Page 39 of His Last Shot

That Was a Little Overdramatic

Johnny

P ulling into my driveway, I can’t erase the massive grin on my face. It’s been there ever since the yellow-striped ball did its job landing in the pocket, and I scooped Rachel in my arms.

The celebration didn’t stop after.

There was the trophy presentation, then pictures, then the usual recounting with my team of the whole match. We made plans for Vegas. For a few hours, we felt like kings, basking in the glory of our imaginary kingdom, recounting tales of our conquests.

It was incredible.

I left roughly an hour ago, just to come home and shower. Then, I’ll head back to help her close up so we can celebrate alone. A sense of urgency propels me to hurry because that is something I am really looking forward to.

Mostly, I can’t wait to prove Drew wrong and show her who really is the best kisser.

Is it petty? Sure. But it will be fun showing her who the better man is.

As I get out of my truck, my world is free, complete, and full of hope, and—

SNAP!

My head whips around toward the noise, my ears straining to pinpoint the source .

What was that? An animal? I scan the area around my truck and home, but nothing is amiss.

Just me, the crickets, and passing cars.

Whipping my keys around my finger, I shut the door and head to the garage. I lift the keypad panel and type in my code. Rachel's birthday. With a slow drag, my garage door opens as my pool table greets me. I swear she smiles. This beautiful rectangle has meant more to me than—

SNAP!

What the?

Once again, a sharp sound slices through my thoughts, making me jump. My yard and house are silent, each glance raising my heart rate, a rising tide of fear threatening to overwhelm me.

“Hello?” My voice strains against the black void.

Nothing.

With a tad bit of unease swirling in my gut, I hit the button to shut the garage. The huge white door starts its descent as I retreat into my sanctuary.

Creak, creak, creak, creak….

I take one, two, three steps, and that’s when two things happen at once. A shadow moves in my peripheral vision as a crushing blow to my back slams me to my knees. The garage door starts an unexpected upward crawl. The jarring impact echoes in my ears alongside the grinding metal of the door.

The pain is blinding. I grab onto the rail of my table for balance.

Footsteps, lots of them, fill my ears, each one a sharp reminder of my precarious position as I attempt to stand. And that’s when I hear him.

“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” he clicks his tongue. “I warned you, didn’t I?” His voice, menacing and scary, rasps like sandpaper, each word a threat. I stumble as I attempt to stand. “Get him up,” he commands to whoever is behind me and trespassing on my property.

“Shut the door,” he bites out his next demand. The weight of two men on either side of me is immense, their arms heavy around mine as they haul me to my feet. Their colognes overpower my nostrils. A searing, sharp pain shoots down my back. Pure white agony forces me to gasp at the jolt .

As the door descends, a metallic groan echoes in the confined space, closing us in. The burly men roughly turn me, revealing Dexter and two others besides the two gripping my arms. The smell of stale sweat and fear hangs heavy.

Now, look, I’m a big guy. Bigger than most. But these four goons are enormous, each nearly as large as the wrestler The Undertaker, and they fill my garage with their presence.

I’m guessing they haven’t come for coffee and a quick game.

One is holding a cold, heavy metal bat, the weight of which I can still feel on my back.

The other man casually rests a sledgehammer on his shoulder, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light.

And I recognize both of them. They were the ones I saw that very first night at Dexter’s.

Shoving that beaten-up man out the side door.

A shiver, like ice water, runs along my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms.

Rachel flashes in my head. She’s with me, nestled against me in my truck, watching the stars twinkle above. The memory of her laughter, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles—I hold on to that vision because it might be the last time I see her.

“You didn’t throw the match.” Dexter has a habit of pointing out the obvious.

I lift my head. The room sways slightly, as I struggle to focus on him through the haze of the earlier blow; a ringing in my ears adds to the disorientation. But I have to keep my cool. “Well, no one can say you aren’t both smart and observant, Dex.”

He squints at the guy branding the bat and flicks his head in my direction.

The big guy steps forward and…

“Oomph!” The bat slams into my stomach, a sharp grunt forcing its way out of me while also taking the air from my lungs.

My knees buckle, but my new friends on either side of me hold me up like I weigh next to nothing.

On instinct, I bend at the waist as the pain, both searing and blinding, washes over me like a white-hot wave, leaving me breathless.

I cough. Once, twice, three times. “That was a little overdramatic, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” he says with a smirk. “ Let him go.”

Both men shove me forward at their master’s bidding. When they release their grips, I yank my arms away and clutch my stomach, trying hard to hold back the vomit threatening to surface. Swaying like a drunk, I try to stand upright.

Big guy number one, who’s guarding the garage door and holding the bat, reaches into the back waistband of his jeans and pulls out a manilla folder. He hands it to Dexter.

“Remember, this is all your fault. Oh, and Drew is going to Vegas in your place.” With that friendly reminder, he tosses the envelope onto my table. “Open it. And don’t try anything, friend.”

I don’t give a crap about Vegas. Drew can have the time of his life for all I care.

But this envelope is taunting me. With hesitancy, I reach for the folder and unclasp the wire brad holding the flap closed.

“Oh, so we are friends now, huh?” Shoving my hand inside, my fingers graze the contents, and I slide them out.

Don’t try anything? What does that mea—?

My brain short-circuits when my eyes focus on a black-and-white photo of Mallory playing in her backyard. The next picture … Scott and me on the job. I flip to Laura, clocking in at work. Jake getting off the school bus is next.

A rising anger pulses through me, making my hands shake uncontrollably as my head throbs. Dozens of photographs of my family, of me, and of Rachel stare back at me one by one as I frantically shuffle through them.

My flipping holts because now I'm looking at our text messages. I fan through them. Months’ worth of our intimate conversations. Molton hot rage courses through my veins.

My eyes land on the last photo. A grainy picture of Rachel and me in my truck, stargazing. The knowledge that our private moments were being watched, read, every kiss, every hushed word, every touch, fuels the blinding anger inside of me.

The pictures fan out onto the table as I toss them and charge Dexter like a bull to the slaughter. “You slimy, sick son of a—” The words stop on my tongue as big guy number two punches his fist into my already damaged stomach. Once again, the contact and searing pain send me to my knees .

Slamming my palm on the table, a feeble attempt to redirect the pain, I try to stand. “If you lay one hand on Rachel, so help me God, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupts with a laugh.

“You look pretty helpless right now, Givens.” I stand as he runs his hand down his oversized belly.

“Give me some credit. I would do nothing to hurt Rachel. I’m not a monster, for God’s sake.

Everything that I am doing right now and with my business is to help her and Micah.

You aren’t the right man for her. Drew and I will take care of her. I can promise you that.”

“And like I said,” he charges toward me. “You did this!” he points his finger at me. “All you had to do was miss that nine ball. That’s it.”

Finally, I’m able to get my bearings and stand. Even hunched over from the pain, I still tower over him. I clutch my stomach. “Oh, please. We both know that wouldn’t have been the end.”

If he believes a few pictures and a baseball bat to my torso will compel me to do anything for him, he must be out of his mind. Besides, he has made his point with this little sideshow. He’s punishing me for winning, which has caused him to lose money.

Fine. I took it.

But right now, I need these five wack jobs to get out of my house so I can formulate some sort of plan to get Rachel and me away from this guy.

I stare directly into his eyes. “You’ve made your point. Now get off of my property.” I pivot back to the table, and my hand stretches towards the pictures, then stops; a small, shiny object, reflecting the light, rests on the blue felt. With trepidation, I reach for it.

A flash drive.

“What the heck is this?” I study it. A knot of uncertainty tightens in my stomach as I wonder where this is now leading.

“Call it insurance.”

“I’m sorry … what?” I whip back around to face him; my sudden movement stabs my ribs, which I’m sure are broken .

“That drive”—he points to the shiny silver object resting in my palm—“contains falsified documents that implicates you in illegal gambling and tax evasion.”

Okay, this is bad. Really bad.

“And I’m sure you realize that’s not the only copy.”

“So, what? You’re blackmailing me?” This went from a lot to OH, MY GOD in seconds.

He cocks his head left then right while blinking at the ceiling, faking uncertainty. “Well … yes and no.”

With a sharp intake of breath, I pinch the bridge of my nose, the anger a tight fist in my chest. “What do you want from me, Dexter?”

He laughs with unearned confidence. “It’s simple, really. Break up with Rachel, cut all ties with her, or these four fellas will pay a visit to your family.” He pauses. “Let’s just say I have a way of dealing with these types of … situations.”

Now the vomit is right there.

He snaps his fingers. “Oh, yeah! I almost forgot. The documents on that flash drive will be sent straight to the authorities. So not only would you lose your family and Rachel, but everything you have ever worked for will be gone.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “You see, your little stunt tonight cost me about a hundred grand. And I’m not happy. Now, I know you probably don’t have that kind of money.”

“I do,” I answer, the words spilling out. Because I will give every red cent I have to this man in order to protect my family.

Mockingly, he nods. “Impressive. But that’s not what I want.”

I swallow hard. “What then?”

Through gritted teeth, he answers me and delivers his final blow. “I want you to suffer.”

And he’s right. I would suffer. The money is meaningless to me.

But Rachel? My family? They mean more than anything else in the world; they are the air I breathe, the blood in my veins, and the very beat of my heart.

To lose one or both would leave a gaping hole in my life, an unbearable emptiness worse than death.

Given his history and the menacing tone of his threat, I wouldn’t put it past him.

Is he bluffing?

Possibly.

Am I willing to put my family’s life in danger to find out?

No. No, I’m not.

I lower my head, accepting my fate.

I’ve lost Rachel. My love. My life. My world.

“Do we have a deal?” His question breaks through the war that’s waging in my head.

I choke out my answer. “Yes.” Because at the end of the day, I would do anything to protect Rachel and my family. Even if that means losing her.

A cruel, chilling grin stretches across his face, revealing teeth like yellowed shards. “Good.”

He turns to leave. “I have a request,” I chuff out.

He barks out a sharp scoff. “You are in no position to be making demands.”

“Allow me to go to the bar to say goodbye to her. Give us tonight. I beg you.” I’m desperate, my heart pounding in my chest, and I can’t believe I am asking this man for a favor, but I need this more than anything.

She needs to know what her uncle just did to me.

To us. And she needs to hear it from me, face to face.

Maybe, just maybe, my parting gift to her will be knowledge.

The knowledge she needs to cut this man out of her life for good.

He lets out a deep sigh, not happy with this idea; I can tell.

But he loves his niece.

“You have one hour.” With that, he hits the button on the garage door opener, and it once again ascends to the top. “Finish it.”

Dread settles in my gut because I have no idea what this final command means.

The men with no weapons (that are visible anyway) follow Dex out of my garage.

I’m watching them go, their retreating footsteps fading, as big guy number two approaches.

He removes the sledgehammer from his shoulder and winds up as if he’s about to hit a home run.

I shield my face with my hands, anticipating the blow I know is coming when …

BAM!!

A jarring crack echoes through the room as the sledgehammer slams into the rail, making my head whip towards the table. Big guy number one pulls a knife from his jacket, the glint of steel flashing in the dim light, and slices the blue felt tabletop, a sickening rip slicing through the air.

They deliver blow after blow to my most loved material possession. The destruction is instantaneous. With each devastating swing of the hammer, the wood of all four rails splinters into two, showering the ground with a flurry of tiny, sharp pieces of wood.

Stunned, I struggle to catch my breath, overwhelmed by the scene unfolding before me. I’m grateful it’s not me they are destroying, but I also understand the message they are sending.

The hammer’s next sharp blow connects with the legs. The slate table top hits the ground at an angle, the pictures scattering across the floor.

With a finality that makes my heart sink, they stop, pivot, and walk out of my garage, leaving destruction in their wake. Big guy number one stops, his large hand engulfing the garage door opener, ready to press it. “One hour.” His meaty finger jabs the button.

The door shuts.

On not just my garage but my life.