Page 5 of Black Waters

Chapter Two

Fire

Ford and Connie rolled off the rink and asked Harlan what the hell had happened. Harlan yelled for me to stop running while he tried to help the bleeder I had left behind. Probably needless to say, I didn’t stop running. I was out the front door in a blur, hoping to not be too late to stop Whit from getting in that Lotus.

When I made it to the side parking lot and saw the two about to kiss again, my anger doubled. Without any self control, I barged in and broke up the happy circle. From there, due to rage, my memory is a little foggy. I believe I made threats and demands that I would’ve kept had everything not changed.

By the time Crash was ushered away and one of his overgrown minions was driving away his car—paid for by drug money, I assumed—I still shook with adrenaline. Whit was in my arms as I apologized over and over. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

Her voice was timid. “Not your fault, Link.” She clung to my waist.

Harlan took one glance at me and knew I wasn’t releasing Whit. “Okay, you take Whit home. I’ve got Ford and Connie because we need to put on our shoes before Ford’s uncle has a coronary about his ancient wheels all over this concrete.”

I knew Whit was lying to me when she repeated, all the way home, that she was fine. How could she be after flirting with the enemy? Her lie made me paranoid because it meant she had something to hide. Feelings. And I knew all about feelings and how weak they could make you. Example? My feelings had me leaving my friend to her empty lonely home to go and search for Crash and Shut. Him. Down.

Mug and Pour, where only the daring went, was where I found Crash’s yellow car sticking out like a neon announcement: “Drug supplier in the house! Crash is here!”

I parked at the side of the building and was getting ready to head around to the front of the loud establishment when I faintly heard Crash. I followed his alarmed voice to the back alley and hid between a wall and a god-awful smelling dumpster when I found him in an argument with whom I now knew to be the infamous Candy Man. Crash’s father.

Harold Sr.’s face was hard to see because it was shadowed by a ball cap pulled down low, clearly trying to hide his identity, which didn’t shock me. This poser had Crash by the front of his leather jacket and was slamming the kid up against the brick wall. “Have you lost your mind? All that I went through to keep them off your trail!”

The two men, who had showed up in Crash’s defense at the skating rink parking lot, stood at each end of the alley as if watching for incoming cars. I assumed they were the ones informing Crash’s dad of what had transpired. I stayed hidden while Crash said, “Dad! I didn’t know who she was—”

Crash’s father shut him up with a brutal punch to his right cheek, forcing Crash to his hands and knees. “Think, son. Think! My associates are not in the line of charity work. They kill and ask questions later, you dumb fuck. They don’t want you emotionally tied up or involved with one of their business transactions. They may kill you! They will definitely kill her.”

I wanted to stop hiding and run around the corner screaming, “Who? Who will kill my Whitney?”but I knew the two wouldn’t be so kind as to inform me of their drug dealing connections, so I kept quiet, hoping for more intel.

“Dad, she’s special. Timothy was right. I have to watch over her—”

A kick to the gut had Crash silenced again, falling the rest of the way to the ground. On the back of his neck was another tattoo “Death 1995.” I wondered who’d meant so much to him and couldn’t believe a father could be so cruel to his own son. Remembering the look of hope Crash had earlier in the night, I wanted to punch the man for hating on his blood like this but was too worried about Whit’s safety to interfere.

“Dad,” Crash coughed out. “Please… don’t take her from me.”

I was right. This kid really likes her.

Crash’s father dropped to his own knees and grabbed his son’s jacket again, not caring if he was dirtying his knees in alley muck. “It’s either me… or them. And if the Russians do it, she’ll be underground like her brother. Like your—” The asshole stopped talking, actually looking as if he had a shred of emotion in what, so far, looked to be an ice-cold heart. “Shit, is that what you want?”

I wasn’t stunned to hear Tim’s name come out of Crash’s or his father’s mouth since Timothy had died of a drug overdose, but I was surprised to hear them both speak of Whit’s brother as if they actually knew and cared for the good side of Timothy.

Sounding desperate, Harold Sr. said, “The Russians and that little girl’s father are playing a dangerous game of tug-of-war with vital information. Son, we’re tied into that war more than I want to be, so we must stay clear. If I could only tell you—explain the pot of water you and I are about to boil in, you would stay away from Whitney Summers. I’m sorry, son, but you have to let her fate play out.”

Crash’s voice wobbled. “What about her dad? Maybe he’s changed?”

Changed? What does Mr. Summers have to do with this?

Crash’s father tiredly sat next to him on the dirty ground, seeming defeated. “He already let one of his kids die… Whitney isn’t… we just need to stay out of it.”

What?

The treacherous trail of secrets and lies began to unfold.

“Dad! This is serious. I need your help!” I yelled in my father’s library after explaining what I’d heard in the alley. “He said Mr. Summers isn’t going to help Whitney! So we have to!”

His library/office was large and had high ceilings made of Roman-looking tiles. The darker room had bookshelves from top to bottom and was where you could usually find my father. The odor of the old books mingled with the smells of the antique furniture. A red velvet couch sat in the middle of two end tables with picture frames showing smiling versions of my mother and myself. I remember sitting on that couch as a little boy, wanting to be closer to my dad while he worked at his desk, which seemed gigantic when I was a child.

He turned from the front of that desk that no longer seemed colossal now that I was the size of a man, but I suddenly felt like a little boy again. Spasms of irritation crossed my father’s face while he stalked toward me with the same body language that Crash’s father had, claiming I was playing with a fire I had no ability to put out. “Listen, and listen well, Reether. Those Russians are the most ruthless men I have ever dealt with.”

I stood in front of the library’s double doors. “What do you mean? How do you know about the Russians?”