My hair was long and blonde and in a tight ponytail when I went into Glamor Cuts.
An hour later, I emerged with jet-black hair cut into a messy shag that barely reached my collar.
I’d had my eyebrows dyed the same color as my hair.
I got in the car and adjusted the rearview mirror to look at myself. I barely recognized the girl staring back at me.
That was a good thing because she would not have been able to handle what I was about to do.
RICK
One of my legitimate businesses, at least according to the IRS, was a dive bar tucked in an alley off 8th Street called Dick’s Place. I’d bought the place from a guy named Dick (duh) three years ago and had never bothered to change the buzzing neon sign that hung over the front door.
Dick’s was in a rough part of town, one of those dark, musky places with low lighting, a lone pool table that leaned to one corner, and a dartboard with three darts with broken tips. It was the kind of place upstanding citizens wouldn’t dare set foot in for fear of getting their asses kicked or catching some disease from a dirty glass.
That said, Dick’s did a steady business, catering to the underbelly of society: low-life’s, crackheads, and drunks, worn out hookers and johns, petty criminals and wannabe gangsters.
Dick’s did not discriminate. If you had money to spend, we had watered-down shots and beer to serve.
Dick’s also had a strict no-bullshit policy.
Start any kind of bullshit inside Dick’s and you had to answer to me, and nobody wanted to do that; at least nobody who knew me.
I typically held court with my crew at Dick’s in a little curtained-off back room that had just enough space for a round table and six chairs.
We sat around and drank, shot the shit, played cards. It was forbidden to talk shop at Dick’s because I took for granted that the place was bugged.
The local cops and the feds had been on my ass for as long as I could remember. Members of my crew had been locked up for crimes that had nothing to do with me and none of them had ever flipped on me. They knew what would happen if they ratted out The Wright Brothers. No cop or fed would be able to protect them, Eddie would see to that.
Rick Wright had never spent a single day in jail and I planned to keep it that way, though I knew my freedom was directly tied to the intelligence and loyalty of those around me. That’s why I kept my inner circle small, consisting of only those few guys who had proven to me in the past that I could trust them completely.
I knew that it would take just one asshole with a big mouth to sink the ship I was captaining, so I kept the crew small and under my thumb. They didn’t do anything without me knowing about it or giving it my blessing. Although Eddie sometimes went rogue and had to be put back in line, the rest of the crew were as loyal and obedient as a pack of wolves.
That said, I was getting tired of being the leader of the pack.
I was tired of looking over my shoulder and sleeping with a gun under my pillow at night.
I had a plan that would get me out of this/ life soon.
One more big score and it was bye-bye Rick Wright.
You’ll never see this good-looking son of a bitch again.
Rick Wright was going to become a motherfucking ghost.
“Holy fucking shit, have you guys seen the bitch sitting at the end of the bar?”
I looked up from the lousy poker hand Eddie had dealt me to see Fats, the fattest guy on the crew (duh), standing in the doorway grabbing his crotch. He grunted like a pig in the mud. “Man oh man, what I’d do to that sweet ass bitch.”
All of a sudden it was like I was playing cards with a bunch of fucking horny teenagers. Eddie, Pete, and Ronnie fell all over each other to get to the door to peer out into the bar.
“Holy fucking shit is right,” Eddie said. “Who is she?”
“Don’t recognize her,” Skip said, peering over Eddie’s shoulder. “But I’d tap that ass.” He turned to me. “Rick, dude, you gotta see this bitch.”
I blew out a long breath and threw my cards on the table. I picked up my beer and pushed them out of the way to see the woman that had gotten all their cocks hard.
Sitting at the end of the bar, facing me, nursing a tequila shot, was a gorgeous piece of ass with hair so black it shined and a face that belonged to a fucking Victoria’s Secret model.
She was wearing a black tank top that was overflowing with cleavage. Her arms were toned. I could see tattoos on her upper arms shoulders, but couldn’t make out what they were from that distance. My shoulders and back are covered with tats. I regretted getting every one of them. They hurt like a motherfucker. And they were like scars. Once you had them, it was virtually impossible to get rid of them without a trace. I gave respect to any woman who could sit through the pain it took to get the amount of ink she had on her.