Page 1 of Torched Spades
Chapter One
JOHNNY
If you play hard,you pay harder…It’s aphilosophy I’ve heard all my life. One that, up until six months ago, never applied to me. Forget flying under the radar; I soared above it. I took every risk and beat every odd.
Twice.
But a man can only live like a god for so long before the Devil comes calling. By then, it’s game over. No amount of money or power or status will save you. At that point, you either sell your soul or rot in hell.
I still had a few debts to pay in this life, so I took the deal, a rash decision that has me walking the straight and narrow. I’ve never cared much for rules, especially now that I’m being forced to play by someone else’s.
Which is exactly what I’m doing by wandering the halls of the Providence County Courthouse. Rule following. Line holding. Lane staying. Instincts that are as natural as eating soup with a fork.
Two turns later, I come to a stop in front of a closed door. Locking all that chaotic shit up in the back of my mind, I knock once, not waiting for a response before walking inside.
Owen Holmes glances up from behind his sad little oak desk. Unsurprisingly, not a hair on his blond head is out of place, his clean-shaven face as uniform as the rest of him. If he wasn’t such a pain in my ass, I’d wonder if he was straight off the justice assembly line.
“Johnny Malone. Nice of you to show up.” I bite back a scowl as he gestures toward the empty chair in front of his desk. “You’re late.”
Shrugging, I walk past him and sink onto the black leather. “Am I?” Without breaking eye contact, I pull a playing card from the pocket of my leather jacket and flip it between my fingers.
His gaze wanders to my hand, watching a full revolution before looking away. “We’ve discussed this, Johnny. Your days of doing as you please are over. We have a deal, and I expect you to be on time.” He raps his knuckles on the corner for emphasis.
Those are bold words for a guy with Napoleon nuts. I had this guy figured out ten minutes into our first meeting. He likes to swing them around, but when challenged by a real pair ofcoglioni, they shrivel like raisins.
“Our ‘deal’ as you call it, is for Fridays at three o’clock, and it’s”—lifting my wrist, I flash my watch—“ten-twenty-two on Tuesday morning. I don’t appreciate being summoned out of the bed I just crawled into, so get the fuck on with it.”
He rests his forearms on his desk and clasps his hands together. “I hear things have been going well with the new job.”
“From what you hear…” I repeat, chuckling at the pathetic tap dance we perform each week—thirty minutes of talking while saying nothing. It’s like a badly scripted sitcom, only without the laugh track to lighten the mood. “You’re my new probation officer. Don’t act like you don’t log my every move into a color-coded spreadsheet.”
“You knew the terms of—”
“Yeah, yeah, I knew the terms of the transfer when I accepted it. Commit the crime, do the time, right,OfficerHolmes?”
He grits his teeth. “Just Owen will be fine.”
“The point is, I’ve shown up at the Port of Providence docks at 11:50 p.m. sharp every night for four weeks now.” Slouching back in the chair, I kick my mud-caked military boots up on his desk and smirk. “Third shift was a nice touch, by the way.”
Living like the undead has been just another kick in the dick. I’ve never been afraid of hard work, but running a forklift from shipping containers to the warehouse like some industrial valet is testing my limits.
Either my edge is dulling or his is sharpening because instead of choking on the bait, he spits it back at me. “Don’t act surprised I included an insurance policy. If a predator hunts at night, you don’t cage it during the day.”
I can feel my expression tighten. I’m not in the mood for fucking wildlife metaphors. Six months ago, I could’ve ended this whole thing with one phone call. Now, thanks to the flick of a match and an eyewitness, I’m stuck doing manual labor in a state smaller than Owen’s ball sack.
The deeper that knife sinks, the slower and more deliberate I flip the card between my fingers. “I’m a busy man, Owen. Cut to the chase.”
An agitated breath whistles through his teeth. “I called you here not just as your probation officer, but as the only friend you have in this city.”
I glance up, trapping the card between my index and middle fingers. “I’d reconsider that statement if I were you.” He holds my stare as I sweep my feet off the desk and lean in close. “You’ve seen what happens to my friends.”
There’s a brief moment where I’m not sure if he’s going to call for security or go for the gun I know he keeps stashed in his desk. I’m game either way. Unfortunately, his palms remain flat against the wood, and he starts again.
“We need to discuss what’s happened with yourotherprobationrequirement.” He pauses as if watering down the reality of that “requirement” will counteract their impending destruction.
“If you’re implying I haven’t been seeing the old bastard, you can fuck right off.” I flip my middle finger at him, quickly lifting the other three for a visual aid before he gets his dick in a knot. “Haven’t missed a Tuesday yet.”Although I’d rather walk through a burning building wearing kerosene cologne.
Thirty days ago, the stipulation seemed like a slap on the wrist. Now, I’m wondering if life behind bars might have been the better alternative. Being forced to sit quietly one day a week while some dickhead shrink psychoanalyzes me is a living hell. Each one is so smug—so confident they can fix the twisted pieces in my head, the ones that make me do what I do, the ones that make me crave what I crave—until they’re not.
