Page 7 of The Enforcer

I bark a laugh. “We’ve been over this, Zeke. I happen to like my job and under no circumstances will they allow me to run with bikers with rap sheets longer than the receipts at CVS.”

Zeke stands, chuckling softly. “I’ll wear you down one day.”

“Doubt it.” I stand too, walking him to the door. “Thanks for dropping in. I wanted to see you since you’re back.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. I’ve always been so careful to keep my feelings and emotions and fucking neediness for him to myself. The plea in my tone sounds needy as fuck.

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and I know he’s heard it too. “Yeah? You need me?”

Yep, he fucking heard it. Stammering, I say, “I uh … wanted to make sure you were okay. You know? After the long flight from Cuba.”

Zeke knows me too well. He gives me a knowing grin but lets my lie ride. “As you can see, Counselor, I’m in one piece. You worry too much.”

“I do. I know it’s probably a snowball’s chance that Cuban authorities will hand Rax over if they see him there, but there’s always a chance. I want you all to be careful.”

Nodding, Zeke pats my shoulder, squeezing slightly. I have to stop my eyes from drifting shut at his touch. “Thanks, Shane. But we’ll be fine. You coming by the clubhouse tonight? We have a meeting about our next charity ride, but we should be free after that to play some pool and shoot the shit.”

Any other time, I’d probably say no, since I have to work in the morning, but I’m still in a good mood from earlier. “Yeah, I’ll drop in.”

Zeke’s smile is wide and bright, and I have to tell myself it’s because we’re friends and he likes hanging out with me, not because he wants me.

With gentle fingers, he grips my hand and squeezes, trailing his fingers over mine. “See you later then.” He ducks out of my office without another word, and I can release the pent-up breath that was trapped in my chest from his touch.

Chapter Four

Zeke

“Please, Zeke! I’m sorry! I didn’t—” I cut off Kirk’s shitty explanation with a kick to his mouth. He cries out, bringing a hand to his lips, covering them as they bleed and swell.

“That’s crazy,” I say nonchalantly. “I don’t remember asking for an apology.” I squat in front of him, staring him down. “When Prez fronted you those kilos of coke, did he say he wanted payment in apologies?”

Kirk wheezes, so I punch him in the mouth. “Fuck,” he curses, rolling away from me, but not getting far, since the wall of his nightclub office is behind him. He mutters something I can’t hear, so I stand and bring my foot down on his ribs. “Fuck! I’m sorry. I know?—”

“How did he ask for payment, Kirk?” I have to shout over the music, but he hears me fine. An added bonus for beating his ass while people are dancing to all manner of music downstairs—music that drowns out Kirk’s annoying-ass screams.

“Cash,” Kirk mutters in a teary voice. “He said cash or … my club.”

“Cash or your club. Now, how are you paying him? Cash? Or your club?”

Kirk cries, looking up at me with a pitiful expression. “I just need a little more time. Just a little.”

I tsk him. “Kirk. It’s been almost a year. The only reason Prez was lenient was because you let him sell out of your club. It’s a prime spot for college kids that want a quick bump. But you’ve taken advantage. Prez doesn’t like when people take advantage of him.” I pull my gun from the holster under my cut. I squat down, grabbing the front of Kirk’s cheap suit and put the gun under his chin. He utters a pitiful cry, holding his hands up beside his head. I grin at him, loving his helplessness. “Now, which one will it be?”

Hands quaking in fear, Kirk stammers, “C-c-club. I’ll sign it over tomorrow.”

“That’s a good boy,” I say, rubbing the muzzle of the gun over the side of his face. “But Prez doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow. We want it tonight. So, get up.” I pull him to his feet, stepping around the blood dripping from his mouth. “Go get your deed; sign it over.”

Kirk looks miserable as I plop him down on his shitty couch.

This office is decorated like he’s fucking Tony Montana, with velvet couches, a large desk with lines of coke on top and a fucking landline that looks like something out of Murder She Wrote, for Christ’s sake. Scoffing at his shitty decorating choices, I pull out my cell phone and dial Prez’s number.

“Speak,” Prez says in a rough voice.

“He’s signing over the club.” I perch on the desk to keep my eyes on Kirk sitting directly across from me. From the glass window that shows the dance floor one story below, strobe lights bounce around on Kirk’s face. I smile as I make out all his bumps and bruises that are starting to crop up. I really fucked him up.

“He didn’t have the one hundred and fifty large he owed you or the coke you fronted him. I’m sure most of it went up his nose.” I turn to look at the lines on his desk, brushing them off with a bunch of receipts that are beside it. Kirk makes a pathetic noise, putting his head down and crying softly. Yeah, definitely went up his nose. It’s a terrible thing to be an addict and a dealer. One always wins out.

Wish we had known that before we lost over a hundred grand in product.

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