Making the Break (Beating the Biker 2)

“Do it,” he said.

“This is a half-assed thing to do,” said Chrissy. But Marcus glowered at her, so she opened the door and walked to the bathroom and ran the water to fill the tub. She called him and he brought the box and dumped it in the water. It sat on top until the cardboard saturated then sank.

“There, satisfied?” said Chrissy with a snort.

Marcus touched the cardboard, which disintegrated under his hands. The box opened to reveal a bouquet of red roses in a glass vase, now lying on its side.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” said Chrissy, exasperated. She pulled the plug and set the vase upright after the water drained. Water dripped from the rose petals and its green leaves and poured off the vase into the tub.

“Who’re they from?” asked Marcus.

“Like it’s any of your business,” Chrissy snapped. She reached for the sodden card and hoped she could read it. At this point they could be from Richard, or Drummond Walker, or James Pearson, and she would hate not knowing where they came from. She pulled the card carefully from the tiny envelope. Her heart sank as the ink ran into the other words. Chrissy thought she could make out the words.

“What’s it say?”

Chrissy squinted, trying to make sense of the running mess of words.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet. _____thy name.” The rest was an illegible mess. She couldn’t even make out the name at the bottom.

“What the hell does that mean?” snarled Marcus.

She whipped around, fury curling in her gut. Marcus kept making things more complicated than they had to be. Now she had soggy roses and no way of knowing who they came from. “What is it you want, Marcus?”

“Your grandfather sent me over to make sure that you’re not seeing that Rocco man anymore.”

Chrissy felt her face flush. She balled her hands at her side. “You can report to my grandfather I’m not seeing Anthony Parks.” She snarled her answer, as if she was a cornered cat ready to shred an attacker with her claws.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t give me attitude. Anyway, it’s good you aren’t seeing him. We can start—” Marcus stopped himself suddenly.

“You can start what?”

“I’ve gotta go,” mumbled Marcus.

Chrissy grabbed his arm as he turned to leave and pressed her fingernails into his arm.

“Ouch. You do that worse than Gloria.”

“You can start what?” she said with more menace than a rattlesnake shaking its tail.

“It ain’t nothing much. Teach the Roccos a lesson. A few beat-downs is all.”

Chrissy’s eyes went wide. “A few beat-downs? Are you nuts?”

“Not me,” denied Marcus.

“So, what, a Rocco pulls a gun and then it’s open season? Without getting permission from the New York bosses?”

Marcus’s eyes darted away. Chrissy had hit the nail on the head.

“I don’t know nothin’,” mumbled Marcus.

“Get out of here! Who’s more of a stunad—you, my father, or my grandfather? I tell you what. If anyone of them touches Saks, I’ll claw your balls off before you can scream. Get the hell out of here!”

The front door opened.

“Hey, baby.” Gloria walked to Marcus with a smile on her face. “I got out of work and was going to call—” She stopped mid-step and took in the charged atmosphere between Chrissy and Marcus. “What’s going on?” she said slowly.

“Get him out of here,” growled Chrissy. “And if you know anything about this hair-brained scheme you can take your clothes and go sleep at Mom’s.”