Debt, page 2
“Pfft, you’re telling me you weren’t thinking of him that way?”
My skin goes hot. “No,” I lie.
“Yeah right. You were ready to go down on him out on the parking lot.”
“Was not.”
“Were too.”
Logan.
“English,” she says. “More than that the bartender wouldn’t tell me. But likely unmarried. And if he is, who gives a shit?”
“I give a shit. I don’t do married guys.”
“Oh, right. And you don’t do guys on the first night. They have to take you out to dinner at least. We’ve been on the road two weeks and you still haven’t bagged a man.”
“Have too.”
“Touching isn’t bagging.”
“Who says all we did is touch?”
“I say it. I know.” She fixes a glare at me. “Did you do anyone?”
I don’t answer.
My eyes drift to the paper in my hands, as if the paper is the lines on Muscle Man Logan’s skin, the sweat glistening off of it as he pummeled Cowboy Man into the ground. Cowboy Man (Silas) was down after the first crack, but this Logan just kept going, and going, and going...
“Looks like a fighter,” Vera says. “Did you see those moves?”
Of course I did.
Logan.
Vera looks over at me. “Damn, you are horny.”
I consider throwing the paper at her, but who knows when I’d get it back. I pocket it. “Am not.”
Vera says nothing, but out the corner of my eye, I catch her smiling.
-5-
We decided to hit the road for the summer, me and her, hitting the bars and seeing what we could find. We’ve been at it for fourteen days. Vera’s slept with close to that many men. Me? Not one. It’s just not my style anymore. And there’s no chance for wining and dining when you’re in a town for only a day or two.
The road trip was a last-minute idea. You might say it started with Vince Somerset, a guy from WRU I hooked up with and who I got a little too close to for my comfort. But not only that, he got a little...possessive. I broke my personal rule, not dating anyone from campus. Hell, I broke my rule of just not dating.
And then there was Rory Cansoom, Vera’s ex. As in, they haven’t dated in over a year. As in, the dude is still hanging around despite the fact he’s walked in on her in bed with three other guys (not at the same time) and still has hopes of her coming back to him because she is ‘the only true love of my life.’
Dude’s a little clingy. And a little scary.
Rory and Vince are different in so many ways. Rory is patrician, well-groomed, is probably sitting at the Club House with a whiskey in his hands right now. And Vince is middle-class, big, burly, took a fair amount of steroids in his life.
But they’re both exactly the same in another way: freaking obsessive to the point of needing a restraining order.
I was clear with Vince from the outset. I don’t date guys from campus, I don’t fall in love, and I’m not looking for a relationship. One night, that’s it. Maybe two. It ended up being three months, on and off.
It was rough.
I’m playing it down, I really am. There was the time Vince cracked our apartment door open demanding to talk to me. Yes, cracked it off the bolt, telling me I should damn well take his calls or I wouldn’t be safe in my own home.
Vera maced him, which was probably not a good idea because Vince is huge and he had the rage inside him then, but she has my back. Fortunately, thankfully, Vince had at least one brain cell left and didn’t attack her. Neither Vera nor I had been sure if he would up to that point.
We called the cops. They came over. Vince was gone by then. Someone corroborated his story (his sister, and she gave him an alibi), no one saw him coming in or going, so it was his and his sister’s word against ours.
The cop suggested getting a restraining order. He explained the process, the evidence needed, and that it didn’t look good if Vince had an alibi. I could tell the cop didn’t believe Vince’s story, but there was little he could do about it.
I did file for one. I got a temporary one for fourteen days, and then there was the hearing. I lost. “Not enough evidence,” the judge said.
Vera and I took self-defense lessons after that. Krav Maga. Bad-ass shit which basically teaches you how to rip a dude’s eyes out or how to smash his cock into pulpy goo if he tries something on you. It’s good shit. I highly recommend it.
We considered getting a gun and keeping it in the house, you don’t even need a permit for it in Florida, totally different to New York where I’m originally from. But Vera and I both agreed that the last thing we needed was to have the gun wrested from our grips and then we got shot with it ourselves.
Damn it, there was more with Vince, so much more. But I’m trying to get away from that shit on this road trip, so I’m gonna stop talking about him now.
As for Rory? Hell, he’s a whole other kettle. He’s not a damn kettle, he’s a gold-spooned kettle with lace on the handle. Well-bred, think he’s all that, can’t take no, figures anyone can be bought (or, in Vera’s words, ‘that any pussy can be bought’) with rings and necklaces and gold watches. I’m all for gifts (and so is Vera, very much so) but I can’t take disrespect. I mean, if a girl doesn’t wanna go down on you, she doesn’t wanna go down on you! This pissed Rory off, like he owned her. Vera has no problems going down on guys, and gives me full and descriptive details every time she does. But Rory kind of expected it as a duty of hers.
Which ironically was where me and Vince hit the rocks as well. So different, and so the same.
Vera got sick of it. A year ago. And Rory’s still trying to get it on with her, rubbing her up at school, following her.
Vera and I figured some time away would not only be good for us, but good for them, let them clear their heads, let them get horny as hell and find some other girls to do them. Beaches are full of desperate women.
Our next stop is Nashville for the CMA. Vera bought tickets for it two years ago and it was a good excuse to turn a one week trip into a three-month one. Vera’s not big on country music. She wouldn’t be able to spot a bestselling country musician if he hit her with his guitar. Me neither. But she’s big on country boys. Me too.
We park the car and walk into the mob of CMA fans, cowboy hats on, bottoms of female asses peeking out from under Daisy Dukes, dudes with ink, chicks with ink, fat people, thin people, but all of them, all of them showing skin. Even when they shouldn’t be.
Vera jumps into a bar and grabs a beer, starts eying someone out who’s quickly at her side, and paying for her second one.
I’m laying low, or trying to, but soon there’s a guy next to me, tall, dark hair, brown eyes. Stetson. Smiling. And he says, “Watchooo drinkin, honey?”
Do I look like his honey?
Sounds innocent enough, but the tone in his voice says something else. It says, I’m buying you a drink, then I’m gonna spread yo legs and put mah mamma-jamma inside you, because I’m such a goddayam hot kahhboy that all mah wohmen love me.
I fight not to roll my eyes.
~Two~
Logan
-1-
“Should’ve kept your nose out of it, Logan.” I wince as Jenny tapes my knuckles together. “They’re not broken,” she says. “But you’re not gonna be able to fight for a few weeks.”
I cock an eyebrow at her.
“A few weeks,” she insists.
“We wear gloves.”
“Hardly. You’ll feel it the next time you hit someone.”
“Then I’ll kick him.”
She huffs out a breath.
Jenny, Doctor Jennifer Sanders, is a truly attractive woman. Older, early thirties. She and I had a thing once, very brief, very beautiful. But I think she realized what an asshole I was and got out before I did something stupid. I’m glad she did, because I like her, and I would have hated to lose her as a friend. We had been friends before we slept together. She was the first of us (thank goodness) to realize we’d overstepped a boundary.
But every time I’m with her, I can’t help but wonder if she still doesn’t feel something for me, the way her eyes glance down at me sometimes, her pauses as she speaks, the effort to remain professional when giving me medical care. But I’m wrong for her. Hell, I’m wrong for lots of women.
“Was it a girl?” she asks.
I don’t comment.
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“She was cute.”
Jenny folds her arms. My, she looks fine in that white coat with the stethoscope running down her chest. If only her skirt showed more leg... “Logan, focus.”
“I am focusing.”
“On my legs.”
“And? You didn’t say what I should focus on.”
Her lip twitches. At least I can get this much out of her. “When’s your next bout?”
I flex my fingers. They hurt like a bloody bastard. It was dumb, dumb to keep hitting him bare-fisted. I should’ve left him after the first kick but it felt good to feel that punk’s nose crunch under my hand. I’d seen him eyeing me as I left the bar. But worse, I had gotten a feeling as I’d left, some terrible, horrible feeling about the guy.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, sorry, phased out.”
“When?”
“This weekend.”
Jenny stands there, dark hair looking like a mane of magic down her shoulder. “You can’t fight, Logan.”
“I can fight.” I get off the bed. “And I will fight.” I grab my jacket. “I need the money, Jen.”
“I’ll loan you the money.”
“You know I don’t borrow.”
“Not even for a few weeks? I’m not talking about the full amount, Logan.”
“If I can breathe, I can fight. I don’t like debts.”
“Not even from your friends?”
Her words sting, and I can’t bring myself to answer.
“I can’t see you doing this to yourself, Logan. And those fights...those fights...”
“They’re illegal, yes.”
“That’s not what I mean. But, yes, which means they have no rules.”
“They have rules.”
“Which rarely get enforced.”
I take a step closer to her. I’m reminded of the last time I did it, and how I slid my hands under her coat, and then up to her breasts.
It was a mistake. I should never have taken advantage of her. “I haven’t lost in a long time.”
She shakes her head. “How much more do you need to go?”
“A bit.”
“How much?”
“A lot, OK?”
Jenny looks at my feet. She takes a deep breath and the swell of her chest forces me to look away. “Is she at least getting good grades?”
She. My little sister. “She’s getting great grades.”
“If you told her what you’re doing to pay for her, she might get even better ones.”
“If I told her, Jen, she’d leave school. And we can’t have that.” I put my hand on her shoulder, bring her closer to me. Hug her.
Jen trembles as her arms wrap themselves around my waist. “This is such a fuck-up,” she says. “You guys... Your whole family. The whole—”
“It’s not your problem.”
“It is my problem. Because I...” She pulls back from me. “I love you, OK? And don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not throwing myself at you. Hell, I’d push you away if you ever made a move on me...again. But, well, I do love you. And...” She squeezes her temples. “God, I’m always such a wreck when you’re here.”
Jenny sees patients in her house. And she has a cottage in the back that I rent from her when I’m not on the road, which is hardly ever.
“I’m sorry, Jen. I’m sorry for—”
She puts her hand up. “Jesus, Logan, when will you stop apologizing for fucking me? It does nothing for a woman’s self-esteem. Besides, I knew you were trouble when you took me. And I still went to bed with you.” She bites her lip. Her eyes travel down my body. She shrugs, smirking now. “Yeah, well... It was fun.” And then she’s serious again, reminiscing is over. She fixes a glare on me. “I care for you, OK? I know you better than most people. I know why you fight. I know what happened to put you in this position, and it sucks. It sucks. I just wish... I just wish there was a better way, Logan. You’re a good man.”
“I’m no good man.”
“Shut up, damn it. You’re a good man. And if something happened to you...”
“Nothing’s gonna happen to me.”
“Ah, Christ.” She turns, shuffles some papers. “Where?”
“Nashville. CMA. Lots of paying public at this time of year.”
She turns her head to face me. “And lots of cops.”
“Cops have never been a problem.”
“Who you fighting?”
I look at my bandaged knuckles.
“Logan?”
I swallow hard, not wanting to tell her. But she’ll get it out of me some way. “Juergen Kaiser.”
Jen’s face goes pale, but I’ll hand it to her, she’s composing herself well. Better than I do when I think of it.
“You’re in Vito’s circle again?”
“No. Kaiser has a vendetta against me, so he’s reducing himself to my league to get his payback.”
“But there’s big money in it,” she says, almost as a voiced thought. “Kaiser wouldn’t fight for peanuts, vendetta or not.”
“It’ll go a long way in paying for Ailee’s college if I win, yes.”
Her self-composure finally breaks when she utters what I’m thinking. She utters it slowly, quietly, almost as a whisper. “Fuck.”
-2-
I was raised in the slums of London. It took years for me to get rid of my accent. Not the English accent, the Slumlish. Nobody in America could understand me. Hell, no one in England could understand me either.
My dad died when I was seventeen. He was murdered. Far as I can tell, he brought it on himself. My sister was thirteen. No one told her what really happened. Mum and I decided it would be best.
I grew up fighting, street-style. In my neighborhood, you either fought, or you were killed. By the time I was fourteen I could take on most kids three or four years older than me. By the time I was seventeen, I was deadly.
Dad worked in a factory and although his income wasn’t great, it was what we needed to get by. When we couldn’t get by, dad did favors.
I only discovered this later.
Mom cleaned houses. But her health was deteriorating, and so even the house cleaning became irregular.
We needed cash after he died—desperately.
Morty was selling dope already then, and raking it in as a result. He and I had hung with the same crew since we were kids. People used to say Morty and I were once best friends, but if we were, no one told us. We were mates, acquaintances, getting up to the same shit together, until Morty got into the business of doing favors as well.
Drugs are not my thing, they ruin too many lives. Let me tell you that it’s a tough moralistic decision to stick by when your sister needs to go to the dentist and your mother’s skipping on her meals so her daughter (and son) can eat.
I started skipping meals too. And when you’re hungry, you’ll do anything for cash.
It wasn’t long before I dropped out of school.
I found a way to make money lifting boxes and doing piece-work at various construction sites. It wasn’t enough. But eventually I managed to cover my sister’s dental bills and bring home a few extra cuts of meat for the day.
Morty came over one day, flustered, upset. He banged on our door and, when I opened, he told me my dad owed his dad a favor, and it was up to me to cover that debt. He said he had hoped I’d come around on my own eventually, but it wasn’t happening, so now Morty was coming to me, and he was telling me it was my duty to cover my dad’s old debts.
“What debts?” I said.
Morty pulled out a brown package from his pocket. “The ones your father left behind.” Morty is real slum-talk, so it sounded like, Vah one you fahvver leff bee-yeind.
“My father’s dead. If he had any debts, they’re closed.” This is when it began to dawn on me how dad maybe brought those cuts of steak home himself.
Morty held the paper bag out, cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head. Then he insisted I take the package, and that I deliver it.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“You know what’s in it, fuckhead.” Ya-no woss ini’ fugg-ed.
Drugs.
I said I wasn’t gonna do it. If my dad had debts, they were his. And we were starting anew. I would see to it.
Morty laughed at me. “No one gets out of here, mate. No one. And if you do this for me now, I’ll pay you the going rate. If you come to me later, I won’t pay you nothing.” Nuffing.
I folded my arms, looked down at him.
He got edgy, nervous, said he’d promised the delivery that day and that I was obligated to carry on what my father had promised he’d keep doing for Morty and his dad.
“I know nothing of my father’s business, mate. So fuck off.”
Morty stood there, looking at me, chewing.
And then a sly grin appeared on his face. A sly, naughty, fuck-you grin.
He craned his neck, looked around my body. “How’s Ailee?” he said.
My fists tightened. “Leave my sister out of this.”
He looked up at me like a weasel. “Pretty pussy she’s got on her these days.”
“She’s thirteen years old, you cunt.”
“She go’ tits, mate. She go’ a fanny. I’m sure I could lick it wiff ’er screamin while annuvver puts a cock inside ’er—”
I snatched his neck and flung him to the wall. The brown paper bag fell. I heard a crack as his head hit the bricks, and Morty’s eyes rolled back.
But he was still smiling.
I wanted to kill him. I wanted to fucking slaughter him.
But I couldn’t. Not in this town. Morty had friends. And attacking Morty would only lead to repercussions.
Thirteen wasn’t old by my neighborhood’s standards, or by the standards of the guys (and girls) I hung out with. Most of the girls in the gangs were thirteen, fourteen. None of them virgins.
