Page 7 of The #2 Guy

2

Johnny

“Do I need to go over the plan again?”

Rog lifts his brows. “My wife is gonna have my ass if she ever finds out about this…”

“Take it up with him,” I nod over to Roque.

“Ya’ shittin’ me? My wife is his biggest fan.”

“What can I say? The ladies love me.”

I duck under the bar to smooth my hair and check my teeth. I’m not handsome or smooth like Roque. I have tiny, jagged scars on my face telling my story of growing up street. My nose is a bit big. My jaw is square. I’m not handsome or look like some slick movie star but I’ve never struggled when it came to getting the ladies. Maybe it was my rep of being thug or the power I had, but I simply think I was good in bed. I have a big tool and I knew how to lay pipe. The ladies always came back for more, but Christine was the one who I wanted to give more to than just a good time between the sheets. After she betrayed me it hurt so bad, I took my own blade and slashed the tip across my chest. I wanted a scar I could actually see to remind my dumbass not to fall for love again. I should just kill her and end it. But I can’t. I’ve been in a funk thinking she was dead. Now that I know she lives; my traitorous heart is excited again. I need to get her out. Exile her pert little ass from my soul. I gotta purge the girl from my system somehow. If I don’t, I’m royally fucked.

I unload the clip from my gun, filling it with blanks. Rog and Roque are wearing bullet-proof vests under their clothes just in case. “Let’s do this shit,” I tell them as I rack my new clip.

“This is gonna be great in the sequel to Savage Poet.”

“You and your damn books again.” I shake my head.

“I want my character to have a bigger role,” Rog drawls. “Maybe a couple of chapters?”

“We’ll discuss it later.”

“But make sure you tell Dev it’s all fiction. Yeah?”

Roque smiles. “Pure fiction. Just like I told the Feds.”

“Are you done being in love with yourself?” I pop my shoulder. My girl is below with no idea I’m about to stage a fake rescue. Her hell living in the basement of a bar run by an MC might be coming to an end…but she’s going be mine to torture however I deem fit.

“I’m going down to give her breakfast. You are gonna ‘sneak’ up on me from behind with rope. We’ll struggle. Make it look legit. Roque will run down to see what is going down; then you pop him with the fake rounds and rescue your ‘queen’ only to hold her hostage in a five-star resort. I think I got it down?”

I nod. Then turn to Roque. “I can’t wait to empty a clip into your cocky-egotistical ass.”

“Bring it,” he smirks. “You know I only did this because your family. If it were anyone else, she would have been taken care of.”

“I know. But I’m still pissed. If there’s a scratch on her—"

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “You protecting the woman who almost brought down my entire Syndicate exposing the connection between me and Creed MC and who singlehandedly was responsible for your own family putting a hit on you is almost adorable John-John.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m pumping you with two clips Salvatore.”

“Bring it, ass wipe.”

I lift my gun firing an empty round in the air just for sound effects then kick open the backdoor to Rog’s bar for more theatrics. He’s retired Creed MC but just like the mob once you’re in an MC you’re in for life no matter how you try to spin it. Or reinvent yourself. I can’t believe anyone actually believes the giant man is just a bar owner.

“Where is she?” I bellow, knocking empty chairs and flipping tables over just to make Christine really think I’m tearing Rog’s bar apart looking for her.

Rog grins like a mother fucker as he beckons me to take a swing. “Just to make it look real, right?” I hiss.

I hit him with a right hook just under his left eye. Not hard enough to really hurt but the rings on my knuckles cut up his flesh. Then, I fire a few rounds in the ceiling.

He growls as lights pop. “My wife is gonna have my ass.”

“Not my problem.”

I’m going for the trap door Roque told me about. Unrolling a shitty rug, I find it and pop that bitch open. It smells a bit dank. Like old beer and dust. It’s wet, dark and I practically taste her fear in the air as I descend the wooden steps.

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