Junkyard Dog(5)

“Your threat would be more convincing if you weren’t stuck with temps who left post-it notes declaring you’re the devil and she hopes you get sucked back into hell.”

Hayes rolls his eyes. “Those temps were f*cking twats.”

“But were they twat peanuts?” I ask, grinning.

“No, they weren’t that bad.”

Enjoying when Hayes acts human-like, I try to keep the conversation going. “Do you have any family that’ll drop by unannounced?”

“Are you planning on doing inappropriate shit at the office?”

“No, I’m just curious, and this seemed a casual way to ask that wouldn’t imply I want to be your friend.”

“Well done then.”

“So are you married? Dating anyone serious? Have a few baby mamas around town?”

“I don’t believe women are my equals so I will never be in a serious relationship with one of them.”

I nearly laugh at the sincerity behind his bullshit comment especially after how respectful he was to his precious waitress.

“They can’t be your equals because they’re women? I ask. “Or because you’re such a huge * that no one else can compete?”

“Don’t be offended,” he says, clearly wanting me to be offended. “Women can do whatever the f*ck they want. Just not with me.”

“I’m not offended. What do I care what you think about women? Now if I were your mother, I’d be very disappointed, young man.”

“My mother is dead.”

Hayes’s tone tells me he wants me to shut up, and I immediately know I must keep the conversation going. “I’m sorry. My mother is dead too. Is your dad dead?”

“No.”

“Mine is. I guess that means I win the saddest child contest. Do you have any siblings?”

“No. I was a miracle child born when my parents were in their late forties.”

“Ah, miracle child. Explains a lot.”

Hayes smirks. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I was the middle child, so that makes me the one my parents planned and yet they paid the least to. I have two, attention-hog siblings. They bitched and moaned all f*cking day and night. Honey had chronic headaches that made her whine more than any human has ever whined ever. My brother Peat was super clumsy and always injuring his balls. He also masturbated constantly, causing him to bang around his injured balls. Let’s just say that led to more self-pity than even ten teenage boys should accomplish. I think knowing my family history should help you understand why your crap doesn’t faze me.”

“Your family sounds horrible.”

“My family could kick your ass, dickface, so watch yourself.”

“Your parents are dead. I doubt they’ll be much help in a fight.”

“My brother’s dead too, but Honey can take a punch clearly,” I say and then stare really mean at him. Hayes nearly burst into giggles, but I don’t relent. “I’m the one you need to watch out for. I’m one reason my brother’s balls were always sore. I kicked him in the crotch weekly. I always go ball-shot. Every time. Even if the guy gets ready and covers his balls, I’ll run behind him and nail them that way. You should really consider wearing a giant cup to work.”

Hayes lets out a loud, ruckus laugh that makes me feel like I’ve tamed a beast. As exhilarating as it is to get him to loosen up, I’m more concerned by how appealing I find his smile. The last thing I need is to fall for my boss and f*ck up the best job I’ve had.





FOUR - HAYES


The meth dealer isn’t from White Horse. He works out of the town next door. Even though Common Bend isn’t usually my problem, lately it's suffered from revolving sheriffs and turf wars. Though the Bend’s issues have settled down recently, I have a punk f*ck selling his shit in my territory.

Unlike the Common Bend sheriff, I don’t have a biker gang pushing my buttons. Another motorcycle club calls the shots in neighboring Hickory Creek Township. My muscle is purely freelance. White Horse thugs do what I say, not because of an alliance to a crew, but because I pay well and spill blood easily.

The White Horse sheriff is an extension of my power. He handles the small crimes, but I’m the one who really keeps the town safe.

“Found this * selling his shit by the White Horse Mall,” Sheriff Briggs tells me.

Despite having the cops on my payroll, I don’t rely on them for muscle. The two guys holding the dealer are losers, but they’re my loyal losers. They’ve lived on the harsh streets of Nashville and know the deadly pressure the police and competition can cause. Here in White Horse, life is orderly. Do what I say and no one suffers. This dealer will soon learn I tolerate no disobedience.

“Hey, man,” he says to me immediately.

I reach into the back of my truck and find a crowbar. The dealer’s fake smile fades.

“Now wait.”

“You’re in White Horse,” I explain while walking to him and swinging the crowbar.

The metal hits his kneecap, and he drops to the ground.

“Pick him back up,” I tell Joe and Greg.

They grin at my instructions. These losers love beating on people. While I don’t particularly enjoy hurting people, I relish instilling fear in my enemies. This guy will cry to his sheriff boss about what a scary f*ck I am. He’ll also share his horror story at all of the Common Bend shitholes. The locals will claim I’m crazy or evil. Whatever they say, their fear translates into staying the f*ck out of my territory. If people in White Horse want their drugs, they can drive ten minutes to Common Bend and buy it there.