Bad Boy Island #1: Secrets and Sanctuary

Chapter Five - Ford

I don't usually care about a little bit of blood, but this fucker popped like a goddamn gusher when I hit his femoral artery, and I have no choice but to clean myself off before driving back to Cliffside. It's late, but Mrs. Jenkins is still working all hours until they hire a new live-in housekeeper. She won't let me inside with blood on my clothes. She says it's too hard to clean.

We have one gas station in each sector of town, plus this sketchy establishment just on the other side of the bridge. For people who need a quick hit of Venom or want the name of a hitman, The Gas House, run by Anton Yarrow's twitchy, drug-riddled, loyalty-neutral nephew, is the first place you come to when you drive into the island.

I park my truck beside a small, beat-up blue sedan with duct tape on the side and a wobbly, etched-line running around its exterior. There's blood on my boots and splattered across my jeans and t-shirt. I'd wiped my hands on a towel after I left the body for Jefferson to deal with. If he can't gut a snitch with his bare hands, the least he can do is burn the body. I shouldn't have to do this shit anymore. I'm the son of a Lord, not a paid lackey. My dad needs to hire better men for the work because I'm tired of last-minute phone calls hauling my ass off the beach, forcing me to finish a job that's beneath me.

A bell rings when I pull open the gas station door. I look up instantly. Mirrors line every corner of the small, square store. After a nod to Beaker Yarrow who is crouched low behind the cash register, I clock the position and activity of the only other person in the building.

A girl, roughly my age, perusing the aisle of chips and candy bars. Small and short. Full, wavy brown hair that she's flipping over to the right side, creating a shape that reminds me of the perfect wave. Her jean shorts are frayed and barely cover her plump ass, but whatever she's got going on above them is hidden underneath a worn, loose Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt.

I approach the single bathroom door and wrench it open. It stays open. The warped mirror over the cracked, mildewy sink faces the rectangular mirror above the cash register. Through it, I can see the girl, I can see Beaker, and I can see the door.

I can see my reflection.

My white shirt is trashed. Blood has seeped through, making it sticky when I peel it from my skin. The flat, broad muscles of my chest look wet. The shirt lands in the trashcan and when I twist, I notice a small bruise on the back of my tattooed right shoulder.

Son of a bitch got me.

If I were headed home to my father's house, he would express displeasure that his murder-robot has any kind of mark. You're getting sloppy, Ford. No shit, Dad. I should have been on my surfboard, using these long arms and wide shoulders to paddle through the water not snap a man's neck.

There's movement behind me. The girl picks up a bottle of Diet Coke from the fridge.

I grab a handful of paper towels and begin wiping my chest clean. Then, I tug free the hair-tie that's kept my shaggy brownish hair contained and run water through the tips that are typically yellow from the sun, not black from blood.

The girl approaches the cash register.

"You on vacation?" Beaker asks her, scanning a small bag of Cheetos.

"Um, maybe," she answers.

Beaker bags up her Snickers bar and soda, adding, "Well, if you stick around, make sure you come back in for sunscreen. Wouldn't want your pretty pale skin to get burned."

My eyes roll. This pervert is trying to flirt with her, and that's the best material she's going to get.

"Thanks for the tip," the girl replies, handing over a ten-dollar bill.