Vice City Read online

  “I serve the Vice family,” is all I reply. Is Jeremy trying to say I should be more loyal to him than his father? I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. Jeremy might be getting in over his head if he thinks he can usurp Big Man Vice.

  He releases me and I continue to my car. It’s nothing fancy—a 1980s Ford Thunderbird Town Landau painted a dark red—and she’s scuffed and dinged in more ways than one. I catch Brisko yanking open the trunk and unceremoniously tossing the kid’s limp body inside.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask.

  “Puttin’ him in,” Brisko replies.

  “You’re gonna get blood everywhere. Next time use a tarp, for fuck’s sake.”

  The lummox gives me a quick nod. I shove past him and get into my vehicle. He slams the trunk shut, and I ignite the engine. I can’t get out of here fast enough—I almost peel out as I smash down on the gas pedal. The quiet of the docks is only broken by the hum of my car turning toward the exit.

  I zip out once the gates automatically open, taking to the streets of Noimore at full speed. The glassy surface of Lake Michigan reflects the moon and city lights, but I’ve seen them a million times before. Chicago’s brilliance shines in the distance, but I keep my eyes locked onto the road.

  I zoom by a few cars, careful to avoid the known beats of certain cops. The driving calms my nerves. I can feel myself relaxing the longer I go. Damn kid got me riled. Living on the streets… it’s a “kill or be killed” kind of place. What am I going to gain from helping some urchin? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  Once the bridge comes into sight, I steer my vehicle down the maintenance road that runs near the water’s edge. The gate is busted—it’s been busted for years—and I park by the cement support beam, just out of sight from the road. The graffiti and trash mark the place as a hoodlum den. A perfect place to dump bodies.

  With a heavy sigh I get out of my car. My best course of action is to throw the kid into the river and tell Jeremy I couldn’t make it work. Simple. Easy. No hassle. Anything else will only lead to trouble.

  I place my hand on the trunk handle and hesitate. If I’m lucky the kid will already be dead. He probably is dead, after the beating he got. Against my better sense, I open the trunk. The kid is curled up near the back, his blood staining everything from the tire iron to the car jack. I squint through the darkness, cursing my poor eyesight, but it doesn’t take me long to see the kid is still breathing.

  Damn. The kid’s resilient. I should’ve known… the way he held out against Pete and Brisko… I’ve seen others break under less.

  But I have a gun. I could shoot him and be done with it. Then again, I lied to Jeremy Vice simply to save him. Why waste my efforts? Exhaling, I shut the trunk and get back into the driver’s seat.

  I’ll take him to my flat, let him rest up, give him some money, and tell him to blow town. Everyone wins and I don’t have to deal with any more trouble.

  Of course… nothing ever works out like I plan. Not much I can do about it now, though.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CITY outside my window hums with the music of sirens and rainfall.

  I hate my flat. It’s right on the edge of prosperity, a few blocks from the high-end downtown and a few blocks from the start of the ghetto. Every type of person calls my apartment complex home—businessmen, thugs—everyone. The unpredictable nature of my neighbors only adds to my stress. Are they clean-cut? Or more Cobras? I’ve gotta be on my toes.

  The sizzling of my eggs cuts through the white noise of the outdoors. I love cooking by the window, even if my view is limited by the buildings across the street. The lights and motion of a bustling city get my blood going. I just woke up—I have the schedule of a vampire—and anything that gets me active is a good thing.

  The creak of the hallway sets me on edge, however. With my gun in hand, I turn. Most lights are off, and my vision takes a hit in the darkness, but I see the silhouette of the kid and allow my anxiety to recede. He finally got up. Only took him twenty-eight hours.

  I return my attention to the eggs as the kid hovers at the edge of the light. He doesn’t enter the kitchen and instead just stands still, waiting.

  “How ya feelin’?” I ask, trying to imitate the words of someone with a bit of empathy.

  The kid clears his dry throat. “Good.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “You like eggs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sit down,” I command, motioning to the island in the middle of the kitchen. It’s in the light, where I can see him better.

  The kid complies with my demand and creeps over to the stool. Once he’s under the fluorescent lighting, I get a good look at him. He’s still bruised and battered, but he healed up remarkably fast in a few areas. Youth, I guess. God knows I wouldn’t be walking a day after the beating of my life.

  He straightens the white button-down shirt I left for him to change into. The kid looks good in it. He has mixed blood—honeyed skin and black hair, but wide eyes and a tall stature. He’s thin too, more lithe than gaunt. I like his look.

  “How old are you?” I ask, needing to sate my curiosity.

  “I’m twenty.”

  I flip the eggs and sprinkle pepper over the top. The kid leans his weight onto the island, still weak, but he grits his teeth and doesn’t mention anything. I admire that. Nothing we can do about it. I left him painkillers on the nightstand in the second bedroom—that’s all I’ve got outside of taking him to a hospital, but I know the Vice family would be none too pleased with that option.

  Once the eggs finish, I slap them onto a buttered piece of toast and walk over to the island. The kid looks up to meet my gaze straight on and flinches back.

  I keep forgetting about my eye. It always startles those not expecting it. I guess the kid didn’t get a good look at me in the warehouse. In reality it’s just a cataract—I got “lucky” and developed it at the ripe old age of twenty-five—and it leaves my left pupil milky white, surrounded by a dark brown iris. I’m basically blind in that eye and most assume I got it in a fight. It leaves them feeling unsettled, which only works to my advantage.

  “Here,” I say, tossing down the plate of food. “Eggs.”

  He pulls the toast close and averts his gaze. I walk away and crack two more shells open in order to fry up my own. When I turn back, I notice the kid already inhaled his food. Figures.

  I finish cooking my eggs and take my time consuming them. The kid sits in silence, and I don’t even bother engaging him. I stare out the window. The pulse of nightlife intensifies. Friday is a good night to be out on the town.

  The kid clears his throat. “You’re Big Man Vice’s personal enforcer? They call you Pierce?”

  “That’s right,” I reply. I’m not surprised he knows of me. My reputation is well-known on the streets.

  “You’re the enforcer that… er, is with men?”

  Tsk. I guess everything about me is well-known. “You gotta problem with that?”

  “No. No. Of course not.”

  “Then why bring it up?”

  “I was just curious….” He avoids my gaze.

  It’s an odd thing to ask right out the gate. It makes me wonder why it’s at the forefront of his mind. People are like a grab bag of emotions—you never know who’s gonna flip out over trivial details, like where I stick my dick—but I’ve long gotten over it. If the kid has a problem, I can throw him in the gutter and be done with this mess.

  He doesn’t say anything further. It’s probably for the best.

  “I’m leaving,” I say. “I have things to do tonight. I’ll be back before dawn.”

  After throwing my dishes into the sink, I grab my jacket and light up a cigarette. I really should cut back, but I never get around to it, even though I’m running through a pack a day.

  “You’re just gonna leave me here?” the kid asks, furrowing his brow.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “You’re a grown-ass man. You can take care o
f yourself now that you’re awake.”

  He straightens his posture. “But…. You trust me? In… your house?”

  “You’re smart, aren’t ya?”

  “Smart?” he repeats.

  I nod and exhale a line of smoke. “Yeah. A smart kid like you would know not to cross me, right? He would know that if he fucked with my stuff, right after I stuck my neck out for him, that I would hunt him down and make him regret it? You know that, right? Of course you do. You’re smart.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m smart enough to know that.”

  “Good. Then sit tight. I’ll be back later tonight.”

  “I can… use your shower and… eat more?”

  “You better.”

  He tries to restrain a laugh but fails. With an unsteady hand, he combs back his hair and stares at the kitchen floor. “Why are you…?” he whispers.

  I pretend not to hear and leave before he questions me further. I don’t need those kinds of questions.

  THE CITY of Noimore bustles with the same rhythm it had ten years ago. The same streetwalker stalks the corner of my street, and I give her a sideways glance as I drive by. She probably recognizes me on sight. Same goes for the dealers across the street and the homeless lady who inhabits the bus stop. They’ve lived in the neighborhood longer than I have, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the post office delivers their mail to their permanent haunts.

  Same shit. Different night. I feel like the literal definition of stagnation.

  I pull my car up into the parking lot of my apartment complex and park. Working eight hours straight gets me on edge, but I go wherever the Vice family sends me. Lucky for me tonight was a simple “watch the location” gig. Apparently the Cobras have been in the Vice family’s business more than I realized, and Big Man Vice needed me to make sure his deliveries made it to their destinations safe and sound.

  Snuffing out my cigarette, I step out of my vehicle. It’s an hour or two before dawn and the city has settled down, but the cry of the weekend keeps most denizens awake long after their bedtime. I cast glowers at the drunkards blocking the sidewalk and push them out of my way should they miss the hint. No one offers me any back talk. Probably better for them in the long run.

  Once at my apartment door, I stop and finger my gun. A small piece of me wonders if the kid inside is going to try something stupid. He could be lying in wait, ready to “deal with me” before making his escape. All my guns are in a safe, so I doubt he has those, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t fashion himself a makeshift club from a chair or something. Better safe than sorry.

  I open my door and swing it in. The kid isn’t in the entrance hall. With careful steps, I make my way deeper inside, stopping only once I reach the kitchen.

  The lights are off, but I hear someone fumbling in the spare back room. Stress leaves my body. I put away the gun and switch on the corner light. It’s nothing too bright, but just enough for me to make my way into the attached living room.

  I kick off my shoes, remove my suit jacket, land in my recliner, and flip on the news.

  Sometimes it really does feel as though nothing ever changes. Even the newscaster reports the evening’s events as though he’s a time-traveler stuck repeating the same goddamn day for all eternity. Crime rates this and police force that. Occasionally they talk about the upcoming elections. It’s hard to give a shit when it seems as though you’ve seen everything once before. All I care about is news relating to the Vice family or the Cobras. I don’t want to be left out of the loop.

  I scratch along the straps of my shoulder holster. I should’ve taken it off, but my nerves get the better of me. I still don’t trust the kid—the handgun gives me reassurance. I keep the shoulder holster on despite the discomfort.

  Like a ghost the kid emerges from the darkness of the house. He’s walking around without limping or creeping, something I’m still impressed with, but the bruises will be there for days. He might have some cracked bones too. Those have gotta hurt.

  I mute the TV.

  “Hey,” I say, though I don’t get up.

  “Hey,” he replies. He’s more… confident. He steps out into the living room without being prodded and holds himself straight. His old bloodied jeans make him look like a serial killer, but that’s okay. Serial killers don’t frighten me.

  “Miles, was it? We gotta talk.”

  He stares down at the floor, losing a bit of his confidence as he crosses the room to my chair. “I need to thank you,” he states. “You didn’t have to help me in the warehouse, but you did anyway. They were… gonna kill me back there. And, uh, I’m sorry I lied to the Vice family in the first place. I was just trying to—”

  “Forget it,” I interject. “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. It was my life. I know it might not mean much to you… but it means everything to me, okay?” He swallows hard enough for me to hear. “I… need to thank you.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do,” he says, a hint of defiance in his tone. He clenches his hands into fists and hides most of his face with his hair. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

  I restrain a smile. Is this kid worried about his honor? Does he have some sort of code he lives by? That’ll get him killed on the streets of Noimore, no doubt. Still—it’s yet another detail I admire. How did he ever get mixed up with the Vice family in the first place? He should’ve stuck to the straight and narrow. He could’ve done well there.

  For a moment the kid’s silent and still, but eventually he regains his lost confidence. He holds his head up and stares down at me.

  “Listen. Thank you. What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “You got money?”

  He looks taken aback by my sudden response. He shakes his head.

  “You got any cars?”

  “No. No cars.”

  “What about guns? Have any of those stashed away?”

  “No….”

  I light up a cigarette and offer him one. The kid rejects with a motion of his hand. I tuck the pack back into my pocket and take a long drag. “Whelp,” I drawl. “You’re just as broke as I thought you’d be. How about you send me a nice Christmas card next year? That’s assuming you don’t get yourself into more trouble by then. And that you have the money for a card.”

  “Tsk.” He turns away, tense. I hit a nerve. The kid’s practically red in the face, though it’s hard to see, what with the black eye and busted ear. I chuckle to myself, amused by his pride. I didn’t help him because I wanted thanks; the kid just needs to get over it. There’s nothing he has that I want.

  The kid walks around to the front of my chair. I lift an eyebrow. He’s blocking the television. He drops to his knees between my legs and avoids my gaze. Heat pulses through my body the instant I realize what’s going on. I go still, cigarette between my fingers, unable to bring myself to act.

  With rigid movements he leans down and drags his tongue along the zipper of my pants, tracing the ever-increasing bulge of my cock. It’s so brazen and sexual that my mind locks up with lust, most of my blood pumping south. I want him. It’s all I can think about now.

  He hesitates, losing some of his bold bravado, and I realize he’s waiting for my acceptance. I widen my legs, not uttering a word, and he reaches up to fumble with my belt buckle.

  This is actually happening. I’m on the verge of surreal disbelief, if only because it’s never happened quite like this before. Everyone knows my proclivities and preferences, but I haven’t known a man to “reward” me with a blowjob. The surprise and anticipation of it all gets me close, even without much contact. Fuck, it’s been a while. I guess the kid does have something I want.

  I can see his hands are shaking. Regaining a slight amount of control, I take a long drag on my cigarette to calm my own excitement. He releases my erection from the constraints of my clothing and runs his mouth along the length. His trembling… it drives me mad. It takes all my willpower to just stay seated a
nd watch. He licks along the underside before taking me in his mouth. The slick warmth of it all causes me to shudder. I’ve been alone for too long. A hand just doesn’t compare.

  He goes halfway, sucking and licking the entire time, inching his way down. I grit my teeth when he reaches the base. He half gags and tightens his throat around my cock. Groans of pleasure escape me. I want him to go faster, but I say nothing.

  The kid—no, that’s wrong now—Miles pulls up and thrusts back down, forcing himself deeper. With each repeat I restrain a moan. He goes again until his canines catch along the side of my sensitive flesh. Pain flares through me. I grab a fistful of his hair and yank him up.

  “Watch your fucking teeth.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, gulping down air. “I’ve never done this before….”

  Lust overtakes me. After a moment I don’t feel the pain, and the submissive way he avoids staring up at me gets the blood rushing once more. I release his hair and pull him closer. He swallows and waits while I run my thumb over his lips. Like he knows what I want, he opens his mouth and I slide my digit back along the length of his tongue. He sucks on it, gentle and slow.

  “Use more of your tongue,” I command, rubbing my thumb along the muscle.

  He pulls away, nods, and returns his mouth to my cock. I lean back and enjoy the heated pleasure as he takes it all the way the first time, despite gagging. He’s good at following instructions, at least. He uses his tongue to pad his sucking—even going so far as to caress the tip.

  I’m rapt by his movements. I place my free hand on the back of his head and comb my fingers through his silky black hair. It’s not going to take me long, not if he keeps going with such enthusiasm. I grip his hair when he picks up his pace. He’s skilled for someone who hasn’t done this before.

  “You look good like this,” I say between husky breaths.

  He turns a shade of crimson, and I swear I can feel his mouth increase in temperature. I chuckle as I tilt my head back and focus on the sensations. God, I’m close. I buck my hips, and he offers a guttural moan. Is he enjoying this? Even the mere idea that he wants cock in his mouth sends me over the edge. I tense, my hand trapping his head in place as I pump my seed down the back of his throat. He swallows—if only because that’s all he can do—and I fall back against the chair, loosening my grip on his hair.