One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(14)

Tyler attempts to shrug him off, a whisper of a smile lifting his lips. “Fuck yourself, mutt.”

Sean hooks a forearm around his neck, pulling him in, and Tyler’s nostrils flare. “Jesus, you reek.”

They both start off toward the back of the house, and Sean glances back at me, giving an exaggerated slow wink as Tyler grits out, “Get. The. Fuck. Off. Of. Me.”

“Come on, baby . . . just the tip,” Sean coos before they round the corner out of sight.

It’s my first genuine smile in a week.





The setting sun lights fire to the sky, soaking my surroundings in an apocalyptic-looking orange hue as Sean pulls up. He steps out of his Nova in his Horner Tech uniform, using his night shift scheduled lunch hour to deal with our latest setback. Offering him the blunt as he approaches, he takes it as we stand between our cars in the gravel lot in anticipation of Tyler’s delivery.

The bay door opens behind us, and seconds later, Russell pulls our newly wrapped Fleet Heating and Air van out of the bay. Jeremy rides shotgun, dressed in his matching uniform, a giddy grin splitting his face.

“Despite some hiccups, that right there is a beautiful thing,” Sean muses.

Jeremy and Russell lift their chins to us as they pass with their marching orders for tomorrow—a collection mission to help pay the bills.

“Can’t argue there,” I say, watching them pull off.

Years ago, we set up several LLCs for all types of inked technicians to make service calls to scope out locations for future heists. Not only has it helped us micro plan robbing our targets, but it also legitimized the businesses with service calls to avoid the LLCs being suspect once we move in. Since we’ve pulled the trigger on one of our first brain children, our warehouse is rapidly filling—so much so it’s close to the time for a donation.

Sean passes the joint back interrupting my thoughts while bringing me back to the matter at hand. “What’s your call on Fatty?”

“You already know the answer to that,” I exhale, pissed Fatty is even an issue. Years ago, when I agreed to let him take part in our secrets, I had one reservation. Being privileged, Fatty never had enough skin in the game.

Sean shakes his head in disappointment. “Damn, man, he’s been good for business. You know he’s loyal. Not to mention he gets the best smoke,” he says, taking said smoke back.

“We’ve got fuses lit everywhere,” I remind him. “We can’t afford these kinds of fuck ups so early on.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about more than Fatty?” His stare hardens, and my lack of reply only pisses him off. “Come on, Dom. I told you the ink will always come first. You, of all people, know I don’t need to be checked or chained.”

I drop the blunt and run my boot over it. “All right, then tell me how you see this playing out.”

“In our favor,” he claps my shoulder, “always, brother,” he assures as Tyler pulls into the garage parking lot with Fatty in tow.

Fatty exits the truck, eyes darting between me and Sean as I take him in. Despite his nickname, he’s no more than a hundred and thirty pounds, and that’s generous. His pet name is derived from the fact that he always manages to score the best bud and rolls it like it’s his business—which he eventually made it—though he’s never gone without a day in his fucking life.

That truth is apparent as he’s led toward us wearing designer jeans and shoes with a price tag that serves as a bitch slap to half the people in our town struggling daily just to keep the lights on. Sulking as he approaches, he looks every bit the sentenced motherfucker he knows he is due to his epic screwup. Cuffs invisible, but there.

Tyler extends Fatty’s phone to me. “He’s clean. His password is in your texts.”

Opening my Camaro, I toss his phone in my passenger seat as Fatty starts pleading his case to me. “Dom—”

“You had one job,” I cut in, tone deaf to any excuse he has prepared. “Tuck and guard the van, and don’t draw any attention to it or yourself,” I relay. “Fucking simple.”

“I wasn’t in it.”

“Should we fucking thank you?” Sean snaps before voicing the question of the hour. “Fatty, what the fuck are you buying pussy for?”

“It wasn’t like that man. I didn’t even realize—”

Annoyed, I refuse him any time for the jury. “You’ve been printed. You’re of no use to us. As you well know, we don’t associate with criminals.”

His expression lights with hope. “That’s just it. My lawyer said we can probably get the charges reduced or dropped altogether because it was my first offense. You can still use me.”

“You’ve been printed. You’re out.” I relay the verdict, done with the conversation. “No exceptions.”

“Come on, Dom. Three fucking years . . . I’ve given you free green. I’ve done everything you asked.”

“If you had done what I asked, we wouldn’t be having this talk.”

Fatty turns to Sean, as many so often do.

“Come on, Sean. You know you can trust me.”

Sean backs me up, refusing him. “We can’t have you close to us, man. Not now. Maybe later on.”

I jerk my chin. “Don’t fill his head with bullshit.” I relay my decision again, temper flaring that he’s still appealing his verdict. “You’re out. Hope the pussy was worth it.”