02-02-2018, 05:38 PM
Ivan looked at the drive next to the glass like it might bite. He didn't want to reach for it. His heart raced now. He could feel the sedative's effects wearing off slightly.
Or maybe it was the adrenaline in his blood. Her words cut him to the heart. No. They filled it with fear.
He didn't want the drive. He didn't want to see the drive. He didn't want to see whatever was on it.
He was ready to take the fall for his stupidity with Nox. His mistake. Whatever. He'd take the hit. Lose his job. Pension. She wasn't doing him a favor.
My father. Memories of them working together on the car, lying on the street underneath, pops pointing out the drive shaft, the transmission, the breaks, the oil pan, the suspension, the purpose of each. Leaning into the engine to point out plugs and oil filter and timing belt, alternator and fuel pump and fuel injection.
The smell of oil and grease on his hands, the black under his nails. The strong orange smelling gritty feeling of GoJo finally making his hands feel truly clean.
His pops. His best friend in the whole world. The guy who talked to him about girls. Who showed him how to kick a goal. Who helped with his school work. Who would sit and watch the game, yelling at the screen. Who'd taken him out for his first beer, sitting together at the bar, feeling so proud to be a man, hanging out with his dad and his friends.
His pops, laid up in the hospital, tubes coming out of mouth and throat, the beeps of the machines, mama crying, the little ones crying, and his whole world threatening to end right then and there because he is not ready to lose his anchor.
And the anger built in him. This fucking bitch had had his dad shot. To teach him fucking a lesson. If he lived. And Ivan vowed before God and Jesus and all the Holy Saints: She would pay. No matter the cost. She would pay. All of them would. Whatever this was. Whoever these people thought they were, he would make sure.
Even if it meant killing.
So her words flowed over him. He would do what she asked (as if he had a choice.) But he knew what this was. Start small. Easy. Almost too easy. He was willing to bet that the picture that caught his dad escorting their man was not accidentally taken. Easy peasy. Then another job. And another. And after a while, he'd be in.
Well, let her think what she liked. He would play her game. But he would find a way out. Protect his family and be out.
He was well enough to stand. He swiped the drive. He wasn't sure he'd look at it. If his father had been with them....he had a reason. That much was obvious. Good men didn't get into bed with snakes like this woman. She'd said as much. Threatening the family. Him, his mom. He'd wanted out, later. And he gets shot.
You don't do that to dirty cops. You do that to cops you have over a barrel.
Just nodded at her. "I'll take care of it,"
he said, voice dead. She wasn't stupid. It would be for him to underestimate her. She had to know what he was thinking. Still, he wouldn't waste his breath with threats or protestations either.
That didn't mean that he wouldn't find a way free of them. He had to. Had to keep his family safe.
He went to the car and just sat there, the stink of the body spray from fucking Pol still filling the car, cloying and heavy. Suddenly he felt sick, and opened the door to puke his guts out. It helped a little despite the bile burning in his throat and the taste in his mouth. A little better, anyway.
Finally, he drove. Not home. His home that is. He went home home. He had to see his mama, to hug her. He had to see his dad. And his brother and sister. Make sure they were ok.
And talk with his dad. He wasn't looking forward to it. He took out the drive, looked at it. He thought about crushing it. He wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
Or maybe it was the adrenaline in his blood. Her words cut him to the heart. No. They filled it with fear.
He didn't want the drive. He didn't want to see the drive. He didn't want to see whatever was on it.
He was ready to take the fall for his stupidity with Nox. His mistake. Whatever. He'd take the hit. Lose his job. Pension. She wasn't doing him a favor.
My father. Memories of them working together on the car, lying on the street underneath, pops pointing out the drive shaft, the transmission, the breaks, the oil pan, the suspension, the purpose of each. Leaning into the engine to point out plugs and oil filter and timing belt, alternator and fuel pump and fuel injection.
The smell of oil and grease on his hands, the black under his nails. The strong orange smelling gritty feeling of GoJo finally making his hands feel truly clean.
His pops. His best friend in the whole world. The guy who talked to him about girls. Who showed him how to kick a goal. Who helped with his school work. Who would sit and watch the game, yelling at the screen. Who'd taken him out for his first beer, sitting together at the bar, feeling so proud to be a man, hanging out with his dad and his friends.
His pops, laid up in the hospital, tubes coming out of mouth and throat, the beeps of the machines, mama crying, the little ones crying, and his whole world threatening to end right then and there because he is not ready to lose his anchor.
And the anger built in him. This fucking bitch had had his dad shot. To teach him fucking a lesson. If he lived. And Ivan vowed before God and Jesus and all the Holy Saints: She would pay. No matter the cost. She would pay. All of them would. Whatever this was. Whoever these people thought they were, he would make sure.
Even if it meant killing.
So her words flowed over him. He would do what she asked (as if he had a choice.) But he knew what this was. Start small. Easy. Almost too easy. He was willing to bet that the picture that caught his dad escorting their man was not accidentally taken. Easy peasy. Then another job. And another. And after a while, he'd be in.
Well, let her think what she liked. He would play her game. But he would find a way out. Protect his family and be out.
He was well enough to stand. He swiped the drive. He wasn't sure he'd look at it. If his father had been with them....he had a reason. That much was obvious. Good men didn't get into bed with snakes like this woman. She'd said as much. Threatening the family. Him, his mom. He'd wanted out, later. And he gets shot.
You don't do that to dirty cops. You do that to cops you have over a barrel.
Just nodded at her. "I'll take care of it,"
he said, voice dead. She wasn't stupid. It would be for him to underestimate her. She had to know what he was thinking. Still, he wouldn't waste his breath with threats or protestations either.
That didn't mean that he wouldn't find a way free of them. He had to. Had to keep his family safe.
He went to the car and just sat there, the stink of the body spray from fucking Pol still filling the car, cloying and heavy. Suddenly he felt sick, and opened the door to puke his guts out. It helped a little despite the bile burning in his throat and the taste in his mouth. A little better, anyway.
Finally, he drove. Not home. His home that is. He went home home. He had to see his mama, to hug her. He had to see his dad. And his brother and sister. Make sure they were ok.
And talk with his dad. He wasn't looking forward to it. He took out the drive, looked at it. He thought about crushing it. He wanted to.
God, he wanted to.