Page 3 of Rebels & Rejects
I’ve spent the last week stalking him, and tonight, I made a point of bumping into him at a club on the outskirts of town. Most people avoid Black Creek like the plague, but you get plenty of middle and upper-class men—and women—who come here for the thrill; who think it’ll be fun to hang with the ruffians for a night. Our whores are dirtier than the high-class prostitutes, and there are plenty of bored middle-aged housewives who find some excitement in fucking a thug covered in tats.
It wasn’t difficult to coax him into taking a drive with me. Dressed in skin-tight leather pants that hug my ample curves and enhance my ass, along with a bralette that draws men’s eyes to my D cups, it was practically a sure thing. Add in a hushed whisper about how I wanted to choke on his cock, and he was almost coming in his pants as he escorted me out of the club.
I directed him to the docks, where I’d left my bike earlier. It was a piece of cake, distracting him with my tits and pussy as I ground against his dick until I could slip my gun out of my clutch and bash him over the head with it—I couldn’t very well blow his brains out all over the gorgeous leather interior and ruin a perfectly good car for Arnie.
The hardest part was dragging his heavy ass out of the car and over to the edge of the dock where I’d stashed my duffel bag, equipped with everything I needed to wipe the sorry sack of shit off the face of the earth for good. But once I’d finally managed it, getting him all wrapped up and into the water was a cinch. I didn’t even give him the courtesy of killing him first. The dark, sadistic part of me hopes the cold water startled him to consciousness, just in time for him to drown.
A sick sense of achievement warms me at that thought. It would be nothing less than he deserves. I’ll never understand a man's need to inflict violence on the very people they claim to love and should instinctively feel the need to protect. Does it honestly make them feel more manly to beat on people smaller and weaker than them? It’s the same pattern I’ve witnessed every day of my life. I grew up with it, and I’ve watched women and children around me be subjected to it, so there has to be some reasoning behind it. Just not one I’ll ever understand.
My thoughts move on to my to-do list for tomorrow. I have my regular meeting with Enzo and then work tomorrow night because, in this town, a girl needs to have multiple sources of income in order to get by.
The water is lukewarm by the time I drag myself out of it, wrapping a towel around me as I pull the plug before heading to my bedroom—which is really more of a box room. Suddenly feeling exhausted, I throw on some sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt and climb under the covers. I fall asleep to the satisfying thought that tonight there is one less abusive shitstain on the planet.
***
Strands of my still-damp hair whip around my face as I jog across the street. My electric cut out this morning, so I couldn’t blow dry my hair, which also meant the coffee machine wouldn’t work, and to top it all off, I forgot to set my alarm. So I’m running late, and all-in-all, I’m in a crabby mood by the time I arrive at G&T that afternoon for my monthly meeting with Enzo.
Beyond the paycheck, I never look forward to these meetings. They’re awkward and extremely uncomfortable. I always feel like I’m under a microscope with my every action and inaction being analyzed and cataloged for future examination. Something about Enzo just doesn’t sit right with me. Besides, I do not enjoy spending my free time in dingy bars with drunken assholes. I get enough of that at work.
The rickety door of the bar squeaks on its hinges as I pull it open and step into the dark interior. I’m immediately assaulted by the smell of stale cigarette smoke, sweat, and beer. It’s midday, but every seat at the bar is occupied with patrons talking in hushed whispers, staring absently into their drinks, or watching this afternoon's entertainment—an aged stripper dancing on the small stage at the side of the room.
I glance around the small, stuffy space, faintly aware of some song from the nineties playing from the ancient jukebox as I locate Enzo through the haze of smoke, sitting at a table for two at the back of the room. I make sure my resting bitch face is in place before striding towards him while ignoring the way the soles of my boots stick to the floor with every step.
“Where’s my money?” I demand once I’ve reached the table. The legs of the barstool scrape against the wooden floor as I pull it back, sliding onto the hard seat and fixing Enzo with a stony-faced expression.
“What, nohello, how ya doing?” Enzo asks, one side of his lip hooking up in a small grin that I think is supposed to be friendly, yet it doesn’t quite hit the mark. He’s a strange guy and probably not much older than me. He’s attractive with his dirty blond hair and striking green eyes, but there’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know if it’s his too clean appearance, the lack of desperation in his eyes, or the fact that he doesn’t leer at me the way everyone else does. I’m not big-headed. However in a town where everyone is stick and bones, my wide hips, round ass, and big tits definitely make a splash, regardless of how much I try to hide them. I gave up even trying a long time ago and learned to embrace my femininity, using it for my own gain. Whatever it is about him, though, he just stands out from everyone else in the bar, and everyone in Black Creek, for that matter. But he’s never made a wrong move toward me, and he does pay me handsomely for the tidbits of information I slide his way. “At least let me get you a drink.”
“No, thanks,” I reply bluntly. He’s always trying to get me to stay and have a drink with him, but this is nothing more than business to me, and it will remain that way.
He ignores me as he waves over a waitress, ordering two glasses of whiskey before focusing his apple-green eyes on me. Getting down to business, I pull an envelope out of the inner pocket of my leather jacket and hold it out for him to take.
He gives me one of his placating smiles, not making any move to take it from me. “How have you been?”
I sigh, dropping the envelope on the sticky bar table in front of him. It’s the same song and dance every time. Has been for the last seven years. I first met Enzo when I tried to steal his wallet. I was pretty damn good at it, so I’ve got no idea how he even knew I’d done it. I barely made it two steps before he grabbed me by the back of my shirt and threw me against a wall.
He looked absolutely furious, but after a second, some of the anger bled out of his expression, and he offered me an opportunity to earn the money instead. All I had to do was tell him anything I knew about a small street gang making moves on the old, abandoned docks at the time. I think they called themselves the Mad Dogz. Something stupid like that. They’re long gone now—no surprise there. Anyway, I didn’t know much. I’d overheard one of their members discussing their plans outside a bar down the road from the shelter I was staying at one night, and I relayed the information to Enzo. He seemed satisfied with what I knew and asked if I wanted the opportunity to earn more money. My shoulders slumped when he offered me that, assuming he was after a quick fuck or a blow job. It wasn’t the first time I’d been offered money for such an exchange. Nor would it have been the first time I’d accepted, but he shocked me when he told me I just had to keep my ear to the ground, and there’d be more money if I could tell him anything useful.
Since then, we have been meeting once a month, and I hand over any information I have. He no longer bothers to go through what’s in the envelope. He just hands over a wad of cash, asks a fuckton of personal questions, and goes on his merry way. I have no clue what he uses the information for—whether it’s for his own gain or sells it—nor do I give a shit. His money made it possible for me to get off the streets. It helped me survive when I had no other prospects and before I was old enough to get a job at one of the strip clubs—apparently, there is a very gray moral line even in Black Creek. The point is, the money he gave me every month prevented me from having to resort to less than savory actions just to get by, and for a fifteen-year-old girl, that meant everything.
“Fine,” I snap in answer to his question. I learned a long time ago it’s just easier to give him something small about my life.
He nods his head at my response. “Good. You’re being smart?”
“Always.”
“And no one’s giving you any trouble?”
I smirk. “Why? You gonna handle them for me if they are?”
He frowns, and something that makes him look ten times more deadly than half the thugs walking the street with their big-ass guns, flashes across his eyes before he blinks and it’s gone.
Ignoring whatever that was, I shake my head. “No, they aren’t. And even if they were, I can deal with them myself.”
Living on the streets for most of your childhood makes you scrappy in a fight, and after I watched a girl no older than myself kill a man with a single punch to his throat, I sought her out and made a deal for her to teach me a few things. The moves she showed me... were insane, and I get the impression what she did teach me had only been a very small part of her repertoire. Although we had built a tentative relationship, she was always reluctant to talk about how she became so proficient in the art of killing. Unfortunately, she rarely comes around to Black Creek now. Still, our shared pain—and the fact that we were both young females trying to survive in a male-dominated world—bonded us in a way that will last a lifetime.
The waitress returns with our drinks, and while I make no move to take mine, Enzo lifts it right out of her hands, frowning at the glass before lifting it to his lips. He stifles a grimace as the liquid burns its way down his throat. Just another red flag that—if I ever had the inclination to open up to him—he can’t be trusted. No one, and I meanno onein Black Creek, would screw up their nose at the taste of cheap whiskey. We grow up on the shit. We can down it like water, yet the bitter taste seemingly doesn’t appeal to this guy’s more refined palate.
Feeling annoyed and frustrated now, I snap out, “Money,” repeating the word with more force.