Prodigal Son Page 11

  Bug wasn’t exactly an adventurous eater, and to be honest, I hadn’t been either until I’d started the new job. Since then, I’d tried all sorts of things I’d never had before, and I was going to try a couple of new recipes that night. I’d also packed a secret ingredient in my purse — two sleeping pills, crushed up as fine as I could get them. I figured that I’d mix them with some whiskey before dinner, or just sprinkle them on Bug’s steak if all else failed. I just had to make sure I kept his plate separate from my own!

  I pulled into Bug’s drive and knew better than to expect him to help me carry stuff inside. I threw my backpack over my shoulder, not that I planned to spend the night, but I didn’t want Bug to know that. I grabbed the bags of groceries and headed inside.

  “Jesus, Christ,” Bug said as I set the groceries on the counter. “How long is dinner gonna take? I’m fuckin’ starving.”

  “Lovely to see you, too, darling,” I said, knowing that I was taking the risk of pissing Bug off, but unwilling to just let his rudeness slide.

  He must have realized that he’d really been rude. “It was nice of you to offer to cook dinner,” he mumbled as he left the kitchen.

  I was about to get dinner going when I looked at the sink and realized that it was completely full of dirty dishes. The fuck I was going to do them. I mixed up some cornbread, stirred in some finely chopped jalapeño and tomato, and put it in the oven to bake. I went outside, stepping over empty beer bottles on the back patio, and turned on the propane grill to let it warm up. The bagged salad I’d brought wouldn’t take more than a minute or two to throw together, so I figured I had a little time.

  I found Bug in the living room, watching a television show about Navy SEALS.

  “Want a drink?” I asked, hoping that I could knock him out sooner, rather than later.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  I laughed, even though I’d heard his lame attempt at a joke hundreds of times. “Whiskey or beer?”

  “Maker’s on the rocks, sweetheart,” he answered, without even looking away from the television.

  I saw the rest of my life spread out before me if I didn’t make some changes. I saw a man who called me “sweetheart” only when he wanted another drink, and then only if he was in a good mood. I saw bruises that he would tell me were my fault. I saw Bug unable to get it up until he could make me cry out in pain. I saw myself — dropping out of school to take care of Bug’s children and raising a son who would treat women as badly as Bug treated me. It was right at that moment — when Bug had actually said something halfway nice to me — that I knew I had to get out. One way or another, I had to force myself to walk away from Bug and find something better for myself.

  I wasn’t sure when, but I knew it had to happen.

  On my way back into the kitchen, I picked up the bottle of Maker’s Mark on the dining room table. I scanned the table top — not that anyone would ever be able to eat a meal on it, covered with junk mail and bills, most of which had past due notices in red ink at the top. If the mail was anything to go by, Bug’s money troubles sure weren’t getting any better.

  Pretty sure that nothing would separate Bug from the sofa other than a nuclear bomb, or perhaps the urge to pee, I fished the ziplock bag from my purse. I looked at the white powder and tried to decide how much to put in the drink. I wasn’t concerned about his safety; I knew that two sleeping pills wouldn’t kill him, even if I mixed them with whiskey. I was more worried that they would make the whiskey taste different and that he wouldn’t finish the drink. I needed him to drink more than a sip to knock him out.

  I grabbed a glass from the counter and put half of the powder in. If I had to, I’d fix him a second drink. I went to the freezer and opened it to find four empty ice cube trays and only two ice cubes in the bucket. I sighed, filled the empty trays, telling myself that I wouldn’t have to clean up after Bug for much longer, and I dropped the cubes in the glass. I topped it off with several ounces of whiskey, stirred it until the pill had completely dissolved, and headed back out to deliver my cocktail.

  I put the glass in Bug’s hand without a word and walked back outside to clean off the grill. I didn’t wait around for the thanks I knew I wouldn’t get. Grill scraped clean, I headed back inside to get the steaks, and I was pleased to see that the glass of whiskey was nearly half empty already. If I could get him drunk and sleepy quickly enough, I wouldn’t even have to bother trying to act like I wanted to sleep with him, a bonus for sure.

  Salad in bowls, mine with the caesar dressing that had come in the bag, Bug’s with ranch — the only dressing he would eat – I called into the living room. “Bug, dinner will be ready in five minutes. Where do you want to eat?”

  I knew what he’d answer, but I figured I’d give him a choice.

  “My show’s on, and besides, that table’s a fuckin’ mess,” he called back, like it was my fault he’d stacked all his junk on the table.

  “Coming right up, my lord and master,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Huh?” he hollered from the living room.

  “Ready in a minute,” I said as I went back out to get the steaks off the grill.

  I pulled my steak off when it was about medium and left Bug’s on longer, until I was certain he wouldn’t see any pink in the middle. I plated everything and carried Bug’s in to the living room. He hadn’t bothered to even set up the tray tables, so I set down his dinner, set up his table, and put his plate and salad bowl in front of him.

  He looked at the food. “What the fuck did you put in the cornbread?”

  “I added some fresh tomato and jalapeño. That’s the way we serve it at Falling Rock, and people love it.”

  Bug simply grunted, and I was actually surprised that he didn’t order me to remove it from his plate. Maybe the sleeping pill had chilled him out a little.

  “Enjoy,” I said as I headed back to the kitchen for my own food.

  The show on TV was about crazy people who hoard food and build shelters in their backyards to prepare for the end of the world.

  “I think these people know something, and the government’s trying to cover it up,” Bug said, with his mouth full of food.

  “Some cover[up,” I said. “It’s on television.”

  “Like you fuckin’ know,” he snorted. “You think you’re so smart just ‘cause you’re going to college, but you ain’t got no common sense.”

  I listened to Bug insult me while he chowed down on the dinner that I’d made him (and he hadn’t bothered to thank me for.)

  “You just wait. I’m gonna build me a shelter, and you’ll be the first one knocking on my door, beggin’ me to take you in when things go to hell.”

  I had no worries about the end of the world, and I knew for sure that Bug wasn’t actually going to get off his ass and do a fuckin’ thing about it. He’d been saying stuff like this for years, and he’d yet to lift a finger.

  “Really?” I asked, knowing that I shouldn’t, but unable to stop myself. “You’re going to build a shelter? With what money?” I knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. I never should have mentioned money.

  Bug’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking about money?”

  I hoped that I didn’t look as nervous as I felt. “Well, you’ve been bitching about how you don’t have any money, and now you’re going to start building a shelter? That just sounds a little crazy.”

  Bug stood up and nearly knocked over his tray table, steadying himself on the arm of the couch. He looked a little lightheaded, and I hoped like hell that the sleeping pill was working. He walked out of the room and into the kitchen, and I could hear him open the refrigerator and pull out a beer. I hear the sound of the bottle cap hitting the counter, where I was sure he’d expect me to pick it up later, and Bug walked slowly back into the room.

  “Krystal,” he said, in a low voice that gave me chills. “My money is none of your fuckin’ business. We ain’t married, and if we was, you still wouldn’t be privy to clu
b business. You hear me?”

  I wasn’t about to provoke him any further. “Yes.”

  He sat back down, and I suppressed a sigh of relief. He polished off his steak and most of his salad, leaving the cornbread (which was delicious, if I did say so myself) untouched. He finished off his beer, set it on the table, and announced that he was finished.

  I correctly interpreted his statement to mean that he wanted me to clear his dishes, so I left my half-eaten dinner there, while I moved his dirty dishes next to the sink.

  “Want another whiskey?” I called, hoping he would.

  “Yeah.”

  I emptied the last of the crushed sleeping pill into the glass, added whiskey and a splash of water, and brought it to him. “You’re out of ice. Those trays don’t fill themselves.”

  “Whatever,” he said, taking the glass and throwing back half of it in one long drink.

  I went back into the kitchen and put the dishes I’d used in the dishwasher, leaving all of the other dirty ones right were they’d been when I walked in. I took my time, and when I’d finished up as much cleaning as I was willing to do, I tiptoed into the living room, hoping to find Bug having trouble keeping his eyes open.

  Not only were his eyes closed, but his mouth was hanging open, snores starting to rival the television volume. Perfect. I could start my search.

  I went over to the dining room table and reached in all of the pockets of his leather jacket that he’d thrown over one of the chairs. Nothing. I quietly went into his bedroom, where I knew he stashed his weed and cash sometimes, and I went through all of the dresser and nightstand drawers. I did find weed, but no cash.

  “Goddammit,” I whispered. “Where would he have put it?”

  I realized that he may have stashed the money in the saddlebags of his bike, and the thought of touching his bike without permission nearly scared me to death. If my rent money was anywhere on that bike, though, I simply had to find it.

  Walking back through the living room, I was amused to see a little drool starting at the edge of Bug’s open mouth, and I hoped like hell that I had a few more minutes before he woke up. I hurried through to the kitchen and quietly let myself into the garage. The bike was there, of course, and I knew the keys would be in the ignition. I opened the saddlebags, and sure enough, there was my money. I didn’t stop to count it, but I shoved the roll of twenties into my pocket and got the hell out of the garage, remembering to close the door quietly.

  Without even bothering to check to make sure Bug was okay, I grabbed my purse and headed out the door. I started my car and as I pulled away from Bug’s house, I felt scared to death and fiercely proud of myself all at the same time. I’d done it! I’d taken back what was mine and kept Bug from stealing from me and treating me like shit.

  Feeling like I’d just climbed Mount Everest, I headed home, proud that my plan had worked and that I’d be able to pay my rent.

  Chapter 19

  Luke

  Friday, May 10, 2013

  The first thing I thought of — even before I opened my eyes — was Krystal. I stretched, my hands and feet barely able to reach the corners of the enormous king bed, and I wondered what the chances were that I’d be waking up alone tomorrow morning. The notion of her, naked and asleep in my bed, gave me a hard-on that wouldn’t have been quite so uncomfortable if she’d been there. Since she wasn’t, I took matters into my own hands and decided to hit the hotel gym before I picked Sable up for the weed shop visits.

  Just before I left, I thought to call down to the front desk and ask them to stock the refrigerator with some champagne and to send up some strawberries shortly before Krystal was supposed to arrive. If strawberries and champagne didn’t impress a girl used to hanging out with dirty bikers who sucked down Coors Light like there was no tomorrow, I didn’t know what would.

  ***

  “Hey, Sable,” I called from the Jeep as she walked down the drive toward me.

  “Mornin’,” she said cheerfully.

  “Joker here?” I asked, since the garage door was closed.

  “Oh, yeah,” she answered, clearly irritated. “I doubt he’ll be up before noon.”

  “Was he out late?” I asked, already regretting have brought it up.

  “Luke, that man still acts like he was in his twenties and still drinking with his Marine Corps buddies. I’m not sure if he’s ever gonna grow the fuck up and start taking better care of himself.”

  I didn’t say a word. I remembered Joker’s warning to stay out of other Sons’ relationships, and I kept my mouth shut.

  Sable looked over at me as she fastened her seat belt. “I can see he’s already gotten to you. That you’re learning the ‘stay out of your brother’s business’ bullshit that they all live by, but you mark my words. If that man doesn’t start taking better care of himself, he’s gonna end up in the hospital with a heart attack. He isn’t exactly a young man anymore.”

  I hoped she’d change the subject, and I didn’t say anything, just letting the silence follow us out of their neighborhood. Finally, after a few miles, I decided to end the awkwardness.

  “So you know both of the people we’re meeting with today?”

  “Yeah. Bobby Findlay owns the first store, and we went to school together.”

  “And his business is doing well?”

  “When I talked to him yesterday, he said he’s making way more than when he ran his construction company, and he has a fraction of the overhead.”

  I smiled and nodded, her conversation confirming what I’d heard from my friend in California. “I really think this could be the answer to the MC’s problems,” I told her. “And my ticket in.”

  Sable got quiet, which I was quickly learning meant that something was wrong.

  “What?” I asked, mentally bracing myself for the lecture I feared was coming.

  “Luke, I know that I don’t really count as your mother since I abandoned you, but will you at least listen to me for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Luke, even though I had nothing to do with it, I couldn’t be prouder of you and what you’ve accomplished. You have a college degree and a professional job. You wear a tie to work, for heaven’s sake. You father owns one tie, and he’s worn the same on to every funeral we’ve gone to as long as I’ve known him. And funerals aren’t that uncommon, Luke.

  “You never met your cousin, Moses, but he was just a couple of years younger than you. He was smart and successful, and he’s dead now. He’d be alive if it weren’t for the Savage Sons. This club won’t be good for you, Luke. I couldn’t be happier to have met you, and I want more than anything to continue to be a part of you life, but you should go back to the life you’ve built for yourself fin Arizona. I’ll come visit, if you’ll let me, but I’m scared about what the Sons will do to you.” Sable exhaled, like she’d just gotten something off her chest that had been weighing her down.

  My first instinct was to tell Sable something that would keep her from worrying, and I realized that that instinct — my tendency to be a peacemaker, to try to make everyone happy — was one of the main things that made me different from the rest of the Savage Sons. I realized that I wanted to be different, wanted to live more like the Sons did — doing what I wanted and letting the chips fall where they may. I realized that I wanted to feel like I did on the bike — wind, sun, and nothing else. All the other bullshit — what Sable thought, what the people at my job were going to say if I came back and told them I was quitting — I just needed to let it roll off my back. Let it go. That was going to be my new attitude.

  ***

  “So I buy mostly female seeds from this guy up in Oregon. You know why you want female plants, right?”

  Bob Findlay looked exactly like what I’d expected. He was about fifty-fifty salt and pepper, with a full head of hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. He wore a faded tie-dye t-shirt, jeans with frayed bottoms, and Birkenstocks. He was very proud of his plants.

  “Yeah,” I answere
d. “I grew some kick-ass bud in college. I get the higher yield and no seeds thing. So how much of what you sell is your own bud?” I asked.

  He’d showed us around the store — pointing out the lollipops, vaporizers, brownies, and nearly thirty varieties of marijuana — before taking us back to his house, the site of his grow operation.

  “Depends,” Bob answered, bending over to smell an enormous bud. “Sometimes it’s mostly ours, and sometimes it’s not. I have a kush strain that’s been pretty hot, and when that’s around I can’t keep it in stock. When I sell out, I sometimes buy from other growers.”

  Sable had been stunned by the variety of edible forms of THC-laden items for sale. “And the lollipops and gummies? You buy all of those?”

  “Yeah. You see a lot of the same brands from store to store here, except for the baked goods. A lot of growers bake their own stuff, and some even partner with local bakeries. It’s turned out to be a bigger part of our business than we’d thought.”

  I knew it was a far cry from growing a few plants in college to handling both the growing and the operation of the store, but I was pretty sure that with some help, I was going to be able to make it work.

  “So you’re pretty friendly with the other folks who own dispensaries?” I asked.

  “For the most part,” Bob answered. “There’s plenty of room for all of us to make a living. We got a few bad apples, same as any other business, but you’ll find that most of us are pretty mellow.”

  I laughed and looked at Sable to see if she had any other questions.

  “Bobby, we sure do appreciate your taking the time to talk to us.” Sable put her hand on Bob’s arm, and it was obvious that he was far from immune to her charms.

  “Sable, honey, you know I’d do anything for you. You still married to that biker of yours?”