Unbeautiful, Page 2

  “Wait a minute. I think I hear—”

  A phone rings from somewhere, cutting him off.

  “Hold on,” one of the men says. “It’s the boss.”

  He answers the phone and utters a few okays and nos before growing silent again. My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for someone to appear and point a gun at me. I can feel that my time is up. This is it. I’m not getting out of this mess alive.

  Fuck, I’ve lived a sad, pathetic life.

  “Boss says we have to go!” the man who was on the phone hollers. “Melson’s being a pain in the ass again!”

  “What about Cole’s son?”

  “We’ll have to track him down later. The order is to get our ass down to the warehouses ASAP.”

  “Fuck!” Someone kicks the garbage can, causing me to jump.

  “Relax. The boy’s bound to go home sooner or later. We’ll put someone at the house after we’re done at the warehouse.”

  “Fine,” someone grumbles. “But I want to be there when they bring him in. I’ve been wanting to pay Price back for fucking me over in New Orleans, and what better way than to torture his son?”

  They continue to chat about what they’re going to do to me as they head down the alley away from me. I have to give them credit. They’re pretty creative with their forms of torture. Electric shock—been there done that. Breaking my legs with a hammer—broken bones are nothing new. Squeezing my fingers and toes with a wrench until they’re about ripped off from my hands and feet—okay, that one made me cringe.

  I don’t leave my hiding spot for a half an hour after their voices fade, wanting to be absolutely positive they are gone. Once I’m satisfied, I crawl out of my spot and brush the dirt and garbage debris off my jacket.

  I glance from left to right, raking my fingers through my hair as I try to figure out what to do next. Go home after what the men just said? It seems like a stupid idea. Plus, my father lives there, too. The last thing I want to do is see him again, not after this.

  The man has been in my life for two years, ever since I was let out of juvie at eighteen. After growing up in foster homes for most of my childhood, I expected him to treat me better when he pried his way into my life. I hoped that perhaps he’d give me the new start I craved. It took me about a year to realize how wrong I was. He wasn’t looking for a son, but a gambling buddy to cover his ass and take the fall for his mishaps.

  I’m so fucking frustrated I want to scream. Problem is, I physically can’t scream, so the frustration just gets clogged in my chest. Pressure builds in my lungs, and I feel like they’re going to combust. Needing to get the anger out of me, I bash the tip of my boot against the metal dumpster, kicking the shit out of it. When a dog starts howling in the distance, I tug my hood over my head and bail out of there before I draw any attention.

  As I’m rounding the corner of the alleyway to the front of the club, Lanaley Baredona wanders out the door. She spots me instantly and storms toward me.

  “Where the fuck did you go?” She shoves me, her cheeks flushed pink, probably from all the dancing we’d been doing before Elderman’s men showed up. “Seriously, Ryler. What the hell? You left me standing on the dance floor by myself.”

  I shrug then sign, “Sorry.” It’s one of the few signs Lanaley knows, which makes our conversations very limited. That’s okay, though. We really don’t have anything in common other than being sexually attracted to each other. With her long, black hair, heavily studded face, inked arms, and flowing black dress, she looks like she belongs by my side. It’s all looks, though. All show. When it comes to our personalities, we don’t match.

  “You’re sorry? Seriously? That’s all you have to say?” Her voice is loud, and she’s drawing too much attention.

  I need to get out of here.

  I shrug, like, “What else can I say.” I feel kind of dickish for blowing her off, but at the moment, there’s not much else I can do about it.

  Her cheeks redden. “Whatever, Ryler. You’re always doing this shit—leaving whenever the hell you want, but always expecting me to be there when you need to get fucked.” She raises her hands in the air and spins on her heels. “Don’t call me anymore. I’m so done with you.”

  Normally, I’d probably follow her and try to apologize to her more, but right now, I have bigger problems to worry about.

  Unsure what to do next, I keep my head lowered and drift down the busy sidewalks of Vegas. Neon lights flash and glimmer, promising fun in every building. The air is warm, smells like cigarettes, and tastes like darkness. People are everywhere. Eyes are everywhere.

  I need to get out of the crowd and to someplace safe.

  My car is back at the house, a 1970 Dodge Challenger I restored myself. My father tries to claim it’s his because he was the one who brought me into the gambling that earned all the money for the restoration. The title has my name on it, though, so legally I can take the car if I can make it to the house without getting caught. Then I can hit the road, move somewhere else. Somewhere away from Sin City where maybe I can finally start over. I’ve spent way too much time here, collecting my own sins.

  Yeah, it’s time to bail out and start over in a positive way, start a normal life.

  The problem is, I have almost no money. I’m going to need some help.

  I fish my phone out of my pocket as I wind through the mostly intoxicated people on the sidewalk. While I don’t know too many people—it’s kind of hard to when I can only communicate by writing and sign language—I do have friend I met in juvenile detention who lives in Kentucky. He might be able to help me.

  Shoving my way toward a bench on the corner of a street, I plop my ass down and type a text.

  Me: Hey, man, I need your help.

  I glance around the sea of people, scanning each face as I wait nervously for a response.

  I jump when a message buzzes through.

  DMAN: What’s up?

  Me: Got into a bit of trouble again. Decided it’s time to bail out of Vegas.

  I pause. The next part is more difficult. Asking for help.

  For most of my life, I’ve taken care of myself because I had to. The only exception to this was Aura. But my time with her was too brief to develop a habit of letting people into my life.

  Right now, I don’t really have a choice.

  Me: I was wondering if I could crash at your place for a little bit until I can figure out what to do next.

  DMAN: Of course, man. I told u before I took off if u ever needed a place to give me a holler.

  Me: Yeah, it took me a while to realize I need out.

  That and two very large men with guns chasing after me.

  DMAN: Sweet, so when r u heading here?

  Me: I was thinking tonight, if that’s cool.

  DMAN: Yeah, sure.

  There’s a pause.

  DMAN: It’s actually perfect timing. Got some new shit going down soon.

  I dither. The last thing I want to do is get back into doing illegal shit for a living and constantly getting into trouble. What I want is to start over somehow.

  Me: Yeah, I’m not sure if I want to get into anything right away. I think I need to just lay low for a while.

  DMAN: It’s nothing 2 big. Just a few side jobs I know you’ll want in on.

  My head flops forward. God, no matter what I do, I can’t escape this life.

  What other choice do I have other than staying here, though?

  I get up from the bench and push a path through the throng of people as I head for home. In all black attire, my piercings and tattoos, and my get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way expression tend to make people skittish and move out of the way willingly.

  Me: Heading to my car right now. Be there in a couple of days.

  DMAN: Text me when u make it to the Kentucky border.

  Me: K

  I tuck my phone away and jog across the busy street to the other side. I don’t live too far away from the Strip, so I make it to my block rather quickly. It’s
during the short journey I realize the huge flaw in my plan. Even if I do make it to Kentucky, Elderman’s men could find me and probably will. Then what?

  And even if they don’t find me, I’d still be surrounded by the same environment, doing the same old shit. I’m not even able to thrive in a normal society anyway. Getting a real job or going to school is impossible. One background check and my past is right there to ruin me. It’s the same problem that’s been haunting me since I got out.

  Dammit! What am I going to do?

  I rack my mind for an alternative as I make the short walk home. When I reach my street, I spot a black car with tinted windows parked in front of my house.

  Damn. They’re already here.

  I hop the fence on the corner of the block and dive into the shelter of the neighbor’s backyard. I repeat the movement on the next fence. And the next one. Four fence hops later, I land in my own backyard.

  The lights in my house are off, which is odd. My father was drunk as shit when he sent me to the warehouse to play. He usually leaves all the lights on in his drunken stupor so the fact that the house is dark has me concerned. What if Elderman’s men are in there? What if they have my father?

  I tiptoe across the grass then try to get a good look through the window, but all the curtains are drawn.

  Inching to my right, I cautiously edge to the back door that has a small, square window at the top. I can vaguely see inside the pitch black kitchen. Nothing appears out of the ordinary. The house is quiet.

  Right as I’m about to turn the doorknob, I spot movement from inside. A split second later, I hear footsteps thudding across the grass toward me. Whirling around, I swing my fist, figuring it has to be Elderman’s men. The person ducks, and I end up grazing my knuckles across his temple. I move to kick him, but he dodges out of my way. Another figure appears to the side of him and shines a light in my eyes, causing me to stumble sideways.

  Arms wrap around me, and then I’m shoved against the house. I throw my head back and smack the person’s face. Curse words fly, but the person doesn’t release his hold on me. He pushes me forward until my cheek smashes against the door.

  “Ryler Price,” one of them says, pinning my arms behind my back, “you need to come with us.”

  In moments like these, I really fucking hate not being able to talk. I could shout, scream, tell them to go fuck themselves, but all I can do is breathe heavily and struggle to get away.

  My fight is short-lived as handcuffs are slapped down on my wrists, my arms left trapped behind my back.

  The person holding a flashlight steps to the side of me and beams the light in my face again. “Relax. We’re not going to hurt you.”

  I blink against the brightness and squint to see who the man is. One of Elderman’s men? No, I don’t think so. He’s way too thin and dressed too nicely in a tie and suit jacket to be part of their rough crowd.

  “Ryler, I’m Federal Agent Senford and this is Agent Stales.” The guy motions at the man pinning me against the door. He retrieves a badge from his jacket pocket and shows it to me. “We’d like to have a word with you in private.”

  This isn’t my first time being arrested, but definitely my first time being arrested by feds.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble,” the guy holding me against the door says. “We just need to speak with you.” He loosens his hold and allows me to back up and face them. “We know your house is under surveillance, so we’re going to take you out the back gate and bring you down to the station.” He speaks slowly and way too loud. “Don’t put up a fight; otherwise, we can’t offer you protection from Elderman. Nod if you understand us.”

  They know I’m being chased by Elderman, know I’m mute, and think I’m stupid apparently. Still, I nod and follow them out of the yard because: a) I’m really fucking curious to see where this is going, and b) I don’t really have a choice.

  Once we make it out the back gate, they steer me around the side of the neighbor’s house and to a black car parked near the curb. They put me in the backseat, and then we drive past the Strip, toward the edge of the flashing city.

  I’d love to ask questions, but all I can do is remain silent, watching the houses and casinos blur by as we veer up and down streets I don’t recognize.

  Finally, about thirty minutes later, we pull up to a small, brick building secluded in the center of the desert near a few abandoned stores and vacant homes. The parking lot has a few cars similar to the one we’re in, and the lights are on in the building.

  After the two agents climb out of the car, Senford opens the back door and motions for me to get out. I momentarily hesitate and then realize I don’t have any other choice. I duck my head as I swing my feet out to the ground and stand.

  “It’ll be okay, Ryler,” Agent Stale reassures me again as we cross the parking lot and enter the brick building.

  Inside are rows and rows of cubicles. A few people sit at desks, talking on phones or using computers.

  “This way,” Stale says to me as he turns to the right, heading away from the cubicles and toward a hallway.

  Beneath the light, I can see what the two of them look like. Stale is young, thirty tops, with black hair. Senford is older, pushing at least fifty, with graying hair and a beard. The two of them seem like the perfect good cop, bad cop combo. Stale being the good cop with his perfectly pressed suit, cheery expression, and constant reassurance. Senford is the opposite—rougher, his expression hard and unwelcoming.

  When they take me into a room with three chairs and a table, I start to wonder if they are busting me for illegal gambling because it looks like a police interrogation room.

  Stale walks up behind me, unlocks the cuffs, and then points at a chair. “Have a seat, Ryler.”

  Rubbing my wrists, I drop my ass down into the chair.

  Stale slips off his coat, drapes it on the back of the chair, and sits down across from me while Senford lingers near the doorway with his arms folded.

  “Don’t worry, son. You can trust us,” Stale says for the umpteenth time as he rolls up the sleeves of his button down shirt.

  He keeps saying it as if it’s so easy to trust.

  It’s not.

  I know this way too well.

  Trust is rare.

  Almost unattainable.

  Stale slides his notebook and pen across the table toward me. “We’d like to ask you a few questions now.” He glances at the scars on my throat, scars that tell the story of how I lost my voice. Without my voice, I refuse to tell the story, refuse to let anyone know how it happened.

  Before he can ask anything, I scrawl down: What’s this about? I shove the notebook back at Agent Stales.

  He collects the notebook, and his lips move as he reads what I wrote then his eyes rise to me. “It’s about Donny Elderman.” He studies me carefully, assessing my reaction.

  I cross my arms and slump back in the seat, silently conveying, “I’m not opening my damn mouth for you.”

  Why would I? I have no idea what this is about, what they’re after. If what I say could be incriminating.

  Stale shoves the notebook in my direction again. “We know you’ve been hanging out at one of the warehouses a lot lately, Ryler. We’ve had reports that you’re there at least three times a week.”

  I cringe. The warehouses he’s talking about are owned by Donny Elderman and is exactly what it sounds like—a massive warehouse secluded out in the middle of the desert. There are actually quite a few warehouses that he owns all over various states. The larger ones are hidden in bare, untouched areas and surrounded by several of his men. All the warehouses serve the same purpose, though—to hide illegal activity. A lot of gambling goes on inside along with a ton of other illegal activities like drug trafficking and prostitution.

  When I don’t respond, Stale leans over the table and lowers his voice. “Ryler, we want you to help us bring down the main warehouse.”

  The main warehouse is where Donny Elderman spends most o
f his time, but I have no clue where it is or what exactly goes on in there. All I know is that even the mentioning of the warehouses seems to terrify everyone.

  I pick up the notebook and write: How the hell am I supposed to help you with that? I don’t know where it is.

  Stale squints at the page then looks at me. “Have you ever heard of an informant?”

  I write: You mean a nark?

  He chuckles after he reads what I wrote. “Yeah, I guess that all depends on how you look at it.”

  My hand glides across the paper again. A nark’s a nark, no matter how you look at it.