Solitude: Before I See
Work Summary: After an interesting night replete with multiple near death experiences, Furia finally comes to the realization that just trying to get by might not be cutting it. Despite her own reluctance about her place in this type of life, the young woman decides to approach this like anything else she has ever done, and she throws herself into her work as she learns the ropes and moves up the ranks.
Chapter Summary: After losing her horrible moonlighting job Furia's long walk home takes a dark turn, which leads her to a decision she never thought she would make. Even her younger brother, Memo, who has been flagging purple for a few months is surprised to find out that his very straight-laced older sister was now among the canonized Saints. Troy escorts the interesting new recruit on the final step of her induction into the Third Street Saints and finds out there is a lot more to the young Latina than could imagine.
a/n: This piece will side toward a more serious storytelling approach. There may still be zany moments of fun, but I will not guarantee that this piece will follow the exact same type of experience as the games offer.
Lots and lots of love to the fabulous Chyrstis who challenged me to first write this boss. Both she and SaintsEmpressJae have offered me oodles of support and encouragement for which I am incredibly grateful. Kisses on your pink parts, dearhearts—you are awesome. Thanks to Chy for the sharp eye, too.
Disclaimer: Saint's Row belongs to THQ, Volition, and Deep Silver. I'm only playing with their universe. I do not own the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. I do it for the love of the game, the world, and the characters; and because they stuck with me long after I turned the game off (and back on, and off, ad infinitum).
01 Blind
-1-
Loud music pulsed with bass in the dim, reddish light of the club. Of course, a lot of the girls preferred that type of music especially for the type of dancing done there, or so they said. In reality, the dancers gave little to no input into the style of music played; it was chosen mainly to placate the club's clientele. Two of the four women behind the bar pulled double duty—Alla and Mindy wanted to dance, but Claudius would only let them do so in the slower hours. Ginger, a tall dark-skinned Amazon, and Furia, a lithe Latina with a dancer's build, were completely content slinging drinks from behind the relative protection of the thick pine bar. Neither of them wanted to dance, nor did they succumb to the manager's repeated entreaties to take to the stage.
The high-pitched squeak caused Furia and Ginger to trade a glance. Almost immediately they counted to three and shot—paper covers rock. Ginger grinned victoriously. "Damn! Again? How the hell do you do that?" Furia asked as she slid behind the taller woman.
"Bitch, I told you I'm psychic."
"It's pronounced psychotic, mujer," Furia corrected, casting a wide grin at her friend with the cherry red hair. When Furia ducked into the storage area behind the bar back, their suspicions were confirmed. Alla, a tiny little girl with a thick Russian accent and nearly translucent skin, was scrubbing at her bare midriff with a grayed towel.
"Keg?" Furia asked.
Alla merely nodded. "Claudi told me it needed to be changed."
Furia nodded and slipped into the walk-in refrigerator. "More like he wanted a reason to be able to keep from having to live up to his word," the five-foot-nine bartender muttered to herself.
While not particularly complicated, slipping up when tapping a keg could leave a person smelling like a brewery. Everyone who worked in the club knew Alla could not get the hang of it. Every time, she tried she wound up drenched and spent the rest of her shift reeking of stale beer.
"Did you bring a change of clothes?" Furia asked as she exited the cooler. After pushing the heavy door closed, she leaned against it.
"Da. Yes," the girl said, quickly correcting herself. She spoke fairly solid English, but since Claudius spoke Russian in the club Alla tended to move between the languages easily.
"Go. Change. I'll cover for you," Furia said tiredly, then trudged back out.
"What the hell took so long?"
"She got doused."
Ginger shook her head. "No surprise there."
Both of them ignored the impatient man tapping his palm on the bar. "¡Ay, Mamí! Who's a guy got to kill to get a drink?"
Furia sighed and slid past the redhead, assuming she would just lose another shoot if she called Rock Paper Scissors. "What can I get you?" she called over the music. Furia laid a white cocktail napkin with a red striped and outlined letter "C" in front of him.
"A shot of whatever you're drinking," the man in the cheap suit drawled.
An old, tired trick, it played out at least a hundred times a night, but Furia did not drink at work. Only a few of the women who worked at the Candy Shop did. The raven-haired Latina responded as she usually did—the hollow crack resounded off the wood as she slammed an empty shot glass on the bar upside down.
"C'mon, mamí. Don't make me beg."
"What do you want?" Furia repeated, undeterred and carefully annunciating every word.
"Have a drink with me. I could change your life," the balding man suggested as he grabbed her hand a little roughly.
The groping was nothing new. In a strip club, patrons tended to assume any female in the place was fair game, even though this club ran under a fairly strict no touching rule, at least out on the floor.
"Let go." Her voice remained calm, her tone cool.
"Do I have to get on my knees?" he grinned, then flicked his tongue out at her in a suggestive manner.
"Danny!" Furia called without taking her eyes off him.
The bouncer at the end of the bar nodded and started fighting his way through the thick Friday night crowd. When the patron yanked her hand, Furia mirrored the action and pulled the man toward the bar forcefully.
"Cunt!" he yelled when his ribs slammed into the metal bar.
Furia stared into his eyes before she locked his wrist, which caused him to yelp loudly. He proceeded to call her every name in the book, and after each comment she applied just a bit more pressure then would ease up. She really wanted to just press that much harder, that much farther and see how he reacted to the sickening crack, but she resisted the urge. Everything about the job and the majority of the patrons pissed her off, but she knew actually breaking that jerk's wrist would garner her an assault charge even though he grabbed her first.
"Hands off the girls, douchebag," Danny growled, bouncing the guy's forehead off the bar. With a wink at Furia, he manhandled him into the clutches of two of the club's security staff, who came over to usher him toward the door.
Danny leaned on the bar as Furia filled a glass with ice and root beer. "You know that's the big man's cousin."
"And?" she replied, setting the drink between them and leaning on the bar.
"Shit, girl! You're going to make me train a new bartender, aren't cha?" he asked with a laugh.
"I figure he's already on the verge with me refusing to dance anyway."
"Why don't you? You could make bank." Danny let his eyes travel her curves, at least the ones most prominent from his perspective.
Furia cocked her eyebrow at him. "That," she said with a tilt of her head, "is not the reason my mother put me in dance classes."
"It's good money. And everyone could use a little more scratch, especially you."
The bouncer was right—the money was the only reason she tended bar. Her part-time gig keeping the books for a dry cleaner could not cover the bills. With her sister about to start art classes again, Furia knew she would be eating rice and beans for the next month, if she was lucky. As much as she needed this job, all her jobs, there were lines she just would not cross even if that class and its fees were an expense her meager salaries barely covered. Necessity lingered in the back of her mind, pushing her to deal with the grabby hands, the leering, and Claudius' regular attempts to get her gyrating on the stage in a G-string.
"I'll stick to mixing drinks, thanks."
Danny shrugged a shoulder at her, letting the topic drop. The sound of the cane tapping on the cheap linoleum caused Furia to roll her eyes. Claudius hurried over to the bar and glared up at her. Furia noticed Alla slink around the bar behind the manager, before she turned her blank gaze on him.
"Since when are you in charge?" Claudius asked thickly.
Furia said nothing, but she stood up straighter and crossed her arms over her chest.
He smacked the metal tube at the edge of the bar, causing it to ring loudly. "Who do you think you are? You give my staff extra breaks. You undermine my authority. And you assault my customers?"
"Actually, he assaulted me, if you want to be specific."
"This is a strip club."
"This place has a no-touching rule. Plus, I'm a bartender, not a dancer," Furia said. She may not want the job, but she was not about to disrespect any of the women trying to make a living in that manner.
"Not anymore. You want to shake your ass? You have a job. Otherwise—"
"I'm out!" she announced before he even finished his threat.
Ginger slung drinks, but watched the entire thing out of the corner of her eye, or so Furia guessed when her friend tossed her the black hoodie she always wore to and from her shifts. "See ya later, Sweetie," the tall black woman called putting her hand next to her ear like a phone and mouthing the words: call me.
Furia winked at her friend and climbed over the bar, hopped into the crowd, and made her way to the exit of the club before the short, rotund man could come up with a response. People were packed into the club thickly because of the drink specials and the game being broadcast so she had to squeeze through a crowd. At the door, some guy grabbed her arm as she tried to exit, Danny yanked him off her and pushed him up against the wall, smooshing his face against the damp bricks and mortar.
"If you need anything, you let me know," he ordered in his deep voice, which strained for a moment as he wrestled with the drunk.
Furia shrugged, her eyes moving from him to the incoherent grumble of the drunk. "I was getting tired of listening to the same music every night anyway."
Danny laughed and shook his head. "Take it easy."
She zipped up her sweatshirt and pulled the hood over her smoothly tied back hair. "You know me," she replied playfully as she took a slow exaggerated step, adding a little bounce to it.
The guy he was leaning against started to more vocally protest, and Danny turned his full attention to the idiot as Furia jogged up to the corner. Checking her watch under the street lamp, she knew it was too late to catch a bus. But since she walked out before the end of her shift, she also did not have the cash for a cab, not that she could have spared it. Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she resigned herself to the long walk home through some of the toughest neighborhoods in Stilwater.
Her fingers ran over the smooth case of her phone in her pocket. She could call her brother or her uncle. Both of which would want to know why she was in this neighborhood. Her cousin Miguel would not be so curious, but his girlfriend Jen had a big mouth, and since she would be driving there was no chance she could be trusted to not let this slip. With a long deep breath Furia decided just to walk and attempt to be as unnoticeable as possible, which was pretty easy in her oversized hoodie and baggy jeans.
The first half of the trek proceeded uneventfully; but twenty or so blocks from home she turned the wrong corner. The sight of the three guys in yellow were enough to prompt her and two of the hookers on that corner to cross the street just as a trio in blue strolled up. Furia knew the colors, knew the signs, and found herself wishing she had just sucked it up. Listening to Memo bitch for the entire fifteen-minute ride back to her place suddenly looked really good. She realized too late that she was one of the few people not smart enough or fast enough to have run when the Rollerz had shown up. Then, as these things usually happened, the situation worsened.
The big engine purred deeply; it was a sound she could appreciate, though the red paint job left her searching for any escape route. When the gun fire started her stomach lurched and she darted toward a small parking areas suddenly focused on just finding a place to hide. The out of control convertible barely missed crushing her. It all moved so quickly; she did not even have the chance to curse her stubbornness before the lone Carnales survivor fell to the spray of bullets from an assault rifle held by one of the blue-clad Rollerz. Another shot rang out as she scurried toward the brick wall. The Vice King, his bright yellow t-shirt sprayed with a fine red mist, walked over to the man still crawling on the pavement. The Latino banger looked right at her—stared at Furia as if she could help him. Her entire body jolted with another loud shot. His eyes remained on her, but there was nothing there. Even so she couldn't tear her gaze away.
That confrontation ended with the VKs on top.
Furia pressed herself against the brick, holding her breath. Please don't turn around, she thought over and over. It really was too much to hope for. Her eyes locked on the gun rather than the man holding it. Even as he walked toward her, she tried to scramble backwards. Her ragged inhale rang in her ears when the gun raised.
"Wrong place. Wrong time, dawg!" the gangster in yellow drawled. He seemed to move toward her in slow motion. Every step echoing in her head.
Her mind drew everything out until those few seconds felt like minutes, like her brain was trying to do that whole life flashing before your eyes thing, but the DVD seemed to be scratched so it just idled along frame by frame. It focused solely on that moment. There was no recollection of her parents, her childhood, or formative moments in her life. Just that gun rising inch by inch by inch.
Somehow, Furia had managed to live on the Row for twenty-one years and never once found herself staring down the barrel of a gun, until that moment. Furia knew she had been lucky. She knew just how rare that was. Her hand instinctively wrapped around the cross which hung around her neck and she started mumbling the prayer she had memorized as a child. Even if she had not recited it in years, the words were still on the tip of her tongue as she screwed her eyes shut with the realization that she preferred not to see it coming.
It should have been louder, she thought when the shot resounded off the brick and asphalt. Exhaling the ragged breath she held, informed Furia she was, in fact, not dead. Her bright hazel eyes opened just as a man crouched near her. Out of instinct she pulled away, scrambling along the wall.
"You okay, playa?" he asked in a deep, reverberating voice. She just shook her head. When he offered her a hand though, she took it and he helped her up. They did at least get around the corner before the car finally exploded.
Damn shame, that, Furia thought. The engine sounded like a work of art, even if it was crammed into such a poor example of machinery.
The man who introduced himself as Julius helped her up the street, talking the entire time about the Row, the gangs, the violence. Troy, the one who shot the guy that drew down on her, seemed extremely anxious. His eyes were constantly moving and he did not put his gun away, though once they were a few blocks from the shootout he no longer waved it around. Julius continued talking the entire time without more than a glance or two toward the armed man. After another block, the three of them parted ways. That's when it happened. The older man in the leather jacket extended her an invitation, which played through her head all the way home.
Furia limped back to her flat as quickly as she could manage with the aches. She wondered if that same speech turned her little brother's head. Or maybe they recruited him after a similar incident—some Saint intervening at the last moment, saving his life, then asking him to step up for Stilwater. Memo was nineteen and she wanted anything else for him than the type of death she witnessed and almost experienced that night. When she first noticed his new affinity for purple, it floored her. Now, she thought she might understand why, because her own experience left her considering taking the invitation, too.
-2-
The graveyard behind the decrepit Third Street Church bustled with activity. People perched on the steps chatted and laughed with one another. Music blared out of the trunk of someone's Compton convertible. Columns of sunshine streamed through breaks in the clouds making the temperate day brighter and making it feel warmer than the temperature might suggest. All combined, it made for a surprisingly downright nice day.
Guillermo "Memo" Guerrero pushed the sleeves on his black, denim jacket up toward his elbows, he left it on to guarantee no one could outright eyeball the piece he carried. Upon entering the courtyard, the imposing man took note of it all, not only of the people dancing—on the steps, in the grass, and even someone's girlfriend twirling away on the hood of a supped up muscle car—but he also noticed who stood around and who seemed to be paying attention.
Scrutiny rewarded him with shreds of information. A few of the guys looked a little worse for wear. There were four black eyes, half a dozen split lips, and one guy might have a broken nose. When he paired those injuries with the relatively fresh blood stains on the concrete he winced. Fuck, I missed another canonization.
"Hey, cuz!" Miguel called as Memo approached the tree.
The six-foot-four-inch Latino nodded at the older man in the wheelchair. "¿Qué tal, guey?" Memo greeted taking his cousin's hand and leaning toward him landing a few powerful pats on his shoulder blade.
Miguel glanced up and smiled widely. Something in his eyes made the tall man reply in kind. "Damn carnal, I can't believe you missed this."
"We get some new blood?"
The paralyzed mechanic laughed. "Did we get new blood?" He peeked up at his girlfriend, laughing. "Look at this guaje.1 Seriously? Yeah, Saints got some new fucking blood all right. Hey Mikey D," Miguel yelled, eying Memo in a way that set the big man on edge.
Something was up. His cousin was way too revved up and being far too coy. Memo offered a cursory nod to the thin country boy who joined them.
"Tell my perpetually late cousin here, what happened."
Mikey looked at both of them curiously, but complied. Memo studied the kid's face—black eye, split lip, a sweet cut along his cheekbone, but there was not even a scratch on his knuckles. Mikey's description of events was scant at best. Whoever the new guy was, he pulled a Gat on them all and beat the hell out of five guys and jacked up Thundercat's nose in the process.
Miguel took a playful slap at Mikey's leg and prompted, "Tell him the best part. I swear Memo, you're going to love this."
Mikey sighed heavily and ran his hand through his short hair. His embarrassment bubbled to the surface as his cheeks reddened. "It was some chick."
"What the hell?" Memo replied, before engaging his inner censor. He looked Mikey over with a sharper eye and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Some girl did that to your face?"
Mikey glared at him and pulled away from the hand on his shoulder.
"This was not some piece, like the tricks. She was … I don't fucking know, but I …" He shook his head, chewing at his bottom lip. "Shit, you remember how long you and I went at it before you knocked me out cold. I don't fuck around. But this bitch was a Buffy. Knocked me out cold in ten shots."
"Less," Miguel corrected. "And don't call her a bitch."
The last comment drew Memo's interest. "Who the fuck is she?"
"Man, I'm telling you, I wish you would have been here. You've been waiting for a chance like this for years. I swear, cuz."
"Would you stop jerking me around Miguel, and tell me who the hell it is?"
"My cousin," Miguel said proudly, wearing a huge grin.
Memo narrowed his dark eyes on the slightly older man. "Your cousin?" The little flick of Miguel's eyebrows made Memo's mind fly right to an option he should not be entertaining. "No."
Miguel nodded.
"No fucking way."
Another nod.
"She would kick my ass if she knew I was flagged up."
"Oh please, man, she knew before you were canonized," Miguel told him. "Even if you wear as little purple as possible. Fuck, you could go rolling around unflagged, and she would still know. She always finds out the shit you try to keep from her. It's her job man."
Memo wrapped his meaty paw around Mikey D's collar, still not sure he believed his cousin. "What was her name?"
"Who? The chica who beat your boy's ass?" a nasally voice asked from a few steps behind them.
Memo did not look at her; he just stared at Mikey, who looked a little scared. Memo preferred that kind of reaction. A large man, he prided himself on the few things he had a knack for—scaring people and beating them to a bloody, quivering pulp.
Peaches strutted toward them and ruffled Mikey's hair before she finally caught Memo's eye. "So he's her baby brother?" she asked Miguel, poking a thumb at Memo. She shifted her weight and looked at the tallest of the bunch. "She said her name was Furia."
Memo's eyes went to Mikey's. The guy nodded furiously in agreement. The heat in Memo's blood prickled at his skin. After a moment, he loosened his grip on the battered boy and leaned over his cousin trying to control the growl, tingeing his voice. "You let her …"
"Don't get all alpha on me, Guillermo. Nobody lets Furia do anything. Shit, she would have beat me as bad as them or worse if I'd have tried to stop her again."
"Again?"
"I tried to talk her out of it. But she said it had to be done, man." Miguel tipped his head to the side, which prompted Memo to stand and walk with him a little further away. When they stopped, Memo crouched beside his cousin's chair. "You remember I told you she'd been coming to see me. Doing a little work here and there. She's been boosting for me. And don't look at me in that fucking tone of voice, cabrón."
"What are you talking about? Why would she be running for you?" Memo asked. He rubbed at his forehead. Why didn't she tell me? Why didn't she come to me if she needed help? Part of him worried about what might be going on. He wanted to know what she might be keeping from him.
Miguel leaned on the arm of his chair, gauging his cousin as he spoke in a quiet voice. "Whenever shit gets tight, she does a little work for me. Like when the twins were both playing ball at the same time." He shrugged and shook his head. "Look, man, she just said some shit's gotta change. Sounded kinda like you when I tried to talk you out of it."
As his cousin started to back away from him, Memo pulled him back. "What'd she say that convinced you? Because I know you wouldn't have just stepped aside and let her do this without calling me, unless she said something to sway you?"
Shaking his head, Miguel looked Memo in the eye. "She wants to make sure the little ones don't fall into all this," he said with a little gesture that suggested everything around them. "Furia said she wants to get to a point where life is more than G-strings and boosting cars."
The admission shocked Memo. Miguel did not seem too pleased to have been informed of it either. Furia's brother shot to his feet and all but yelled, "What?"
"Calm the fuck down, guey."
"She's been…" Memo closed his eyes and ran his big hand across his forehead. "Please, fucking tell me, my sister has not been …," he said slowly and quietly.
"I'm not going to tell you shit. Those were her words not mine. And no, I didn't ask for clarification. I really don't want to think about it truth be told. Because if I think about it then I'm going to have to get you and a couple of the boys to break some bones and probably have to make arrangements to crush a few cars."
Memo snorted softly. "Símon.2 I hear ya, cuz."
"Look, she might have found her niche. The way she took those boys down. Fuck, she did it faster than you."
"She still here?"
"You see her?" Miguel said, stating the obvious. After a moment, he added, "No, Julius sent her out with Troy for her welcoming gift."
The younger man slipped his hand through longish hair. At least she's not with Johnny, he thought. He knew his sister could hold her own, but he was not sure she could handle Johnny Gat's brand of action. At least with Troy, Memo figured she would be set, she'd be safe. He preferred Troy's more thought out approach to Johnny's kick in the front door choices.
Guillermo's eyes swept the courtyard again. The smile on his lips bloomed with pride as he took special note of the evidence of his sister's prowess. One thing he knew for certain, Furia would not end up some gangsta moll. She'd either earn her stripes or stay a soldier. Memo refused to let any of these motherfuckers try to stake a claim to his older sister; he cracked his knuckles loudly and stretched his neck.
-3-
Troy Bradshaw ambled a few steps behind her. Her walk possessed a smooth, yet metronomic quality and he tried not to give too much attention to it. As they approached Friendly Fire, he had taken a few moments to appreciate the fluid motion of her body, which he quickly regretted. She distracted him far too easily and in the worst ways; regrettably Furia did not take her time choosing a weapon. The young woman merely asked Troy his opinion then held a few pistols before she decided on a .45 with a good-sized clip.
After they left the store, he could see the difference in the way she moved as she tried to compensate for the new weight on her hips. The shocked expression she wore the night before did not show up once, though he had not expected her to appear at the church at all. He certainly could not have anticipated the way she handled her canonization. The memory of it made him shake his head. She certainly was not like the other ladies who usually hung around the church, of course, that had been abundantly clear last night when Julius tried to recruit her.
Julius Little was calculating, and the Saints did need numbers, but he typically did not actively recruit females. When Julius laid the hard sell on Furia the night before, it perked up Troy's ears. He didn't know her name or her face from any of the files or updates he received from his handler, which suggested she was completely new to the game, though he overheard one of the guys insinuate she had family flagged up with the gang. Bradshaw guessed from Julius' reactions, both the previous night and when she showed up today, the leader of the Saints knew Furia, somehow. Troy wanted to know how.
"So, you grew up around here?"
She nodded then pointed past him. "About a couple dozen blocks East of here. A quick drive, if the traffic's good, though it usually isn't. Hell, I was confirmed in that old church you're … we're holed up in," she replied with a laugh.
"And everyone just calls you Furia?" Troy tried to remain careful as he felt her out. He needed a name he could search if need be.
"Been called that since I learned to walk, basically. Why? Does it not fit?" She turned and faced him, walking backward carefully with a mischievous grin painted on her lips, as if daring him to disagree.
Troy shrugged and flicked away the cigarette he finished. Fierce and tenacious on the surface, something else hovered in her gaze—the reality beneath the bravado. She did not look wholly comfortable, either with the gun or the situation he ushered her toward. She should not be here, Troy really wanted to be able to give her an out. Except there was no escape he could offer. She showed up at the church; she was in now. No matter how much he would prefer not to see someone like her mixed up in all this, he couldn't interfere.
"I just like to know what I'm working with," he finally answered.
She turned again and tucked her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. "Determined," she replied, her voice stoic. "You're working with determined and focused." This time, when her eyes met his, he knew it was the truth, sans the bluster.
"I can deal with that."
When they turned the corner, both stopped in their tracks. The trio in yellow loitered about halfway up the block—two of them leaned on an ugly gold beater, while a third just lounged on a nearby stoop.
Furia took a deep breath, staring at them. "So this is the test, sí? Should be fine," she stated. He could hear it; she was trying to convince herself of the fact as much as him. His eyes followed her hands as she unzipped the hoodie and tossed it at him.
As much as he tried not to, Bradshaw could not help but stare. The baggy jeans and massively oversized hoodie cleverly disguised the lithe shape of her body, but the lace top with thin straps revealed so much more of her physique—slim with a hint of supple muscle under soft-looking skin. Staring transfixed was not the best option, he knew, but his mind rebelled and his eyes just took it all in. Her hands untwisted and loosened her jet black hair. After she slipped the thin elastic around her wrist, Furia ruffled her wavy tresses, fluffing a little life into them. Loose curls fell down her back and over her shoulders. Then she glanced over her shoulder at him, wearing a crooked smirk and giving him a confident wink before strutting up the street.
He stayed back, moving at a much slower. She pegged it, this was her test, but she was not completely on her own. His job was to make sure no one got the drop on her, and to help out if he needed to. Of course, you might be more help if you stop staring at her ass, he reminded himself. Her walk seemed less affected by the weight of the pistol in the holster at the small of her back. Not the best choice, but at least they can't see it yet. Bradshaw figured the change in her movement came as a result of her trying to seem innocuous and distracting.
And distracting she has down. Innocuous. Not a chance. But they won't see that. Not many men would. There was nothing harmless, safe, or bland about the woman sashaying down 12th Street. Furia reminded him of one of those brightly colored venomous snakes—attractive and dangerous. But precisely how deadly, he could not be sure of yet.
The sharp whistle made Troy halt. He turned toward a car parked illegally close to a fire hydrant and set her hoodie on the trunk, burying his own pistol in the loose fabric as he waited for it to start. She continued her path up the street. In truth, he expected more hesitation on her part.
"Hey, now. What have we here?" the one on the stoop asked, leaning forward and leering at her pointedly.
"I don't know, but caramel is my favorite," a short, round white kid in yellow added.
"Aww. That's too bad," Furia purred. "I prefer something stronger than vanilla."
Troy tried not to laugh. The man on the stoop unfolded, and stalked toward her. Damn he's a big son of a bitch. The guy looked like he was at least six-foot-three. He towered over Furia, but she did not miss a beat; she shifted to her left just so. Her movement was quick and effortless. When the shot rang out they were all surprised, even Troy.
Vanilla grabbed her gun and Furia kneed him in the groin. As the third tried to get his pistol out of his coat, Troy drew his weapon, moving toward the scene, but she already had it under control. Furia grabbed the short kid's bat and swung wide, cracking the third man in the jaw with it. A sickeningly moist sound was accentuated by the crack of wood against bone.
Bradshaw stopped cold when she stood over Vanilla. The bat head tapped the cement next to the kid's ear.
"Respect is a precious commodity."
Her words spilled calmly from her lips as she leaned over the man who had referred to her as a sweet treat. Neither Troy nor the Vice King banger had a chance to even consider what was about to happen until after she swung the bat like Tiger Woods on the fairway.
Reclaiming her gun, she walked over to the other one in yellow, who was still breathing and fired a round into his chest. Her efficiency surprised him. From the hint of nervousness she demonstrated on the way over, Troy hadn't expected her attentiveness to the details of the situation.
When she glanced back at him, Bradshaw stopped cold. It was almost like looking at a different person. As she walked toward him, he saw it shift again, not quite back to the playful young woman he had been talking to before they turned the corner, but the darkness seemed to have dissipated. She looked a little surprised, maybe even shocked that it had been so smooth. But then these types of things usually were—they were either quick and visceral or they wound up a total clusterfuck.
He did not miss a beat. Swinging her hoodie over her shoulders, he leaned her against the trunk of the Vice Kings' ostentatious gold car. The big guy carried the keys and once Troy palmed them, he pushed Furia into the passenger seat, tossing the bat into the back. No need to put her on anyone's radar just yet, he told himself as he slipped into the driver's seat.
Neither of them said a word as he steered them away from the scene. He just kept checking on her periodically as he drove away from the scene, more carefully than normal. The silence grated his nerves, but he left the radio off, though he quickly lit up a cigarette after they got in the car. She declined his offer with a quiet single shake of her head. After about ten blocks, Bradshaw started to relax a little. If she hasn't wigged out yet, she's not going to.
"Stop the car!"
Troy slammed on the brakes and Furia bolted. He was not surprised by the reaction, in fact he expected it long before now. His own response to taking a life for the first time had been similar, he recalled as he steered the car into the alley she had dashed down. Tapping the steering wheel, he considered his options. He grabbed the bottle of what looked like water out of the console and unscrewed the lid as he climbed out.
Opting to give her a moment to collect herself, Troy perched on the front of the car and waited. He tapped another cigarette out of his nearly empty pack and lit it. He could see her shoulder, as she leaned against the wall; he assumed she was playing it over in her head. It was normal. Hell, he still replayed every shot, he thought as he flicked at the filter, scattering ash on the feint breeze.
Furia looked a little pale when she finally approached the car. She leaned against the hood next to him and he offered her the bottle.
"It's vodka," he warned, having caught a whiff of it when he opened the bottle.
She nodded once, a strained curve on her lips as she took the bottle. "Probably better that way."
"You might be right."
She spat a mouthful across the cement then tipped the bottle upward again.
"Whoa, now," Troy said after the third gulp, wrapping his hand around hers. "That's not going to help. Trust me."
Her eyes met his, brimming with doubt.
"First time, huh?"
"How could you tell?" she quipped, looking away from him, eyes lowering to her feet.
Embarrassment. He recognized it, some of the fellas reacted the same way when they lost it after their first. He twisted the cap back on the water bottle. "The first one is always tough. Even if it's something like that. Hell, even if it's you or them. It's still not easy."
"Looked easy enough last night," she noted, glancing back at him.
Troy stared down the alley not meeting her gaze. "Yeah, well, after a while, in certain situations, it can be. Last night was a different circumstance," he admitted, finally letting himself look at her. "Going on the offense like you did back there can be a little tough to wrap your head around."
"Not really," she replied, as she stood and walked up the alley a few steps. "I just remembered that guy from last night. It was him and me, … three times."
He nodded thoughtfully and took a swig of the cheap alcohol. "Goddamn."
Furia laughed lightly, as she turned back toward him.
"What the hell is this?" Troy choked out with a rough cough.
"If I had to venture a guess," she said, stealing the bottle from him and taking another drink. The face she made had to be at least as bad as his reaction to it. "Probably Aristocrat or some other rail brand."
Troy narrowed his eyes at her.
"You know that rack that bartender's go to first?" Furia explained.
He nodded.
"That's the rail. It's generic alcohol, cheap and tastes like crap. Generally, just poor quality alcohol. Most of the time you only mix with it." Furia took another drink.
"How can you stomach that? I mean I've had some swill, but that's worse than jet fuel."
She smiled, walking around to the passenger side of the car. "You'd be surprised what you can stomach when you're broke."
When she offered him the bottle again, Troy declined, he wanted to keep whatever remained of his stomach lining, which that crap was probably chewing away right then. For a moment, he thought she was going to take another drink, but instead she poured it out and tossed the bottle into the dumpster past him.
"Nice shot, Magic, now get in the car."
"Can I drive?"
Troy eyed her carefully for a second, then tossed her the keys. She hurried past him, tugging off her hoodie and tossing it in through the window as she stretched. At first, he looked at her for any sign that she was struggling with what happened, then he found himself studying the subtle tone of her bare midriff and her arms. The reprieve from his distraction came when she slipped into the driver's seat.
A gleeful twinkle lit her eyes as she put the key in the ignition. When she glanced over at him, the purr in her voice was entirely too alluring. "So, do you want to see what this fugly beast can do?"
"Sure," Troy replied bravely.
As her foot came down on the gas, he instinctively grabbed the handle on the door as she shifted through the gears more quickly than he thought she should. Luck seemed to be with her when she was behind the wheel, he surmised, it could not all be skill—even when she managed to get them from the alley to the street without a wreck. She was right about one thing; the metallic gold beast really did have something hiding under the hood.
1 Guaje: fool; idiot.
2 Símon: yeah, yep