call the cops. Dean had lots of contacts in the department but his street cred would take a hit if they responded to a call and saw—and smelled—the lube. Amy so deserved an ass paddling for that.
“Well, see that you do, and if Mizz Copeland is going to entertain this late she’d better watch where people park and ensure they don’t hang around. This is a nice neighborhood.”
Dean traversed the distance between him and the other man, grabbing the phone and tossing it onto the lawn. He hauled the prick up by the collar and shook him. “Watch your mouth, got me?” When the man’s bravado leaked out like air from a pricked balloon and he nodded, Dean shook him again. “You give Miss Copeland any trouble, I’ll finish it. Got it?”
He released the asshole, shoving him backwards. Little Hitler’s arms flailed to catch his balance. He hustled away around the corner and Dean swung up into his truck. Knowing the wipers would just smear the lube, he turned them on anyway, plying the wiper fluid switch until it cleared enough of a path for him to see through. He drove home immersed in the smell of fruit, wishing he’d put the stuff to better use.
As he parked, a shape flowed out of the shadows, punctuated by the glowing coal of a cigarette. Olsen. The only man in his crew who smoked. Maybe he was grabbing a cigarette outside in deference to Dean’s recent threat to make him paint the fucking walls in his unit because of what his habit was doing to them.
The man sniffed. “You hit somethin’?” It was surprising he could smell anything past the nicotine.
“Other way around.” Dean left Olsen to puzzle that one out and climbed the steps to his condo, noting with satisfaction the turn that made the property more easily defensible, creating a bottleneck, a choke point, should people want to hit him at home. He had an exit through the bottom level, too, one that few knew about. The rest of his crew lived in the complex, making for additional resources, should he require them. The day would come when he’d put this life behind him, but it was a vague date in the future and he had work to do first. It all came down to one important coup.
Getting himself a beer from his enormous fridge, he pulled his boots off and leaned back on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. He looked around his home, decorated by some firm Randy had chosen, and compared it to the little place he’d just left. He wondered , if he had decorated, chosen his own furniture, colors, if it would reflect his personality. It was presently a wickedly expensive, if tasteful, high-end way station, a place to sleep and hole up. He never cooked here, rarely had people over, and his bedroom featured a big comfortable bed and a place to store his clothes. An altogether sad commentary on a home, and a marked contrast to his childhood one, at least physically. Neither nurtured his soul.
Marsha Chambray had no time for her son, pawning him off on her mother soon after she pushed him out, unable to spare the time from her pursuit of the drug of her choice. He had a few vague memories of a nice, old gramma, holding him on her lap and reading to him in a broken mixture of English and French, cooking him rich and tasty meals. Kissing him goodnight and making him say his prayers. But she died and his mother came for him, the new family allowance monies the impetus of her newfound maternal drive. She could expand her horizons with the extra cash. As her looks faded, assaulted by the bottle or two of vodka she drank like water every day, supplementing her income with whoring also dried up.
Dean scrambled up on his own from around age four, rejected and rebuffed by the person he needed the most, and he understood it inhibited his emotional expression and made him insistently independent. Once he attended school, he no longer needed her for anything, getting his fix from a constant turnover of strangers and a few regulars.
All the horror stories of Catholic
“Well, see that you do, and if Mizz Copeland is going to entertain this late she’d better watch where people park and ensure they don’t hang around. This is a nice neighborhood.”
Dean traversed the distance between him and the other man, grabbing the phone and tossing it onto the lawn. He hauled the prick up by the collar and shook him. “Watch your mouth, got me?” When the man’s bravado leaked out like air from a pricked balloon and he nodded, Dean shook him again. “You give Miss Copeland any trouble, I’ll finish it. Got it?”
He released the asshole, shoving him backwards. Little Hitler’s arms flailed to catch his balance. He hustled away around the corner and Dean swung up into his truck. Knowing the wipers would just smear the lube, he turned them on anyway, plying the wiper fluid switch until it cleared enough of a path for him to see through. He drove home immersed in the smell of fruit, wishing he’d put the stuff to better use.
As he parked, a shape flowed out of the shadows, punctuated by the glowing coal of a cigarette. Olsen. The only man in his crew who smoked. Maybe he was grabbing a cigarette outside in deference to Dean’s recent threat to make him paint the fucking walls in his unit because of what his habit was doing to them.
The man sniffed. “You hit somethin’?” It was surprising he could smell anything past the nicotine.
“Other way around.” Dean left Olsen to puzzle that one out and climbed the steps to his condo, noting with satisfaction the turn that made the property more easily defensible, creating a bottleneck, a choke point, should people want to hit him at home. He had an exit through the bottom level, too, one that few knew about. The rest of his crew lived in the complex, making for additional resources, should he require them. The day would come when he’d put this life behind him, but it was a vague date in the future and he had work to do first. It all came down to one important coup.
Getting himself a beer from his enormous fridge, he pulled his boots off and leaned back on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. He looked around his home, decorated by some firm Randy had chosen, and compared it to the little place he’d just left. He wondered , if he had decorated, chosen his own furniture, colors, if it would reflect his personality. It was presently a wickedly expensive, if tasteful, high-end way station, a place to sleep and hole up. He never cooked here, rarely had people over, and his bedroom featured a big comfortable bed and a place to store his clothes. An altogether sad commentary on a home, and a marked contrast to his childhood one, at least physically. Neither nurtured his soul.
Marsha Chambray had no time for her son, pawning him off on her mother soon after she pushed him out, unable to spare the time from her pursuit of the drug of her choice. He had a few vague memories of a nice, old gramma, holding him on her lap and reading to him in a broken mixture of English and French, cooking him rich and tasty meals. Kissing him goodnight and making him say his prayers. But she died and his mother came for him, the new family allowance monies the impetus of her newfound maternal drive. She could expand her horizons with the extra cash. As her looks faded, assaulted by the bottle or two of vodka she drank like water every day, supplementing her income with whoring also dried up.
Dean scrambled up on his own from around age four, rejected and rebuffed by the person he needed the most, and he understood it inhibited his emotional expression and made him insistently independent. Once he attended school, he no longer needed her for anything, getting his fix from a constant turnover of strangers and a few regulars.
All the horror stories of Catholic
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