Page 14 of Death's Deal

Bennett

Reaching Long Beach, where the rich and insane live, I pull up to the oversized, two-story flat black gates where the emblazoned M stands out in gold filigree. It screams of opulence, ignorance, and wealth. This is the Mayor of Los Angeles’s summer beach house.

Martin Morriso is a man I have hated for longer than I care to remember.

The younger Bennett in me felt like Romeo, shunned by the Capulets every time I’d visited Antonia at this property. I’ll even admit I’d left a sliver of my soul here that never quite repaired. I had left its care in her company, to covet and nurture. She’d destroyed that piece of me before it could grow to its full potential. As a man, I’d learned my heart could survive without it. I’d shored the gates around my heart, living without love. Love has no place in my life. Thanks to their intervention, the mayor and his offspring, those who were integral in creating the man I am now, I’d become strong, willful, determined, and methodical. I’m someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone.

I am Death. It’s not what I had envisioned for myself at that age. At sixteen, the last thing I wanted was to be involved in the MC, I wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, I became a man, who—along with his friends—went up against a cartel and lived to tell the tale. I’m stronger, tougher, and more sure of my own self-worth than that kid ever was.

Pulling up to the gates and finding an intercom box to the left, I set my bike on the kickstand to reach it. Smacking the button that’s just out of reach with a buzz, a voice rents the air, “I think you’re in the wrong place.”

Don’t I know it.

“Tell him Bennett is here.”

That same voice cuts through the tiny speaker, stating flatly, “Come up to the house. Park on the left of the fountain.”

Knowingly annoyed and bothered I was dismissed like the help, as the gates part, I ride up the long drive with a determination to express to that asshat I’m not some punk bitch who doesn’t deserve respect. I demand it.

Riding at a crawl would be expected and cordial, instead, gunning the throttle and revving it through the winding driveway, the house comes into view. As long as the off-ramp I came here on, I ride up a rise until the white pillars and light-gray stucco sparkles and dances in amongst the bright-green vegetation that dots the landscaping surrounding the property. Money makes things beautiful during a drought, and the heavy illegal cash injections made this house glow up from expensive to opulent. As a doe-eyed kid, who came from less, I found it enormous. As a man, I think of it as a replacement for someone with a small dick.

Screeching to a halt, leaving rubber along the ground, I parked directly at the base of the stairs. I leave my bike prominently in view to annoy the mayor and his overpriced asshole son. Pocketing my key, I start up the steps.

Stepping up to the heavy wooden door, as I’m about to place my hand on the handle, it opens. Greeting me in a pristine black suit, pressed neatly is a greasy-faced, wasted frame of a man. His early onset male-pattern balding and a sickly smile tell me he’s further into the drugs he deals than back then, Carlos greets me snidely, “Took you long enough.”

“Where’s Martin?”

Raising his chin slightly, looking to impart his inferred superiority over me, his dentist-corrected grin glares back. “He’s been awaiting your”—checking his expensive watch—“late arrival. We were expecting you hours ago.”

Ignoring his snideness, I retort, “I don’t work on anyone’s timeline but my own, Carlos.”

“That may be, but he does have other engagements.”

“Like I give a shit.” Standing, peering around this mausoleum of the rich, I shove past his shoulder to enter the front lobby. “Where is he?” I inquire once more just as curtly.

Before he can answer, bounding down the hall from the left, a raucous twenty-something punk calls out, “Yo. LoLo.” Wearing black ripped jeans, and a high-fashion company tee shirt with a photo of a 90’s rock band, he looks past me as if I’m the hired help. “When’s the chopper coming? I want to get the shit outta here.” His wide smile, dirty-blond hair, and the bluest eyes I have ever seen, mark the kid as no relation to Carlos. Where Carlos’s deep Italian heritage shines through; his dark-green eyes, dusty-brown receding hair, and olive tone, is as far across the spectrum as a Chihuahua and a Great Dane, I can only guess why the kid is here.

Annoyed and addressing the teen, Carlos clips back tersely, “The chopper will be going back to the city when the mayor goes back to his office tomorrow.”

“Fuck that. I’ll pay Jones to take me. I’m not waiting for tomorrow. There’s a concert at the—”

Lifting a hand, he halts the kid’s impatience. “Just wait, Tristan. For fuck’s sake.”

“LoLo, you’re an asshole,” he smacks back before starting up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Happy to see Carlos on edge, I grin. “Your kid?”

“Fuck no.”

“I like him more already.” I smile. “You are an asshole.”

He ignores my comment with a disdainful tone. “Just follow me.”

Turning right and passing no less than four doorways, finally stepping up to an oversized double door, we stop at what I assume is the mayor’s office.

Muscling my way past Carlos, I leave him to mumble along behind me, “You can’t just walk in.” Carlos is still the skeezy kid trying to appease his father’s wishes, and weakly attempting to stay in his good graces. He still believes his father’s power makes him in some way superior to me. To my kind.

It never did and never will.

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