Sebring
Page 4
So my voice was soft because it was always soft, and without inflection because it was always without inflection, when I asked, “Who does he have?”
“Green,” Tommy answered as we moved quickly down the hall.
Green.
One of my men.
My soldier.
Green was not his real name. It was a nickname my older sister, Georgia, had given to him. It had been Georgia who had used her special skills to recruit him years ago. He was so eager, and so stupid, fresh, naïve…green.
And that was who he became.
He was no longer stupid, fresh or naïve.
But he was still Green.
I walked down the hall, my strides fast but restricted due to the tight skirt I wore.
As I did, my mind was moving from annoyance at what I was certain was happening in my father’s office to wondering for perhaps the thousandth time why he insisted we continue to do business in this foul, possibly rat-infested warehouse.
It was the middle of a sunny day and the hall was ill-lit and murky, the floors filthy, the walls grubby.
Even in my office, which I’d insisted—like Georgia had with hers, like my father had always had with his—was clean and decorated (mine with a classic elegance; Georgia’s a modern sharpness; Dad’s a lavish obnoxiousness)—the windows were grimy (on the outside).
But my father’s father started the business there. Now Dad felt it sent a message. He was convinced in its top-to-bottom filth that it terrified anyone who might think they shouldn’t take us seriously.
He also felt it said we were one with our roots.
He was right.
My grandfather had been a lowlife thug who was willing to do anything for money and power.
And he did.
He’d done very well. He’d built an empire.
My father was also a lowlife thug with the same mission.
He wasn’t as successful.
I saw the double doors at the end of the hall, Gill standing outside them.
But I heard my father shouting.
“Is Georgia around?” I asked, eyes to Gill, my question aimed at Tommy who was at my heels.
“Nope,” Tommy answered.
That was not good.
I had very little hope of calming my father down. There was a slim chance, but it wasn’t much. I had more chance of earning his ire. His temper was quick, unpredictable and volatile. Although he seemed more in control of it around Georgia, otherwise, he didn’t discriminate.
But without Georgia at my side, or better, taking the lead, the highest likelihood was that whatever this was was not going to go well.
We got close to the door and Gill turned to it, knocked twice, loudly, put his hand to the handle and pushed it open.
My father’s shouting didn’t cease throughout all this.
Gill got out of our way and Tommy and I moved into the room. A room that was ridiculous. It had been ridiculous when my grandfather sat behind the massive, ostentatious desk. My father had just made it more ridiculous.
I had no time to ponder this oft-pondered thought.
Dad was shouting.
And he had a gun. A gun he was aiming at Green.
In other words, the situation was critical.
“Dad—” I called, moving into the room, but abruptly stopping and unable to fight back the wince and twist of my head when the gun went off, the loud sound cracking through the room.
Green shouted in agony and dropped to one knee.
Dad rounded the desk and advanced on his soldier, gun still raised.
“You tell me that shit?” he screamed. “You talk to your king that way?”
God, I hated that king business.
My grandfather started that too.
“Jesus, fuck, Jesus, fuck,” Green chanted, still down on a knee, one hand to his wound, blood oozing between his fingers. He tilted his head back and scowled at my father. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? You shot me!”
“You fuckin’ turd! You do!” Dad shouted. “You talk to your king that way!”
I turned to Gill who was standing in the door.
“Call Dr. Baldwin,” I ordered.
“Liv, Baldy’s not our biggest fan,” Tommy muttered under his breath behind me.
I nodded slightly, eyes still on Gill, knowing that but forgetting at this dramatic juncture that my father had alienated Baldwin some months ago. “Tell him I requested his attention personally.”
Gill nodded back and disappeared.
I cast my gaze over my shoulder to Tommy. “Get some towels.”
“Olivia, you do not need to be here,” Dad stated, and I looked to him.
“Dad—” I started.
He swung the gun my way.
Tommy, who had been moving toward my father’s bathroom, stopped and moved back, positioning in front of me so I still could see my father but Tommy’s body was mostly shielding mine.
God. Tommy.
I watched Dad’s eyes shift to Tommy before I watched his mouth curl.
“Take a bullet for her, yeah?” Dad asked derisively.
Tommy had been playing the game a long time. But he’d also been taught a lesson he had no choice but to learn.
He knew the right answer.
“She’s yours, so yeah.”
Dad stuck his nose up in the air, sniffed his approval at that response, then lowered the gun.
He glared at Tommy. He glared at me. Finally, he turned to Green.
I tensed.
“I fuckin’ see you again and you still aren’t doin’ your job, I won’t aim at your leg. You hear me?”
I fought a sigh.
I saw Green’s teeth go to his lip and I knew exactly what he intended to say. I was pleased he managed to beat back the urge and instead fell to his hip and put both hands to his wound.
“Green,” Tommy answered as we moved quickly down the hall.
Green.
One of my men.
My soldier.
Green was not his real name. It was a nickname my older sister, Georgia, had given to him. It had been Georgia who had used her special skills to recruit him years ago. He was so eager, and so stupid, fresh, naïve…green.
And that was who he became.
He was no longer stupid, fresh or naïve.
But he was still Green.
I walked down the hall, my strides fast but restricted due to the tight skirt I wore.
As I did, my mind was moving from annoyance at what I was certain was happening in my father’s office to wondering for perhaps the thousandth time why he insisted we continue to do business in this foul, possibly rat-infested warehouse.
It was the middle of a sunny day and the hall was ill-lit and murky, the floors filthy, the walls grubby.
Even in my office, which I’d insisted—like Georgia had with hers, like my father had always had with his—was clean and decorated (mine with a classic elegance; Georgia’s a modern sharpness; Dad’s a lavish obnoxiousness)—the windows were grimy (on the outside).
But my father’s father started the business there. Now Dad felt it sent a message. He was convinced in its top-to-bottom filth that it terrified anyone who might think they shouldn’t take us seriously.
He also felt it said we were one with our roots.
He was right.
My grandfather had been a lowlife thug who was willing to do anything for money and power.
And he did.
He’d done very well. He’d built an empire.
My father was also a lowlife thug with the same mission.
He wasn’t as successful.
I saw the double doors at the end of the hall, Gill standing outside them.
But I heard my father shouting.
“Is Georgia around?” I asked, eyes to Gill, my question aimed at Tommy who was at my heels.
“Nope,” Tommy answered.
That was not good.
I had very little hope of calming my father down. There was a slim chance, but it wasn’t much. I had more chance of earning his ire. His temper was quick, unpredictable and volatile. Although he seemed more in control of it around Georgia, otherwise, he didn’t discriminate.
But without Georgia at my side, or better, taking the lead, the highest likelihood was that whatever this was was not going to go well.
We got close to the door and Gill turned to it, knocked twice, loudly, put his hand to the handle and pushed it open.
My father’s shouting didn’t cease throughout all this.
Gill got out of our way and Tommy and I moved into the room. A room that was ridiculous. It had been ridiculous when my grandfather sat behind the massive, ostentatious desk. My father had just made it more ridiculous.
I had no time to ponder this oft-pondered thought.
Dad was shouting.
And he had a gun. A gun he was aiming at Green.
In other words, the situation was critical.
“Dad—” I called, moving into the room, but abruptly stopping and unable to fight back the wince and twist of my head when the gun went off, the loud sound cracking through the room.
Green shouted in agony and dropped to one knee.
Dad rounded the desk and advanced on his soldier, gun still raised.
“You tell me that shit?” he screamed. “You talk to your king that way?”
God, I hated that king business.
My grandfather started that too.
“Jesus, fuck, Jesus, fuck,” Green chanted, still down on a knee, one hand to his wound, blood oozing between his fingers. He tilted his head back and scowled at my father. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? You shot me!”
“You fuckin’ turd! You do!” Dad shouted. “You talk to your king that way!”
I turned to Gill who was standing in the door.
“Call Dr. Baldwin,” I ordered.
“Liv, Baldy’s not our biggest fan,” Tommy muttered under his breath behind me.
I nodded slightly, eyes still on Gill, knowing that but forgetting at this dramatic juncture that my father had alienated Baldwin some months ago. “Tell him I requested his attention personally.”
Gill nodded back and disappeared.
I cast my gaze over my shoulder to Tommy. “Get some towels.”
“Olivia, you do not need to be here,” Dad stated, and I looked to him.
“Dad—” I started.
He swung the gun my way.
Tommy, who had been moving toward my father’s bathroom, stopped and moved back, positioning in front of me so I still could see my father but Tommy’s body was mostly shielding mine.
God. Tommy.
I watched Dad’s eyes shift to Tommy before I watched his mouth curl.
“Take a bullet for her, yeah?” Dad asked derisively.
Tommy had been playing the game a long time. But he’d also been taught a lesson he had no choice but to learn.
He knew the right answer.
“She’s yours, so yeah.”
Dad stuck his nose up in the air, sniffed his approval at that response, then lowered the gun.
He glared at Tommy. He glared at me. Finally, he turned to Green.
I tensed.
“I fuckin’ see you again and you still aren’t doin’ your job, I won’t aim at your leg. You hear me?”
I fought a sigh.
I saw Green’s teeth go to his lip and I knew exactly what he intended to say. I was pleased he managed to beat back the urge and instead fell to his hip and put both hands to his wound.
