ALL THE RAGE (writer: T.M. Frazier)(10)

The want to destroy.

The want to kill.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that, baby,” Smoke said.

“I didn’t say anything,” I whispered, trying not to give anything away, but he knew he had me right where he wanted me.

“You can fool some of the dumb f*cks out there, but you can’t fool me. I know you only shut that mouth of yours when you’re excited about something.”

Sometimes I hated that he knew me so well. After Cody, I didn’t want anyone to know me at all. The thought of Cody sent me crashing back into reality, the present, and the job at hand.

I focused my attention on the picture I pulled from my pocket. It was one of those school pictures with a typical blue background and the name of the photography company in the lower right corner. The boy had brownish red hair and hazel eyes. A faded bruise on the top of his right cheekbone. His smile was big and bright, although his teeth were too big for his face and he was missing one of the front ones. He was wearing a Tampa Lightning hockey jersey and had a dimple on his left cheek.

“Why is this kid all alone in a shack on the beach, anyway? Shouldn’t he be in school or something?” I asked, again scanning the windows for any signs of life within, aside from the newly turned on light.

“Shouldn’t you?” Smoke quipped. “Besides, I think he’s a few years older than that picture, but that’s all Cannon could scrounge up.”

I rolled my eyes, again like he could see me. Maybe my parents weren’t the only ones who didn’t fully grasp how the phone was really supposed to work. “Yeah, ’cause Cannon is five hundred years old and probably drove to the library to look in the archives when he could have just googled him,” I said, knowing I wasn’t that far off from the truth. Cannon was Smoke’s sometimes assistant.

Smoke laughed again. “Probably,” he admitted. “But I already looked the kid up. He’s got an Instagram account, but nothing on it I need.”

There was movement low in the window of the house. Just a passing shadow followed by a continuous barking. “Great, Smoke, he has a f*cking dog. You didn’t tell me he had a f*cking dog.” I cringed, remembering the Myth Busters episode I’d watched where they debunked the myth about dog saliva being cleaner than human saliva.

“How the f*ck was I supposed to know? That picture and the address was all I got,” Smoke said, sounding less than amused. “You watch your mouth with me. I give you a lot of leeway because we’re cut from the same f*cking cloth, but you remember who the f*ck you’re talking to.”

I ignored his I’m-a-big-bad-independent-biker-who-deserves-respect speech. “Did you know it’s a fallacy that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s mouth?” I asked. “They actually contain ten times more bacteria and most of that bacteria is harmful in some way. Getting licked in the face by a dog is ten times more hazardous then licking the rim of a public toilet. One swipe of their tongue could send you to the hospital and you could die of some horrible disease that causes incurable diarrhea. You could literally shit yourself to death. I mean, can you imagine? SHITTING yourself to death?”

“I can now. Thanks for the f*cking image,” Smoke said flatly.

I continued, “And what they can carry on their skin? There are thousands of types of bugs—”

Smoke cut me off again. “Rage, I actually have shit to do today, and as much as I’d like to hear every little factoid you want to spew about your germ shit, if you keep on complaining, I’m going to cut the brakes on your f*cking *-scooter,” he warned.

I bit the corner of my thumb. “First of all, stop calling her that. Her name is Delilah. She’s a good scooter and never did anything to you, so cut it out. Second of all, that’s fine with me. Do what you want to my brakes.”

“And why is that?” Smoke asked, sounding confused and taking the bait.

I lowered my voice and mimicked Smoke’s fake seductive tone from earlier. “Yes, go, cut my breaks, but then good luck figuring out which of your guns I may or may not have tampered with.”

“Wait, what the f*ck did you do?” Smoke asked as I clicked the END button and shoved the phone back into my bag. I laughed when it immediately vibrated again. I let it ring.

I hadn’t really tampered with Smoke’s guns, not recently anyway, but the thought of him carefully inspecting each one to figure out if I had was just enough payback for him calling Delilah, my trusted powder blue Vespa, a * scooter.

Dick.

My newest job, under protest, was taking place in Harper’s Ridge/Logan’s Beach area, which was a fishing community turned vacation spot for the rich and famous on the Gulf Coast of Florida.

The entire five miles of beachfront had all been taken over by condos, hotels and high rises. In between those buildings was the occasional small cottage being held on to by the owners for the best offer or the stubborn owners who wouldn’t take any dollar amount for their little shacks. These little houses were all built in the twenties and in need of some sort of repair. They had charm, though, unlike the contemporary architecture of the newer buildings. No floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Just sliding glass doors, chipped siding, and country shutters.

An overly tanned, overly wrinkled, seasoned fisherman sat in a chair at the water’s edge, half asleep. His fishing pole, which was set in a plastic pipe dug into the ground, bent at a harsh angle at the top, where either the tide or an awaiting fish was pulling on the line. The fisherman, his chin resting on his chest, was oblivious to his possible catch.