Page 77

Jesus, I’m a mess.

“Fuck you,” I growl at my reflection in the mirror, then hurl the glass at myself, a flash of relief bolting through me as shards scatter to the floor.

Dazed, I move to the navy leather sofa I had delivered a few weeks ago after I destroyed my previous one just like it on the anniversary of my mother’s death.

I destroy something on that day every year. Sometimes it’s a person, sometimes an object.

But, something always dies that day, just like she did. Everyone suffers on that day.

Just like I did.

I drop hard onto the cushions, flipping open my laptop. The urge to hurt someone overwhelms me, and right now I have the perfect target.

When my dad showed me the scrapyard, my first reaction was I wanted nothing to do with it. I’m sick of the Larry and Scotch show. I want to spend less time with him, not more. Mybank accounts are at the point I don’t need to go sewer diving with my sperm donor of a father for financial gain.

Besides, I’m balls deep in my three garages and buying and selling classic cars which is great money but one of the few things I enjoy. Besides that, I’ve got three new internet ventures I’m bankrolling for a couple genius tech guys I know. I’ve bought and sold ten businesses in the last five years. Some as a partner with Larry, some on my own.

I know nothing about scrap beyond what I pay for parts. But Larry told me to take a look and I had to admit, it was a good investment, so I bought in. A quick turnaround, run the competition into the ground and build a new empire.

Running the competition into the ground? That, I understand. You could call it a specialty.

The screen lights up with browser windows, each with multiple open tabs, each one connected to a different sock account on social media, some review website or email. Our scrap place, Metal Heads, only has one main competitor, an old, run down three generation family outfit called Z’s Scrap, not that I’ve paid that much attention. With what I’m doing to them they won’t last long.

I switch to their website and open the contact page, channeling my current fury and self-loathing into an email that would give a sailor a heart attack.

“…find someone near and dear to you, bend her over the hood of my Dodge and pound her like a cut of prime beef,” I say with a dark chuckle as I write the words. Jesus. This is the first time even I’ve been so personal with this guy, and I know why. Because ofher. Because I’m imagining it’s me and Lula right now. “I’m going to leave her so she can’t sit down for a fucking week. I’ll make her eyes bulge like one of those stress dolls.”

Before I second guess myself, I hit send and sit back. My dick is tenting the front of my jeans thinking of railing my sweet red-headed sister from behind. About covering that perfect face inspurts of thick cream and watching her clean it off with her finger, sucking it down like it’s cotton candy.

My lip curls in disgust as I think about the message I just sent. What if someone talked that way about Lula? I’d tear them limb from limb. It’s not personal what I do. In another lifetime, who knows, this guy who owns Z’s, we could have been friends.

Even I know by now, this is my baseline. I’ll likely be this bully asshole for the rest of my life. I’ve done more bad shit than most people get through in a lifetime.

Maybe if I’d met Lula ten years ago, things could have been different. She could have changed me. But now?

I lean forward and alt-tab to a different sock account, going to the Z’s Scrap post on Facebook marketplace. I grin when I see a bunch of angry emoji reactions to a flaming comment about how they screwed someone over, they’re cheating f*cks... That’s my doing. Until I started posting, everybody thought their shit smelled like honey, now there are actual genuine accounts repeating what I’ve said about them like it’s the word of God. I don’t even have to do anything to keep this going, but I throw gas on the fire, typing a comment they screwed me over and recommending our yard instead.

By tomorrow, I’ll have this sock shut down and another one open to keep sinking the nails into the coffin.

They’re close to giving up. The anonymous call I made to Standards Division that makes sure scrap scales meet code is coming down on them soon. Maybe give it another week to really hit home, then throw them a lowball offer they’ll cling to like I’ve just tossed a twig to a drowning man.

But as soon as they do, I’m done. Fuck this shit. One fucking look at Lula and I see a whole new life that doesn’t included destroying other people’s lives for profit and entertainment. How that’s possible, I don’t know but I trust my gut more than any person or science in the world.

I have a handful of businesses, I have my apartment, I havemy own income and with my end of this scrapyard deal with Larry I might even invest and expand my own fucking empire and get the fuck away from family business.

My text tone goes off. I dig out my phone, tossing it on the coffee table. There’s only one text I’d reply to right now, and that person doesn’t have my fucking number.

I entwine my fingers behind my neck, dropping my chin to my chest as the phone dings again and I glance at the screen.

It’s James. Asking what got into me at the wedding, going ballistic on one of the strippers and her client. I delete the message without replying, grinding my teeth. None of his fucking business.

No, fuck it, I’m dialing his number ready to tell him to back the fuck off. We’re close, but he’s not my shrink.

Except I nearly crack the screen pounding the numbers and it’s not James I’m calling.

It’s Lula.

“Hello?” She’s tense, like she’s expecting bad news and my protective hackles rise wondering what is worrying her.