Page 50 of Force At Third

“Yep, just like that.” I shake my head. “I was bringing your shoes back. Not my fault my hearing’s?—”

“Shut the hell up. We’re done talking.” She snatches the Taco Bell bag off the counter, stomps to the door, opens it, and starts to walk out.

I grab her arm, halting her little exit. “You understand that over my dead rotting corpse will I let you marry that piece of shit, right?”

She jacks her elbow away. “I’m not speaking to you ever again.”

As she storms away, I yell, “See you tomorrow, Gwendolyn York.”

“The fuck, you will.”

Playball

10

Friday

Do I like yoga? Hell no. Do I believe it could be a valuable tool in dealing with stress? Absolutely. Am I willing to try just about anything to stop myself from feeling like I may break a few laws, including but not limited to kidnapping and the administration of truth serum? Even yoga.

But, as Grandma Locke once told me, good things come to those who—nope, not that one. There’s no harm in trying, right? Well, shit, neither of those applies in the situation. But ya see, what happened is this …

The Steel brothers and their crew were busting on each other—as they do—about a thrown-together slow-pitch softball game that they were playing tonight against “the girls.” Amias was getting razzed about not being able to play because his body is owned by the Jags, and Zandor was telling him that he’s got a few moves he never taught him. Amias asked me if I wanted to come watch a bunch of chicks take down the Steel version of the Jersey Ballbusters. I was on the fence, you know, because who knew when Gwendolyn York was gonna blow in and insist on riding my face or dick. Until, fate, that beautiful bitch, caused him to tell me, “Roman’s idea; he’s wooing.”

The girls. Softball. Gwendolyn York on the field.

Sold! To the man who can’t seem to tell her no … even if it wrecks him.

Parked and unloaded, AJ, Nour, Turner, and myself head toward the field. We get to the first baseline as the girls are running in from a warm-up.

Turner lifts his nose in the air and inhales deeply. “I smell couture cunt.”

“What the fuck, Turner? You can’t say shit like that,” Nour snaps.

AJ scrubs a hand over his face, hiding his grin.

Turner swats at the air and asks me, “You hear a rookie buzzing around here?”

“Might wanna be more careful around here. She’s probably Steel adjacent.”

He shakes his head. “They were her words, not mine. She has a Cartier diamond for her hood piercing.”

“And how do you know this?” Nour asks.

“A man never kisses and tells.”

Laughing, I look up at the sky. “You’re lucky you’re a good-looking man with a fat bank account, because you got robbed in the smarts department, Turner.”

We head to where Roman is standing, and Marks—fucker—waves me over.

Fucking great, I think as we head to him.

“Placing bets. Cyrus said to leave it open for you four. Guys or girls, buy-in’s a hundred.”

I pull out a wad of Benjamins. “Two on Walton’s finest.”

“Makes no sense to lay two down.” Marks shakes his head.

I leave it there, anyway. “Not much has made sense as of late.”

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