.

Right on time.

I sit in one of the chairs around a long rectangular table in the middle of the room. Four of Elderman’s men are already here, smoking cigars, drinking scotch and whiskey, and chatting about the strip club they just left. Doc hasn’t arrived yet, so I can’t communicate with any of them.

Doc is one of the few men I’ve met over the last six months that can sign. He usually translates for me when he’s around. When I’d had my first phone meeting with Elderman, I’d worried my muteness was going to ruin my chances of getting into the crowd. Fortunately, Doc was there, and Elderman looked at my curse as a blessing.

“It means he can’t talk,” he said through the speakerphone. Doc had given me a smile like he was glad to have me on board, which I still don’t understand. “Anything he learns will die with him, even if he’s being tortured by one of our enemies.”

I didn’t bother pointing out that I could write everything I learned down. I’d simply agreed, and then I was welcomed into the world of drug trafficking where my life and morals are questioned daily.

“I heard a rumor about you.” A big guy, nicknamed Big Tim, wearing holey jeans and a stained red shirt sits down beside me. His nickname is fitting. His arms are the size of my legs, and he towers over me, even at six-two.

I shrug, letting him know I have no clue what he’s talking about. But I’m concerned. Rumors are never good. I can’t help thinking of that damn car again.

He motions for me to move closer. Normally, I’d be edgy talking to a man in Big Tim’s position, but he’s a pretty decent guy. Well, if you look past the fact that he’s one of the “clean up” men for Elderman, meaning he disposes bodies whenever there’s an incident.

I lean forward in my chair and signal to him that I’m all ears.

He whispers, “I heard you were going out with Marellie’s daughter.”

My expression immediately drops. What the fuck did Haven do, run to her car and call her dad to tell him about our “date” on Saturday?

I search the room for a pen and paper and spot a marker and napkin on the bar just behind me. Tipping back in my chair, I snatch them up.

Who told you that? I write across the napkin.

“Marellie.” He sounds and looks like he feels sorry for me.

That would make two of us.

I don’t want to, I write. She trapped me.

“Yeah, Haven has that way about her,” he remarks as he rubs his jawline. “Want some advice?”

I shrug then scribble, Sure.

“Find a way out of it before things get too intense,” he says, lowering his hand to the table. “You don’t want to piss Haven off, because pissing Haven off means pissing Marellie off.”

My mouth sinks to a frown. He’s telling me what I already know.

Any advice on how to do that? I scrawl across the napkin. Because I tried to tell her no, and that didn’t seem to work.

His eyes drift to the ceiling as he contemplates. “I’d just ride it out until

her obsession passes.” When I give him a puzzled look, he adds, “I’ve known Haven forever, and every once in a while, she goes through these phases. One month, all she wanted was ice cream. The next month she’d wanted cake. When she got older, her sweet tooth turned into guys.”

So you’re saying, if I ride it out for a month, she won’t bother me anymore.

“If old patterns repeat, then yes.”