Our Turn

I stopped, picked her up, gave her a stern talking to about being out walking in the snow like that. Looked up to see her porch and walk weren’t shoveled, so I got her into the house. Made her some tea as she fussed and told me there was absolutely nothing wrong with her.

After that, I shoveled her walk and spent the afternoon with her listening to her tell me crazy ass stories about being a spy during the war and that I was her long-lost son.

Her mind is a trip and has gotten more creative over the years. Her body has given in in a lot of ways as well, but she makes me smile and doesn’t take any shit from me, which I have to admit deep down I love. She’s as close as I get to family or friends.

But having kids of my own? Fuck no. No way. This is not me.

I’ve never been much of a lady’s man, to begin with, and as the years have gone on, I’ve been more of a monk than a player, even though I’ve been offered a whole lot of pussy in exchange for loan repayments.

That shit offends my sensibilities as well. I’ve had guys offer their wives, girlfriends and even their daughters as repayment to save their sorry asses.

Do you know what happens to them? I’m not going to recount those Hallmark moments. Let’s just say, they lost their own ability to enjoy the more intimate moments in life.

The nurse rattles off where I should go and what time and I scribble it in the notepad I keep in my shirt pocket, then hang up and try to process what’s happening while somehow keeping my head in the game.

It wouldn’t do for me to make a mistake right now, not with the court appearance coming up as well. A short stint inside I can cope with. Last time I was sent down, it actually increased my bottom line, because there are a lot of people in jail that need a short-term injection of cash, either when they get out or to take care of business on the outside while they’re away.

Thanks to a few connections I have at my bank, I’m still able to move money around while I’m inside with a few phone calls and some well-developed code words. It seems bank tellers don’t get paid very much and there are a few I’ve developed relationships with over the years in exchange for compensation of their own.

Right now, the simple assault I’m up for, and a few priors are likely to land me with a six-month sentence. I’ll be out on probation in three. Depending on the judge, I might get lucky and get off with community service.

Dare to fucking dream.

But if the prosecutor can demonstrate a pattern of behavior? Yeah, I might end up with a year, and that long inside means my business suffers. And that’s unacceptable.

My head is still spinning from the phone call, but I’m working when I spot the scumbag that owes me twenty-three G’s sliding out the back door of the strip club and into the alley, and my instincts take over.

He thinks he’s slipped under my radar but see that’s the trick. With some of these fuckers, you come after them right away the first time they’re late, give them another deadline. Then, when they don’t show, you just hang back.

Let them think I’m soft. Giving them some wiggle room.

Fuck wiggle room. I’m stalking them like a cheetah on an antelope. Slow. Methodical.

Let them sniff the air. Look around. See nothing. Feel safe. Go back to chomping the grass.

Then.

BAM.

I’ve got them by the jugular, and there’s no room for escape.

I take one more minute to clear my head as the idea of being a father sinks in. Then I flex my neck listening to the bones crack and pop, shove the nine-millimeter into the back of my pants, pull my olive army jacket on and make sure my six-inch switchblade is slipped into the correct pocket. Then, just for good measure, I slide my stainless-steel knuckles over the fingers of my right hand.

The outline of the figure slinks down the alley as I get out of the truck and go to take care of my business, wondering how the fuck they even got my phone number.

I shake my head, unsure about so many things at the moment, but knowing I have to push it aside. There is business to take care of.

NICCI

I REACH OVER TO SQUEEZE Beth’s hand as the doctor comes back through the curtain, frowning over the top of his glasses.

I may be sick. I may have to have surgery.

But the illness it’s what’s at the forefront of my mind.

It’s my father. The man I’ve never met. The man who doesn’t know I exist.