It’s been a long day working clients into pools of sweat while helping them achieve their fitness goals. Sometimes I get asked why I like training people so much, and honestly, it’s a rewarding experience that calms the storms brewing in my chest. Seeing someone’s body transform through hard work, week after week, and witnessing their low self-esteem turn into badass confidence fulfills me. 

Plus, it makes me feel like I haven’t let my mother down. My career is something she can be proud of, and I am too. 

When I exit the gym, fog rolls down the skyscrapers like an exploded bag of flour, and I like evenings like this, where twilight is hidden by the ocean’s exhale of mist. Despite my childhood being filled with memories of Chuck abusing my mother, I have good memories too. Whenever I was sick, my mom would comfort me with sopita de pollo and fresh, warm cookies from the oven. Then she’d spread vapor rub on my chest to clear my stuffy nose, and we’d watch a movie. 

So, weather like this makes me want to go home, pull on my sweats, and pop some cookies into the oven. Perhaps even make my mom’s chicken soup recipe. So, I text Mindy to see what she's up to.

Mindy: I'm working until 8:00 PM with my new clients.

Me: The Abramovitz?

Mindy: Yeah, I'm at their mansion, and holy heck, is it cool! We're discussing plans over appetizers and drinks. I wish you could join us.

Every hair on my body stands erect as I come to a halt and accidentally bump into another pedestrian. Blinking a few times at the screen, I refocus on the message and try to ease the rapid percussion of my heart. Little does Mindy know, they have her cornered in their den of ravenous wolves. But I have to play it cool. She doesn't need to know I'm involved with them.

Me: Nah, you wouldn't want me there. I'd probably embarrass you while you're in badass babe mode.

Mindy: Strangely, I don't think my clients would mind. They're pretty chill. One of them might even be drunk already and she's only had one glass of wine. Lol.

Me: Let me know when you're done. I think you should come over tonight :)

Mindy: Ok. Chat later. XO

Tucking the phone into my pocket, I can't help but furrow my brows at Mindy bonding with the Sisters while they merrily giggle over cocktails. Instinct tells me to head over to Golden Gate Park, barge into their home, toss Mindy over my shoulder like a hairy caveman, and get her the fuck out of there. But what if that's what they want me to do? What if this is another test, and they're fucking with me?

The ding of a trolley steals my attention, causing my gaze to land on the trail of brake lights from cars traveling down Market Street. It's as if the flashing red warns me to stop spiraling with these wild thoughts. Blowing out a breath, I shake off the fact Mindy is sitting across from a couple of snakes.

That's a worry for later.

But it’s too late to distract myself with picking up the documents from Franky because, according to her, she has a hot date and doesn't want me to interrupt her sexy time. So, I decide to meet Jackson for beers instead. We need to catch up anyway. A lot has happened since the last time we spent time together, and now that he’s looped into our plans with the Sisters, I need to give him an update.

When I enter the brewery, I spot Jackson’s shiny bald head at the bar. He looks like he belongs in a GQ magazine, with his elbow propped on the counter, a pint glass mid-air, and light glinting off the amber liquid as he takes a slow sip. 

Idris Elba has nothing on Jackson. 

“Yo…” I slide onto the stool next to him.

“Sup.” Jackson swivels to face me and points at the chalkboard bar menu against the wall. “I wasn’t sure what to order you, so I got the Blonde Bimbo.”

According to the details on the menu, the Blond Bimbo is a light yet hoppy, crisp ale with a hint of citrus on the finish. My parched mouth waters because it says it pairs well with the fish and chips, and I'm starving.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” I say and swipe the dinner menu from the holder in front of me. “You gonna order food too?”

“Yup. I’m getting the Big Booty Burger.”

“Hm…” I do a quick scan of the description, and it has two beef patties, double cheese, double bacon, mushrooms, caramelized onions, and it’s smothered in secret sauce. “You trying to give yourself a heart attack?”

“Nah, man. I’m bulking.”

“Bulking?”

“Yeah, I’ve decided to compete in a body competition for charity. The fire department is hosting it, and all proceeds will go towards low-funded schools. So I gotta bulk first.”

“Dude, you know I can help you train for it, right?”

“I know, but you’ve got a lot on your plate, so I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Never a burden, man. I love my job. Stop by the gym, and I’ll design a program for you.”

“For real?”

“Of course. I got you.” I wink and reach for the beer the bartender hands to me. 

We place our dinner order and watch the Warriors basketball game playing one of the large flatscreen TVs for a bit, but we didn’t just come here for drinks. There is still a lot I’ve got to get Jackson up to speed with.

“So…” I rub the beads of moisture on the pint glass in my hand. “We gotta talk about Chloe and Evan.”

“What about them?” Jackson asks, his attention glued to the game as Steph Curry makes an impressive shot across the basketball court. Patrons in the brewery hoot and pound the tables, cheering as the score puts the Warriors in the lead.

“Mindy had a little get-together on Sunday, and when I was outside having a cigar puff with Evan, he started pressing me about you and Alma.”

“What about us?” Jackson swivels his head, giving me his complete attention.

“He’s noticed that you and Alma have been acting differently. He suspects something is up and connects it back to Angie.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, he said you guys went bowling and were whispering every time his back was turned.”

“Interesting.”

“Yup. He also said that Alma asked Chloe to be her alibi.”

“What?” Jackson reels back. “When?”

“I don’t know, but apparently, Alma and Chloe were hanging out, and they started talking about Gino getting out of prison soon, and Alma said she would need an alibi.”

“Fuck,” Jackson inhales a sharp breath.

“Yeah, fuck is right.”

“I’ve warned Alma about being too trusting. She adores Chloe, but…”

“Chloe is a wild card?” I say.

“Exactly. I love Chloe, but my mother has always said you gotta be careful with the quiet ones,” Jackson blows out a breath, then takes a sip of his beer.

“It gets worse,” I say, and Jackson sets the pint glass down a little too hard, causing the beer to slosh onto the glossy, wooden bar top.

“Do I want to know?” He wipes the beer foam from his mouth.

“When I gave Chloe a ride home, she started grilling me. She said she wants in on whatever we’re doing.” I glance around and lower my voice, “She basically said she wants to kill Barry.”

“Fuck.” Jackson drops his face into his hands and groans. 

“Fuck is right.”

“So what do we do?” he drags his hands back to his beer but doesn’t take a sip. Instead, he swipes his thumbs across the moisture on the glass. “Do we include her?”

“As I said, Chloe is a wild card. So I’m apprehensive. Not to mention, I don’t want to include anyone else. This shit with the Sisters is no joke. I’m about ninety-nine percent positive Augusta plans to kill me, and I’m not kidding.”

“Jesus…” Jackson studies me. “Are you serious?”

“That’s what her sister Jocelyn told me at Penthouse, and now whenever her man-servant, Kay, comes around, I shit myself. He put a damn gun to my head in broad daylight on Sunday and forced me to go to a warehouse where I had to kill two dudes.”

“The fuck?” Jackson’s eyes bulge at my words. 

“They were pedophiles,” I clarify. “But the point is, the Sisters aren’t playing games, so we can’t have Evan sniffing my ass or Alma saying shit she shouldn’t be saying to Chloe, and we sure as hell don’t need Chloe to be part of this.”

“No, you’re right.” Jackson nods along. “I’ll talk to Alma. As for Evan and Chloe… I admit, I’ve been on edge and not myself lately. I’ll nip that behavior and try to act normal around them.”

“No more whispers.”

“No more.” Jackson nods.

“Also, I may or may not have paid for information on Angie.”

“What?”

“Yeah…” I teeter my pint glass. “I’m not proud of digging for dirt, but we know nothing about her. Like, who is this woman? Aren’t you curious?”

“You’ve been giving her the hot beef injection for weeks. How have you not learned anything?”

“Angie is very private, so no, we don’t talk about deep stuff. We fuck. Or we used to.”

“Used to?”

“Yeah, Mindy and I are exclusive now.”

“I see…” Jackson nods slowly and reaches for his beer.

“What? I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“Look, no offense, and I really do mean that, but you’re all sorts of wrong for Mindy.”

“She brings out the best in me.”

“That might be, but do you bring out the best in her?” Jackson teeters his hand. “Mindy is a nice girl with attachment issues—”

“That’s what Gwen said.”

“And Gwen is right,” Jackson continues. “She needs a man with his shit together—a man who doesn’t exacerbate her anxious attachment.”

“Well, shit. I didn’t realize you had a degree in psychology! Maybe you should be leading our therapy group instead.” 

“Listen, I meant no offense.” Jackson holds up his hands in surrender. “I just happened to be paying attention when Gwen had that session on attachment styles, and the advice she gave about achieving a secure attachment struck a chord with Alma and me. We’ve been using Gwen’s advice to strengthen our relationship, and if you’re sincere about Mindy, you should consider taking Gwen’s therapy more seriously.”

“Whatever.” I wave my hands. “We’ve gotten off track.”

“Right. So, when do you get this information about Angie?”

“Tomorrow,” I reply and raise the pint of beer to take a sip, but I freeze when I catch a very familiar reflection in the titled mirrors behind the liquor shelves.

A firm hand squeezes my shoulders before his gigantic oaf of a body settles onto the stool next to me. My entire flesh recoils as a shiver ripples through my veins. 

“Gentlemen,” Kay says.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I grip the pint glass and contemplate using it as a weapon.

Tonight better not be the night he drowns me or buries me alive in cement. I need a break from the bullshit.

“Who is this guy?” Jackson leans forward and eyes Kay.

“He works for the Sisters,” I say, but Kay proceeds to address me while ignoring Jackson.

“You didn’t show up with Angie today. When I say you need to be somewhere, you need to be there.”

I scoff at his words. “I’m not going to jump whenever you snap your fingers. I have a life and bills to pay. So if you need something from me, you should stop funneling arrangements through basket-case Angie and deal directly with me.”

“I’m not a patient man,” Kay says while slipping on a pair of leather gloves. “When I say you need to be somewhere, you need to be there. This is the last time you’ll disobey an order.”

I’ve only been slapped by two women—my mom and my ex-wife, Celia. But, despite it being a while, the searing pain as Kay’s knuckles collide with my face revives the memory. The man doesn’t punch me. No, he insults me with the slap, and he doesn’t just do it once. Instead, he rewinds and makes contact with the other cheek. It happens so fast that his gloves blur past me for round two. 

"Hey!" Jackson barks.

“If you’re smart, you’ll stay seated,” Kay says calmly while removing the gloves. “As for you, Miguel, don’t forget you have a contract with the Sisters. Next time I tell you to be somewhere, and you don’t show up, it won’t be a slap you receive. It will be a damn bullet. To your mother’s head.”

“Fuck you!” I skyrocket from the stool and shove him.

Patrons look our way, but that doesn't stop, Kay. He bends my hands, spins me around, twists my arms behind my back, and slams me against the bar top—policeman style.

The stool next to me screeches as Jackson stands. “Hey, take it easy, man. No need to throw around threats about his mom!”

“Mind your business,” Kay snarls, then focuses back on me. “You signed the contract willfully. You brought this on yourself. Now be an obedient little puppy, and do as you’re told.” He releases me, and like a condescending fuck-face troll, he adjusts the collar of my jacket and smooths down the lapels. “Have a good night.”

Customers follow him with their gaze as he exits the brewery, while others fry me with their inquisitive gawking. 

“You’re bleeding.” Jackson slides me a cocktail napkin. Sure enough, when I lick my lips, I taste copper oozing from the wound Kay gifted me with. 

“I think he used sap gloves,” I say.

“The kind with metal on the knuckles?”

“I feel like I was smacked with a sledgehammer.” I dab my mouth and wince. “Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.”

“So that’s the infamous Kay? I’d be scared of him too. That guy is a beast. He looks like he wrestles King Kong for shits and giggles. He’s gotta be close to seven feet tall.”

“Kind of makes you wonder how big his Johnson is.”

“Oddly, it does,” Jackson laughs but then sighs. “Whatever happens, I’ve got your back. There’s no way I’m letting that guy put a bullet in your head or your mom's.”

“Thanks, man.”

We settle down onto the stools, and our food finally arrives, yet neither of us reaches for our forks.

I think it’s safe to say we’ve lost our appetites.