Page 6 of Rough Rider (Bad Boy High)
"That you need to stay away from them." He gives me a stern look.
"I know that." I roll my eyes. "But what of them? Are they terrible?" They can't be, right? The giant man from earlier crosses my mind. I can’t understand why he let me go, telling me not to worry about the balance I still owed. I hadn’t caught his name. If I never see him again, that would be a good thing. Right? It doesn’t sound or feel right, which I’m grappling with in my mind.
"There’s nothing in this world that doesn't have some kind of terrible in it." I suppose that's true. My terrible at this moment is that I'm stealing mozzarella sticks and I have become an enabler. "But they have their rules. As long as you don't fuck with them and stay clear, you're fine. They don't go out searching for trouble."
I nod in understanding. It was a stupid question. They sell drugs; that says it all. Doesn't it? I don't know. I remember watching a documentary once where a woman down in Mexico owned a farm where she grew coca plants. When the documentary filmmakers asked her why she did that, knowing she played a role in other people's deaths and kids becoming addicts when she had kids herself, I'll never forget what she told them.
That she could plant coca and feed her family, or she could plant soybeans, and they would likely starve. That there wasn’t really a choice. She was going to pick feeding her family every single time. I get that. We have to do what we need to in order to survive or help the people that depend on us.
The bell to the front door rings, alerting me to someone's arrival. I grab my notepad to go and take the order. “Andy?—”
“Yeah?” I click my pen, scribbling on the notepad to make sure it’s still working.
“Why did you ask me about the Riders?”
“No reason.” I shrug it off, not wanting to get into it. Bobby would be pissed if he found out I’d bought drugs for my mom. It’s not as though they’re difficult to find in our apartment building.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“How do you know I’m lying?” His eyes flick toward the door. I turn to see who entered the diner. My stomach drops and flutters. I didn’t know it could do both at once.
He’s here. The dark and dangerous guy from this afternoon.
I guess I am seeing him again after all.
Chapter Five
NIKI
Heather P was a font of information, which makes sense because that’s her role. She’s not meant to keep secrets but ferret them out and then spill them to anyone willing to pay. In my case, since I’m a Rider, she’s obligated to tell me anything I ask without payment.
The intel she had about Andy Nunn was pretty extensive. Seventeen years old, and her mom works at a topless club along the river. Andy, full name Andrea Suzanne Nunn, works at a diner. Between her mom’s tips and Andy’s tips, the two barely have enough to afford an apartment in Sunshine Highrise, an ugly set of seven-story concrete low income housing. The place is a shithole and home to every vice in the world from prostitution to drug deals. As far as Heather P knew, Andy was clean. She gets good grades and is hoping to get a scholarship to attend the local college next year. Andy’s mom, on the other hand, is rumored to have started hooking up with some dude named Bear, who is a pretty heavy drug user. Bear runs a bait and tackle shop along the river, and that’s how the two probably met up.
Bear’s habit has been growing, as is the case with most drug users. Heather P didn’t know if Andy’s mom had bought drugs for herself or the boyfriend. It didn’t matter. A debt is a debt.
Andy doesn’t have any other family, nor does she have any boyfriend of her own for help. I pressed Heather P on the last detail, but the informant stood firm. No boyfriend in the picture.
So I have all the info on Andy, and if I just wait, her possible junkie mom will require a visit from Bam and me in a couple of weeks. But I can’t wait. I find myself standing in the middle of a run-down diner watching Andy.
“Rider!”
The shout has me turning around. I spot two members of the Pipefitters sitting at a table cleared of all the dishes but two coffee cups. The blue inked interlocking pipes stand out among the other tattoos on their arms. One of them gestures for me to come closer. I take a quick inventory of the rest of the occupants.
The diner is set up like most diners with booths snugged up against the wall of windows and two long counters bisected by an opening for the wait staff. The cash register is on the left counter, and a glass pie case sits on the corner of the right. There are only a couple of pieces left—lemon, which I hate, and blueberry.
There’s a middle-aged man dining solo in the corner staring out the window. He has a glass of water and an unfolded napkin resting by his hand. He just ordered and hasn’t gotten his food yet. At a second booth, two tables away, a young-ish couple are sharing a meal. They both got burgers, and a large order of fries rests between them. At the counter to the left of the register, a woman of indeterminate age is typing a message into her phone. Her fork is buried on its side in a half-eaten slice of apple pie.
I reach back and scratch the back of my head. The Riders and Pipefitters don’t have any special beef between them, but there’s friction because everyone wants more territory. They don’t have the right to summon me, but one tiny spark can set off an entirekeg of gunpowder. I amble over to the table, stopping out of arm’s reach of the men.
“‘Sup.” I give a chin nod.
“This ain’t Rider territory, kid.” It’s not theirs either. The speaker is a clean-shaven bald guy who looks to be around sixty, but it’s hard to tell. People in my line of work age fast from laboring in the sun during the day and drinking and smoking at night. The man’s face is lined, and his hands are speckled with age spots, but he could be forty for all I know. You can’t underestimate the old ones, though. They’re wily and tough or they wouldn’t have the luxury of growing old.
“I’m not doing business. I came to have a piece of pie. Friend told me it was good here.” The moment the word “pie” comes out of my mouth, I realize I made a mistake.
The guy across from the speaker bursts out laughing. “Okay, kid. Go on then. Get yourpie.”
My hands curl into fists, but before I can strike the match, a small hand grips my biceps.
