Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

“So killing people, selling drugs and guns and shit… just business, huh?”

She sighs again, as if the conversation bores her. “You know, in Haiti, people’s lives are bought and sold all the time. For almost nothing. America, you try to pretend you are better, but what is the prison system here? The healthcare system everybody has to pay for? How many lives go in and out, in and out, and it’s legal?”

A half-smile. “Maybe it’s because you are white. You don’t see what’s right in front of you.”

It’s hard not to think of Nic – of what happened back at Dodger Stadium. I want to spit something back in Pop’s face, but everything I can think to say feels wrong. And then there are all those people lined up at Dodger. A queue of weary, sick faces, knowing that the food they’re getting will have to be enough. How many of those faces were black, Latinx, Asian? How many were white? I don’t know. I don’t think I looked.

She goes on. “And after the Big One, here in LA – you think the US government treats people fairly? They don’t give a shit. They never have. Now, we –” Pop taps her chest “– me and my brothers – we do way more than the government ever will.”

“What does that mean?”

She ignores me. “And at least we are honest. We don’t pretend to be something we are not.”

“And what sort of business do you see us doing?” I ask the question before I can stop myself, knowing I’m being led down a particular path, and helpless to stop it.

“Simple.” She digs in her pocket, pulls out her phone. Aims it at me, tilting her chin upwards. “Move something.”

“Sorry?”

“Do what you do. I want a record of it.”

Oh. I see what’s going on here. “You think you can make money off me?”

“Of course.” She shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “A lot of money.”

“Yeah, OK.” I’m aiming for contempt, but can’t quite get there. My cheeks are still on fire.

“You know, it’s a funny thing. You go apeshit on us in the middle of LA, throw around a bunch of shit with your powers, whatever they are, and not a single video or photo makes it online. Not one. Plenty of chatter, plenty of talk, but no evidence. Nothing.”

“Yeah, that was on purpose.”

“I thought as much. But you got people interested, all this talk on the streets now about this superhero who took down the Legends. Now there are a lot of people who will pay money for evidence of what you do.”

“Wait, hold on, just so I get this straight. You’re going to just put out this clip of me using my ability—”

“No,” she says, faintly offended. “I’m not putting it out anywhere. I’m just selling it to the highest bidder.” She pauses, as if thinking. “And maybe showing it to some of the people we run with. Can’t have them thinking we’ve gone soft.”

“… Whatever. You think they’re actually going to believe it? It’s amazing what you can do with CGI these days.”

“I only have to find one person who believes it. What they do with the video after is none of my concern.”

“And after? You just let us walk out of here?”

She at least has the good grace not to lie. “I don’t know. Maybe you and I can work something out, maybe not. We’ll see.”

“Uh… no,” I say. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Maybe I need to explain how business transactions work.” She doesn’t lower the phone. “I’m offering fair compensation for your services. I keep your friends alive. Oh, and I’ll get you some food and—”

Which is when she does lower the phone.

Tilts her head. Looks more closely at me.

“Hm,” she says.

“What?” I snap.

She ignores me, backtracking to the door, having another hushed conversation with Robert. She has her back to me, head out the door, completely unbothered at exposing herself. I can’t do anything but sit there and fume.

This isn’t just a don’t-kill-anyone safe-word moment. One or two other bikers join the conversation, which gets more heated. Pop keeps her voice too low for me to hear, but she’s clearly insisting on something. After about a minute, one of her buddies puts something in her hand.

Pop pulls her head in and locks the door, still with her back to me.

“OK,” I say. “This has been a lot of fun, but how about we get to the part where—?”

Pop has meth.

I realise it before I’ve even finished speaking. She’s holding a small Ziploc bag of it: greasy, crystalline powder. No: it’s not as fine as the stuff we stole before. There are chunks in there, bigger rocks of the stuff. It hasn’t been cut yet. It’s pure. Even a tiny, tiny bit would do the trick.

Pop’s mouth is moving. Words coming out. You could make a bag that size last for ever, taking no more than a little bit every day. How much does it cost anyway? What are they selling it for? They must have more here, too, bags and bags…

Pop registers that I’m not listening, snaps her fingers. “I thought I recognised it.”

My mouth has gone very dry. “Recognised what?”

She smirks. “The comedown. You’re feeling it aren’t you? Riding the old dragon. The stomach. The head.” She taps the back of her skull. “How are the hallucinations? Are you seeing the shadow monsters yet?”

“The… what?” But I know what. The little flickers at the corners of my eyes. The dead certainty that someone is walking up behind me.

“Your pupils aren’t huge any more,” Pop goes on. “But I bet they were, weren’t they? That’s why I didn’t spot it before. I figured the jitters you had on you were because of this.” She waves her hand at the room. “Robert says you weren’t like this before, so what was it? Did you decide to experiment? Take a little taste of what you stole? Good shit, isn’t it?”

She’s still holding the bag