“You're gonna do what I tell you to do, bitch,” the man snaps. “Now, shut up.”
“You shouldn't be so disrespectful,” I say. “Trust me, you really, really shouldn't be so disrespectful. She's a lady. Treat her like one.”
The man's eyes narrow as he looks at me and a dark expression crosses his face. “And maybe, you shouldn't be tellin' me how to talk to my girlfriend.”
“Harry,” the woman says, sitting up on the couch. “I ain't a whore. I ain't gonna blow somebody just because you tell me to.”
I hold up my hands. “Let's just – forget that,” I say. “That's not even a consideration. That is off the table, so there is no use discussing it.”
“You're a whore,” the man says, not even paying attention to me. “And you're gonna do what I fuckin' tell you to do.”
The woman gets to her feet and the crack of her slapping him across the face reaches my ears a split second before I realize what she's done. Harry's face grows red. The expression of rage on his face is making him look absolutely pig-like, and I have to stifle the chuckle in my throat.
But the tension in the room increases dramatically and the air around us is saturated with the promise of violence. I know I need to do something to defuse the situation and get us back on track. But that thought comes a moment too late.
“You fuckin' bitch,” Harry howls.
He reaches back and punches the woman in the face. Given his weight – and her lack of it – when his fist connects with her nose, it sends her flying backward. She crashes into a table and falls down, landing on her butt. Her face is a bloody mess and she holds her hands up to her obviously broken nose, her eyes wide, and tears streaming down her cheeks. Harry with his fist still raised, the woman's blood on his knuckles, takes a few menacing steps toward her.
“You do what I –”
Harry never finishes that statement because I'm on him in an instant. My first blow is a shot to the gut that doubles him over, leaving him gasping for air. My second shot clocks him in the ear and drops him to his knees. Reaching down, I grab him by what remains of his hair and pull his head back, a dark rage surging through me.
“Boss.”
I hear Miguel's voice, but it sounds like it's a thousand miles away. As if he's speaking to me from the other end of a long tunnel. I drive my fist into Harry's face and hear his nose snap. And the sight of the blood spilling down his face seems to inflame the rage burning in me.
I drive my fist into his fat, greasy face again. And again. And again. I feel hands on me, see Miguel's face as he struggles to pull me away. I fight to break free. To get back at the man again. But both Don and Miguel put themselves between me and him. Miguel puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye.
“Easy, Rob,” he says – which strikes me as unusual, because he never calls me by my name. “Take it easy, man. It's all good. Just settle down.”
I take a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly, and try to regain my composure. I close my eyes and let my mind go to the place I send it when I need to calm down – that one perfect day I spent with my family so long ago.
Slowly, I come back to myself and feeling a little more in control, I open my eyes. Miguel, his hands still on my shoulders, is staring back at me.
“You okay, boss?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice.
I hesitate a moment and the nod. “Yeah, all good,” I say.
Miguel looks at me a moment longer and then nods, patting me on the shoulders. “All good.”
He steps aside, and I see Harry sprawled out on the ground, blood pouring from his face. Annie is sobbing, cradling his head in her lap. She looks up at me with eyes blazing with hatred.
“Get the fuck out of here,” she growls. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I take a step forward and feel Miguel tense up beside me – probably expecting me to go after Harry again. I hold up my hands to show him I'm cool and that I'm not going to go off the deep end.
“When he wakes up,” I say, straining to keep my voice calm. “You tell your boyfriend that I want my money. The money he owes me. All of it. I don't care how he does it, but he's got a week to get it. If he doesn't get it, we'll be back. Now, nod if you understand.”
Annie hesitates a moment and then nods. She wipes away the tears on her face and looks up at me, genuine fear in her eyes.
“W – what if he can't get it?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Let's not think about that,” I say. “Tell him to do whatever it takes to get me my money.”
Annie nods again and looks back down at her unconscious boyfriend, stroking his hair. I stand up and turn to leave, but at the doorway, I stop and turn back.
“And honestly, you really should get away from him,” I say. “He's nothing but bad news. Find some self-respect and get yourself cleaned up. You'll be doing yourself a huge favor.”
She sniffs and looks at me through red, puffy, tearful eyes. I can see that she's a woman lost. A woman with no direction, no hope – and no real chance to make any substantive changes to her life. Even if she wanted to. I pull a business card out of my jacket and set it on a table that sits next to the door.
“If you ever want to get yourself cleaned up and on the right track,” I say, “call me. But only call me if you're serious about it.”
I turn and leave the apartment, using my handkerchief to wipe Harry's blood off my knuckles, wanting nothing more than a shower and a drink.
Chapter Two
Landon
Manhattan
Her music really isn't my thing, but I can see that she's got talent. More importantly, the crowd around me is enjoying what they're hearing. Which is a good thing. A lively crowd means more money in tips, more gigs around the city – and that all translates into dollars. And that's what this hustle called life is all about – the dollars.
I feel like I stumbled into a gold mine when I met her. I mean, there she was, sitting on a subway platform, just playin' her guitar and singin' away. I stopped to watch for a minute – though, I was more focused on the crowd and how they reacted to her. They stood there, completely transfixed, and when she ended her song, the burst of applause and cheers was almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the train going by. And then, of course, came the rain of coins and bills into her guitar case.
And when I saw that, I knew this girl was going to be a very solid investment. And it doesn't hurt that she's a fuckin' knockout to boot. Strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes that shine, a tight little body that has plenty of curves in all the right places, smarts, charm to spare, and a sweet little Georgia peach accent, to go along with that talent – she's the whole fuckin' package.
And I know that she's gonna punch my ticket and make me a goddamn fortune.
“Landon,” Pete says as he sits down at the table next to me. “I don't know where you found this one, but this one's a keeper. Look at this. Look at this crowd she brings in.”
Pete is the owner of The Grind. It's a popular coffee house here in Chelsea – a regular hipster haven. Pete's a middle-aged guy, a Greek immigrant, who's been in New York a long time. He's a good guy, but a little old school in his thinking. He's a man set in his ways, to say the least.
It took me a long time to get him with the times. Even longer to convince him to start up an open mic night. Not that I have any real interest in Pete's business, but open mic nights are a good way to score some fast cash. Not to mention that if Pete hires one of my acts on as a regular, it gives me another source of revenue.
I've always got irons in the fire. Wheels in motion. I was born to hustle and I'm damn good at it.
“So, what do you say, Pete?” I ask. “Make her a regular feature here? Like you say, she brings in a hell of a crowd.”
Pete nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Fridays at seven.”
“Just Fridays?” I ask. “C'mon, Pete.”
“To start,” he says. “We'll see if she can keep bringing people in. If she can, she'll get another day.”
I sigh but nod. “Fair enough. We still cool at two-fifty a show then?”