Page 122 of Lotus

Travis kicks the door shut with his foot, and before I know what hit me, everything goes black.

T W E N T Y – E I G H T

July 2, 1998

THE KNOCK AT MY FRONT DOORinterrupts myKing of the Hillmarathon, and I grumble a few curses as I slam my fifth beer down beside me, the contents splashing over the rim of the bottle. “Hell, I’m coming,” I slur, half-drunk but mostly irritated by the intrusion.

Storming towards the entryway of my secluded farmhouse, I whip the door open with a scowl.

“Ray Ford?”

My eyes narrow at the well-dressed stranger standing a few feet back from the stoop. Aggravated, I prop my shoulder against the frame and stare him down. “Who’s asking?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter much.”

“It matters to me because I’ve got shit to do, and you’re an inconvenience.”

The cartoon blares behind me, giving away my plans for the evening.

“Yes, well, I’ll try to make it worth your while. Can I come in?”

The man stands before me in his overpriced dress pants and V-neck tee. He looks like a goddamn kid—upper twenties at most. His blondish hair is slicked back with fancy styling gel, and a gold chain rims his slender neck. This asshole screams new money, and he smells like one of those cologne advertisements from the JCPenney catalog. “Make it quick.”

Allowing him inside, his dark eyes case the modest living area, tipping his nose up to the mess of dirty dishes and miscellaneous piles of mail and junk. “Nice place.”

“Fuck off. What do you want?”

A grin tips on his mouth. “I need a favor.”

“I don’t do favors.”

“I heard you dowell-compensatedfavors,” the man breezes, studying his meticulously groomed fingernails. “I got your name from a guy.”

My jaw ticks as I cross my arms over my chest. “What guy?”

“Earl Hubbard.”

Well, this son-of-a-bitch certainly has connections. My face remains indifferent. “Fuck Earl. I haven’t talked to that asshole since college.”

“He still talks about you.”

Dammit.Goddammit. I massage the nape of my neck with my palm, turning away from the dickhead in front of me as I attempt to prematurely talk myself out of whatever hit he wants to hire me for. “I don’t do that shit anymore,” I mutter, facing a stack of bills piled high on my dining room table.

“Everyone has their price.”

I whirl back around, stalking towards him, my finger wagging in his cocky face. “I paid the price, and I’mstillpaying the price. Get the fuck out of my house, kid.”

He’s rigid, still, ramrod straight. The bastard doesn’t flinch, and his smile doesn’t waver. “I have a problem and I’m told that you’re the man who can make my problem go away.”

“I’m not that man anymore.”

“Ah, yes,” he drawls, head tilting to the left, almost condescending. “I heard about the unfortunate home invasion that cost you dearly. My deepest condolences.”

He’s shoved up against my wall before he can catch his next breath, my fingers curling around his ridiculous designer shirt. “Don’t youeverspeak another word about my family, or I’ll leave a hole in that pretty boy face of yours, do you understand?” I seethe, hissing through my teeth. “Get the hell out.”

A laugh travels over to me, the man seemingly unruffled by my threat. “See, I like this side of you. It’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

Indignation burns me, but I step back, releasing his polyester tee with a sharp withdrawal and watching as he stumbles to regain his balance. A sigh filters through my lips as one hand plants around my hip and the other scrubs down my jaw. I can’t help but assess my living conditions—the mildew, the water leaks, the layers of filth that inhabit every room in this godforsaken house.

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