The Life of Jacque Part One (special preview)

I consider not messaging him. While I finish my shift I decide just to ignore it, even though my ass was sore as hell. I tell myself I don’t need whatever drama he’s going to drag me in to. I don’t need anything at all except for what I’ve got now. Which was a big fucking lie, let me just say that. I needed a lot, I wanted more. I craved something more than just fucking existing between paychecks. I needed to push boundaries and piss things off. So when I got off work I called him.

He takes me back to The Gorgon, a club in downtown that’s in the basement of an old building. I had assumed nothing else happened in the building but when he took me upstairs I was pleased to find I was wrong. The owner of The Gorgon was this guy’s boss. Boss to a lot of people in fact. I was introduced to him. He was a big guy, in stature and deal. Tall and hairy with hands made of thick kielbasas. 

“I need a runner,” he says. “Someone who can carry product for me.” He offers me a cigarette, not what I wanted but I took it.

“What kind of product?” I look up at him, admiring the ring he was wearing. The band of gold and had an intricate carving resembling a demon I had once seen in a picture book. There was a massive ruby in the center, biggest thing I’d ever seen. I wondered what a guy would have to do to get such a gem.

“This and that, need to know basis kind of thing,” the boss smiled. “Understand?”

I grin back at him. “I think I get the gist.” I take a long drag on the cigarette. 

“You prove yourself to me and show me you’ve got something, you won’t have to worry about a thing.” These words intrigue me for a lot of reasons. One, it felt like something my parents would say. And in my twisted mind that equaled caring even though I know it wasn’t. Second, I’ve always had to worry about things. ALWAYS. The idea that I could put those on the backburner of my mind felt even more alluring than someone actually caring about me.

I can’t help but smile at the boss. He reminded me of Jabba the Hut if Jabba knew how to dress himself and not slave girls. Also, it looked like he bathed. I like a guy who knows how to wash himself.

“Ok,” I grin. “How do I prove myself?”

He takes a set of car keys from his pocket and lays them on the table. “Take this car, travel up north a bit until you reach the motel with the broken sign. You can’t miss it that sign is a fucking eyesore.” He takes a drag on his cigarette as he studies my expression. “No questions. No cops. No problem. Just take the car and leave it there.”

I look up at him then down at the keys. I take them and the boss laughs.