One Shot (The Anti-Heroes) Read online

  ONE SHOT

  Nikolai Andrew

  Copyright © 2021

  by Nikolai Andrew

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Have you…

  Like what Nikolai brings to the feast?

  About Nikolai

  1

  Jacob

  I look at the ooze of crimson seeping from the split skin over my knuckles and think blood and red roses are the same color.

  It makes perfect sense that the quintessential symbol of love is really a warning of the bloodletting that’s sure to follow. That’s the thought that sticks with me as I step off the last bus of my route and take a deep breath of the free air.

  It’s mid-afternoon and chilly for late summer in Detroit, and all along the ride I kept thinking about how I went from child to man in prison. It feels surreal as I move around, no one telling me where to stand or what to do. I feel like I’m playing a part in a movie instead of exercising my free will for the first time in far too long.

  The area here is shit but that doesn’t matter. I’ve slept in doorways, under bridges, in cars. For a second, I consider that may be a more familiar arrangement than what Thomas has set up for me. I’m not that good with people and I’m sure in the end, I’ll fuck up and maybe I should just turn and head the other way right now. Find an old motel.

  And a fight.

  There’s always a fight somewhere.

  But, this isn’t just for me, it’s for Thomas, the only person in the world right now that means shit to me. He saw something in me when I went inside, took him a couple years to earn my trust but he did, and he became a mentor and a father figure in a way.

  My own father was a piece of shit and I’m happy he’s rotting in the ground. Thomas gave me a glimpse of what a father could be. Of what I missed. How things could have been different.

  I hated having to leave him there, and my project dog, Toto. I snap my tongue over my teeth, feeling my chest tighten remembering Toto’s brown eyes looking up at me as I handed over his leash.

  My ever-present rage simmers just below the surface as Toto’s last bark echoing in the cell block as I walked away still rings in my ears.

  I glance down at the scrap of paper where Thomas scrawled the two addresses, I sniff and shoulder the small bag on my back, remembering the last thing he said to me before I left.

  “My wife knows you’re coming, just not when. Same with Dan at the construction site, so try not to scare the shit out of them and give them some slack if things aren’t Betty Crocker ready for you when you show up.”

  Inside my bag are the few belongings I turned over when I got to prison, a big fucking roll of hundred-dollar bills—my winnings from my fights inside, and a worn photograph of my mom, the only woman I’ve ever let into my heart.

  Until my dad stole her from me.

  I don’t spend any time thinking of how many of my fights ended with my opponent in a body bag. I earned my nickname and my reputation quickly on the inside.

  In my first two fights, I took down my opponents with one punch a piece. The second one never woke up. It’s all covered up, you play ball, they make sure there’s no investigation. It’s all sanctioned at the highest levels. The guards and the warden were dirtier than anyone else. But I won every fight I took. Not all of my opponents ended up dead, but a handful. I felt nothing for them but rage. The rage is always with me. It’s my comfort.

  I was sentenced for manslaughter at seventeen, tried as an adult due to the violence of my crime.

  The motherfucker I took out deserved it. He was head of the gym where my foster parents enrolled me in a boxing program trying to channel my violent energy. It worked, until I found out the coach was fucking around with the younger boys. That ended his life, and mine in its own way, not that my life in the state system was much different than in prison.

  I look up when I hear voices and see a guy, maybe mid-twenties, about a block away, throwing his arm around an older lady with one of those old-school pull-behind grocery carts. His jeans are below his ass, black boxers sticking out. His sideways ball cap and a gold necklace as thick as a dog’s choke chain tell me he thinks he’s the shit around here.

  I may have been in prison for twelve years, but I can see and smell a poser. I focus on the uneven sidewalk as I trudge forward, my hoodie pulled low on my forehead, telling myself to mind my business.

  As I get closer, I see the old woman is all of five feet nothing, wearing a long black wool coat, a bright blue scarf and brighter red lipstick, stooped over with a hint of gray hair showing on her forehead.

  Her high-pitched voice drifts to the other side of the street and I hear annoyance in each clipped word. “No thank you, Derrick, I’m quite capable—Dwight, stop it, I don’t want your help.” She’s trying to pull her trolley out of the hands of the second man, who looks so much like the first I wouldn’t be surprised to see a mirror between them. “I can pull my own cart, now leave me the fuck alone.”

  “We’re just trying to help.” One of them reaches into the cart. “What’s this?” He asks, then hoots. “Whooo! Lookie here…fuck, you livin’ your best life, couple ribeyes, bacon…what else we got?” The first guy laughs and roots through her cart and that twisting heat builds in my core. That urge to purge as familiar as breathing and I do my best to ignore them.

  Keep walking, West. It’s not your fight.

  “You little bastards, your father would be disgusted with you both.”

  “Yeah, well he ain’t around anymore, is he?”

  The rumbling growl comes from deep in my chest as the animal awakens. Fucking disrespectful little pricks. I walk faster, when the one I think she called Derrick grabs the purse off her shoulder, and she grips it tight, the grocery cart spilling to the ground as she tries to hold on and I’m done.

  I zero in on my targets.

  “You little shit,” she barks. “Give me that back!” She’s yelling now, but I’m already at a dead run.

  A couple curtains twitch in the windows of houses as I race by. Most are big places, rundown, and there are vacant lots here and there mixed in with a few burnt-out shells.

  The two fuckers are too busy, and too confident, to see me coming. Maybe with two of them, they could have put up something of a fight if they were ready. Instead, I drop my bag, cock back and my fist connects with the side of the first one’s face, knocking his stupid ball cap to the ground as he yelps. Not my best shot, but it does
the job, laying him out flat, blood already covering his cheek, his eye swelling, as Derrick turns my way.

  I don’t issue warnings.

  “Come on, motherfucker,” he taunts, slapping his chest as my familiar rage calms and centers me. This is all I know. This is what I do. I fight. I destroy. Then, I can breathe.

  He throws a pathetic punch like a butterfly flapping at the side of my face. I snarl as I step into him, throwing a body shot that crumples him over, gripping his stomach and he’ll be lucky if I didn’t rupture his spleen or explode his liver. I grunt as I step forward again, my knuckles connecting with his nose in a spray of blood, holding his body in place for my knee to connect and maybe snap his neck.

  You kill him, you’re going back. The voice in my head makes me pause for a split second…

  In my peripheral vision, I see the lady step back, clutching her purse, but she doesn’t move away. I cock my leg, twisting just enough to see her face, bright red lipstick, penciled-in eyebrows, blue eyeshadow, like she’s heading to church…then she nods, crinkles her nose and gives me a little smile.

  She’s enjoying this.

  “Y—you don’t know who you’re fucking dealing with!” Derrick spits, saliva and blood flying from his lips as he writhes on the sidewalk, inching back from me, but I’m not done. The beast has risen and he is not easily put down.

  “Garbage,” I tell him, stepping forward and landing my knee in his gut instead of under his chin, probably saving his shitty life and preventing me from a one-way ticket back to prison. “You should learn some fucking respect.”

  There’s a guttural grunt from behind me as an arm twists around my neck, the scent of over-generous cologne causing me more distress than the weak ass half-nelson he’s trying.

  He’s stronger than he looks, tightening his grip and holding on, nearly climbing onto my back as he tries to strangle me. For a second, I let him think he’s got me, feigning a struggle, tugging at his forearm, but he’s an amateur without the rage.

  I am the rage. I don’t feel fear.

  Or pain. There’s only the rage.

  I slam my head back into his face, then throw my body back, landing on top of him, scraping along the pavement, the back of my head crashing into his jaw as all of my two-hundred and seventy pounds crushes him to the ground. There are some gurgling sounds from under me as he wiggles and pushes to no avail.

  I roll to the side, popping to my feet, not even breaking a sweat. My fingers curled into fists, primed, ready for the next hit.

  “You done?” I taunt, twisting my lips tight, tugging my hoodie back over my head as Derrick lunges—not at me but to the ground, crouching next to Dwight.

  He gives me a sidelong glance, eyes narrowing, but pulls Dwight to his feet and they walk backward, arms around each other. “We ain’t finished,” he shouts as they limp away, bloody and dirty, and I’m tempted to chase after them but before I do, a hand comes to my forearm and I check my instinct to lash out because I’m looking down into the faded-blue eyes of the lady who barely stands to my chest.

  “Thank you.”

  I growl, watching the two douchebags flee down an alley on the opposite side of the street. Then I look around, the cool breeze reminds me where I am and where I’ve been, and the rage starts to abate. “You okay?” I ask.

  “Thanks to you.”

  I bend down and pick up her cart, handing her the steaks they dropped, and she smiles as she puts them in the trolley.

  “Come for dinner. It’s the least I could do.”

  I shake my head. I’ve been out of prison for less than a day and I’ve already got fresh blood on my hands. “I’m supposed to meet someone,” I tell her, looking up and down the street, scanning for a house number as I try to figure out how much farther I need to go.

  “You’re meeting someone?” Her look is skeptical, eyes narrow. “Who? This is an old neighborhood, I know almost everyone. Or, is this one of those meetings where you don’t need names?” She crooks a drawn-on brow, a glint of disapproval in her eyes.

  “No. A real person. Laska. Oma Laska.” I pull the paper out of my pocket. “One-two-one is the house number.”

  She cocks her brows. “Oma Laska?”

  I look down at the paper again. “Yeah, Oma Laska.”

  “I’ll take you to her house, if your reputation won’t take a hit from walking with an old lady.”

  “My reputation could use the boost.” I put out my hand. “But, you gotta let me pull the cart.”

  She smirks, her eyes friendly but cautious. Then she nods. “If you think you can handle it.”

  My breathing steadies as we walk. Large, mostly wood-frame houses line the street as I shorten my stride and stay next to her.

  “See that house?” She points to a three story with faded-blue paint and a long second floor balcony. “The police chief used to live there, back when my husband and I first moved here. It was the grandest house in the neighborhood. This was a very desirable area back then. I remember how excited I was to be moving in. I felt so…” She pauses on a tight smile. “Like I’d arrived for my debutant ball.”

  As we walk, the next house has weeds as high as my knees, the shrubs are grown higher than the first story windows and I see the glinting eyes of two feral-looking cats watching us from under the sagging porch. There’s an empty lot adjacent, dotted with torn-open black garbage bags and a half-burned mattress, then another house that I’m sure was grand in its day, but today is not that day.

  “Well, here we are,” she says, stopping in front of the neglected structure, a chain-link fence surrounding the property with a metal gate padlocked shut.

  I look up to see the correct address. “This is Oma Laska’s house?” I ask, listening to frantic yapping of dogs from inside the house.

  “It ‘tis.” She fishes in her purse, pulling out a silver key on a black ribbon and reaches for the lock. “How do you like your steak cooked, Jacob West?”

  It takes a split second to register when she uses my name.

  “You’re Oma Laska.” I should have put it together sooner but what’s the fucking likelihood I’d find Thomas’ wife getting jumped the day I happen to show up? He told me not to bring my shit to his home, but fuck, all I was doing was walking down the fucking street. Shit found me.

  As it always does.

  She nods. “I knew who you were the second you landed that first punch. Thomas will be glad to hear you gave those motherfucking Schuman brothers a schooling.” The swearing gives me pause and she rolls her eyes. “I might be old, but I’m not past it. Come on. I need to get cooking, we eat at six-thirty sharp and my granddaughter will be home soon.”

  I knew Thomas had a granddaughter and she lived here, but I never gave her much thought until now. It’s been a long fucking time since I played civil in polite company. A longer fucking time since I tried to make it in a normal sort of life. I knew this was going to be hard, but for some reason, now that it’s here, my fingers twitch and I’m already planning how to move on as fast as I can.

  I don’t belong here. I won’t fit. But, I’m a man of my word and I don’t want to disrespect Thomas, so I follow Oma, trying to remember to unclench my fists.

  2

  Maggie

  A bunch of half-dead plants should not excite me as much they do. Most girls my age are glowing about getting some D, some cool IG filter or TikTok tips for the best smokey eye. Not me.

  Give me a few flats of shriveled-up plants, and I’m lit.

  The greenhouse where I work had this latest bunch on the usual clearance shelves for a week, but there were no takers, so my boss, Helen, said take them to the dumpster or take them home.

  So, I loaded them into the trunk of my 1986 Grand Marquis and home they came.

  There are a few tomato plants that I’m going to try to get in the ground right away as they are totally root bound in the small seedling pots. Then, there’s foxgloves and geraniums and best of all some waterlilies that I’ll put into my koi pon
d. I can barely wait to tell my babka, gardening is our jam.

  As I get to the back door, I glance at the old notecard my grandmother taped to the glass when I started at the greenhouse last summer after getting my associates degree in horticulture management.

  If you’re going to work in dirt all day, don’t traipse it into my house like a hog out of the pen.

  I’m smiling as I come through the back door into the mud room, setting one of the trays of plants onto the folding table. Above it, the plaster is cracked from a leak in the bathroom above and I remember when my grandfather was still here and he fixed everything.

  Kicking off my boots, I open my mouth to call for my grandmother. Before I get the first word out, Kielbasa and Kabanosy, the Dachshunds we got as strays a year ago, coming tearing through the porch, jumping and clawing at my legs, their little tails wagging a mile a minute.

  “Ouch, stop jumping!” They don’t listen worth diddly-squat. “Eww, you two need a bath, did you go for a swim in the pond again?” I tell them, grabbing them up, smiling down at their wiggly bodies, then turn to the opening into the house and call out from the back room. “Babka, I got free waterlilies!”

  There’s a reply from the direction of the kitchen but I can’t make out what she says over the whining and yipping of the dogs, but the scent of roasting potatoes and onions makes my stomach groan. I lurve food and I know I use it as a comfort mechanism as well. So I’m a little over average in the curvy department. It’s a good thing big booties are in style, because I’ve got booty for miles.