Page 2 of Unleashed

Chapter 2

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“MOTHERFUCKER!”

Raising an arm to shield my eyes from the damn sun, a delivery driver heading back to his dead-end job shakes his head while three teen girls giggle at me on the sidewalk.

And then there’s Vaughn. “Greg, please keep the profanity to a minimum in public.”

“Why in the hell would I do that shit? And your front porch is hardly public.” Son of a bitch. I swore to God I would not stay with Amos. I tried getting back into my old apartment, but my blowing that trash heap in the middle of the night pissed off the building manager. But he had no problem when Flo blew him at high noon in his car parked right on the street for all to see. Her Hoover lips sucking his dick harder than loose change stuck in a couch seared my brain that no amount of therapy can fix. Neverthefuckingless, I had no one else to stay with, so I gave up. I don’t have the energy or money to be picky.

Amos stares at me like a dead fish before he flaps his bloated lips again. “You’ve been underground here for a fortnight, prohibiting me from divulging your whereabouts. With the potential of sounding cliché, may I present my argument against you returning to work this morning?”

“Stop talking like Captain Picard raiding a Renaissance Festival.” I shoot Vaughn a dirty look, which gets me nowhere. No matter how hard I try to hate the freak or be mad at him for getting involved in my damn life, I can never repay the things he’s done for me. I’m as grateful as I am resentful of that.

With Amos still waiting for a valid answer or an acceptable lie, I shrug. “Gotta return sometime. I have bills to pay and chicks to lay.” I force myself to laugh, but it dribbles to a pathetic whimper. Clenching my jaw, I growl in frustration and head to my car.

“I apologize that I must take my leave this morning for Roanoke, but I implore you to extend your sabbatical. You are unprepared, and I will be unavailable to provide support.”

“What are you, a bra? I’m not a toddler, Vaughn. I know how to do my job, and you not being there is like the cherry on a shitcake.”

“Please. I’d feel more comfortable being there upon your return to the office.”

“And waste how I look in my new threads?” In my attempt to downgrade my life so I can afford to live, I bought new dress pants and a long-sleeve dress shirt at Target. But that’s as far as I go because I refuse to slum it at Walmart. I have standards, for fuck’s sake.

Amos eyes me up and down like I’m a streetwalker, begging to change a ten-spot. If he gets a woody, I will kick his ass to Jupiter.

I sigh and roll my eyes. “Okay. I’ll wait until you get back. I still need to head to the store. If I stay home all day, I’ll need more lube.”

He scowls at me when I snort, but his shoulders slump in relief. “Thank you.”

“Whatever. Have a wonderful trip, and tell Mommy I said, ‘Yo.’”

He places his suitcase and briefcase into his snooty Range Rover and offers me an incredulous smile. “I’ll paraphrase it.” Apparently, his mother is a retired schoolteacher. My grammar and vocab choice would traumatize her.

I watch him back out of the driveway and even toss him a limp wave. What the hell is his problem with me returning today? This fucker is up to something. And I need to find out.

I unlock the driver’s door to my new-to-me car. Ramming a truck into a tree because you’re too pissed off to care does nothing for drivability or to lighten the mood. I had bought this used and abused winner with all the money I had left. Amos gave me some options. The first was to take Gloria’s old Buick Roadmaster. I agreed only if Earth reversed its rotation.

The second option was for him to loan me money, arguing that he’d forward me some of Gloria’s imaginary bequeathed cash. I still can’t go there, but as long as I play by her dead-ass rules, I’ll never receive it.

The third option came two days later. Amos had a friend whose friend’s cousin twice removed needed to sell his car—a BMW. The clouds parted as naked ladies danced on them and droned new-age shit songs about horny whales.

Fortunately, the car was in excellent condition for being nineteen years old. No noticeable rust spots, dents, scratches, or missing parts. Awesome.

Regardless of its notoriety, it’s an honest-to-God, Girl Scout-toting, soccer-loving mom’s wagon, complete with a hatch gate. But according to the seller, Gord, a mega-anus whose face resembled two ass cheeks slapping together, do not call it a hatchback because they differ, people. Jesus, strike me down yesterday.

When I arrive at the office, I see familiar cars but feel like a virgin starting his first day at a BDSM club. Parking away from everyone on my floor, I sit in my car, nervous. Checking my hair and teeth in the rearview mirror, I sigh as my dark circles insist on advertising my shitshow life. Frustrated, I force myself to leave my car.

Donuts, Lysol, and mediocrity storm my nostrils when I enter the lobby. I stop at the guards’ desk to reinstate my key card. I set my bagged lunch on the counter. “Greg, it’s good to see you again.”

“Hey, Heff. How are you?”

He pulls up my card at the computer with a hollow sigh. “Can’t complain unless you have an hour. Where did you go?”

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