Owned by the Bad Boy(29)

I change lanes, noticing a brown sedan sliding into the same lane two cars down. I make a left, and then I slide two lanes over. The car follows.

Am I being tailed?

I drive for a couple miles before I’m certain of it.

Good luck following me, jackass.

I wonder if that cop is sitting in that car, hoping like hell I’ll make some minor traffic violation so that he can break my fucking balls. It takes me fifteen minutes to throw off the tail, and then I roll up to the pizza joint.

I park on the street and exit the car. It’s quiet for a Sunday afternoon. Needles prick the skin on my shoulders, and I whirl around. Nothing.

Ignoring the Closed sign on the glass door, I pull the handle. Locked. I glance down the streets again before sliding my handgun out of my jacket.

Gunshots are loud.

I grab an empty soda can littering the street and place it over the muzzle, and then I aim it at the door.

The bullet punches a hole right through the glass, the sound only slightly muffled by the can. Then the can clatters to the street and I slam my shoulder into the fractured glass. It peels away from the door in one giant sheet and I kick it down, just as an older man rushes into the small red-and-white-checkered diner. He’s a lean, stringy man and he wears the same kind of polos my dad always used to. And fuck if this place doesn’t remind me of my father.

“What the fuck—shit!”

I unlock the door by reaching inside. Then I shove it open, aiming the gun at his heart. The broom he carries clatters to the floor and he winces at the sound.

“Take whatever you want.”

His bloodless voice reverberates from his barrel-like chest, sounding exactly like my dad. The gun slips in my hand and I resist the urge to wipe it on my slacks.

“I’m here to take what’s owed to Johnny. You were supposed to make your first payment three weeks ago.”

I look at him. The resemblance is uncanny. Hell, he has the same nervous habit of touching his thumb to all his digits. It’s fucking weird. I’ve only known my father to do that.

My father’s face pales. “I don’t have the money.”

Fear runs through my joints like an electrical shock as my dad stares at me. This can’t be real—I can’t be really seeing this. I run my free hand over my face, ironing it hard, and the vision disappears.

Get angry.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s not my fault!” he wails, backing away as I walk closer.

I’ve heard it before so many times, and I don’t have the patience for it. I take a few strides forward, and he changes in the shadows made by the harsh lighting, like warped lines on a hot day. My muscles pump with blood, and I’m ready to smash my fist across his nose, but he looks like him again.

I’m losing my fucking mind.

“Don’t make me hurt you, goddamn it.”

“I—I need more time. Business is bad.”

“I don’t fucking care!”

“Luc, please!”

I hear him plead in my father’s voice. My brain buzzes. How much sleep have I gotten lately? The whole room seems to pulse with an overwhelming glow and he stands in the middle of it. A wave of panic rolls over me and I can’t breathe. I’m on the floor, arms pinned at my sides. I stare at some skinhead with a long beard. He carves up my cheek. The others hover around me, their sharpened weapons raised in their fists. The first one pierces through my chest, ripping through muscle. I’ve never felt so much pain in my life. Then another in my abs. Again and again. Blood flies everywhere, and I fade away. Wet punches. That’s what it sounds like. I’m dying. I’m panicking.

A guttural, moaning sound. My father—not my father—struggles for breath. My hands are locked around his neck. Squeeze. Kill. I don’t know where the hell my gun is—I just know that I’m on top of this guy.

Holy shit, what am I doing?

Shock makes me release his throat, and he breathes in deep, rattling gasps.

Jesus Christ.

I stand up and watch him writhe on the clean floor, desperately sucking down breaths that I took away from him. He takes a swing at me but I duck under his arm easily, sinking my fist right beneath his ribs. He makes a horrible gasping sound.

“Are you fucking serious?”

The man pants, clutching his chest as he raises an arm to defend himself. “Please don’t kill me!”

Johnny’s most likely going to torch this guy’s business.

“Please! I’ll get your money, I just need more time. Business has been slow.”

“You’re out of time.”

He breaks into noisy sobs and my anger dissipates into the air. Why did I have to call her? I turn my back on him as a sick feeling roils in my stomach, and I head out the front door.