Page 49 of Some Like 'Em Burly
When Cerberus calls me, I’m up to my elbows in motor grease, fine-tuning the engine on my bike. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, buzzing impatiently as I push to my feet, wipe my hands on an old rag, and dig it out.
My fingerprints leave dark marks on the cover, but hey, everything I own is scuffed to shit in one way or another.
“Yeah?”
The voice on the other end is clipped, all business. Cerberus is like that with me. Maybe some of the other guys on his payroll get closer, get to know the real man behind the fake name, but I’m out here on the coast with no urge to haul my ass to Montana and meet in person, so I don’t see our relationship flowering anytime soon.
“You’ve got a job if you want it. Only a few miles away.”
“I’m listening.” Listening, and scrubbing the worst of the oil from my knuckles. I swear to god, no matter how often I wash my hands, I can never fully scrub the ingrained dirt from the creases of my skin. Good thing there’s no one around here I’m looking to impress.
“It’s some woman,” Cerberus says. “Sounded young. Didn’t say why she needs protection.”
“Right.”
Drugs, probably, in these parts. You get caught up with the wrong crowds, seduced into some small-time dealing, then bam. Folks can’t get out of the mess they’re in. We see it all the time.
Hey, I’m not here to judge—I just want to get paid. And honestly, I prefer the jobs for real people who are down on their luck than babysitting some sniffy, paranoid businessmen. Those jobs are the worst.
“She’s only paid for one day.”
I pause, the rag pressed against my knuckles. The phone’s tucked between my ear and shoulder, and I squint at the concrete floor. I’m in my building’s underground parking lot, tools scattered around me where I’ve been making my bike purr like a kitten. The black paintwork gleams in the low light, and I shake my head. Must’ve heard him wrong.
“One day makes no sense.” No threat is that short-lived. Not in the work we do.
“No,” Cerberus agrees. “But maybe she wants to try you out before she buys you for any longer.”
Makes sense, I guess. I shrug, the phone rocking beneath my ear, and kneel down again next to my bike, tools scraping across the concrete as I pack them away. Sounds echo weirdly in this space—I swear I can hear the steadydrip, dripof rainwater on the other side of the garage like it’s right next to my ear.
“Send me the details.”
The boss grunts. “Doing it now.”
“Anything else I should know?”
There’s a brief pause, which I spend cursing under my breath and shaking the tool box, trying to get them to lie nice and neat instead of all jumbled. Funny enough, shaking them up doesn’t help.
“Go easy on her,” Cerberus says at last. Despite his military vibe, there’s a heart somewhere under all those clipped instructions. “She sounded scared.”
I suck on my teeth. “They’re all scared.”
Thirty minutes later, I swing a leg over my bike and rumble out of the parking lot, wearing a backpack of supplies, a sheathed knife at my belt, and no expression. When drivers glimpse me driving past in the street, they clench their steering wheels tighter and flinch.
Yeah, this girl might be scared, but whatever the problem is—I’m scarier.
She’d better make her twenty four hours with me count.
* * *
I pull up outside an indoor market hall at 3pm, raindrops pattering against my bike leathers. It’s been drizzling all day, with damp clinging to my clothes, my short beard, my dark hair. One of those days when you never fully dry out, and everyone around you smells musty. The town rooftops are slick and black.
Inside, it’s even damper somehow. We’re out of the rain, sure—except for a few leaks dripping down from the fogged glass ceiling high above—but in here, the air is thick with people’s breath and body heat. The crowd is packed tight between the market stalls, and people chat and laugh as they browse, moving through the room in a treacle-slow current.
There’s a hiss of steam from a food stall nearby. The sizzle of a wok and, further on, the nutty, bitter smell of roasted coffee beans. My gut clenches, growling beneath my clothes, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast—but it’s too late to stop and snack now. I’m officially on the job, and that means that for the next twenty four hours, my own bodily needs are a low priority.
I pass stalls selling music records, vintage brooches, coin collections and rare stamps. Others with local cheeses and artisanal wines; handmade jams, jellies and pickles. Clothesstalls, baked goods, an electrical repair stand. A tiny booth tucked out of the way with a sly, long-haired man, shuffling a stack of tarot cards in his elegant fingers.
The sound presses on my ear drums. The heat sticks my t-shirt to my back. I slide my phone out of my pocket and check the details again, squinting down at Cerberus’ message.
