Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One Read Free Page A

waved
off their concern over my face. The old bank’s original staircase
was a thing of beauty if you’re into turn of the century
architecture. I’m not, but this is what I’ve been told. Over fifty
steps to the private upper levels where Aaron hosted exclusive
parties for important dignitaries or sports stars looking to get
away from the crowds.
     
    I was neither,
so I hung a left around the corner and took the other steps to the
basement.
     
    There were a
few smaller lounge areas downstairs in the cubbies where vaults had
been once upon a time. It was fractionally less noisy down there as
the speakers weren’t quite as top of the line and the incredibly
thick stone walls and flooring muffled a lot of sound. Though the
neon running lights and random-motion spotlights weren’t annoying
in the least. No matter which way I turned they always seemed to be
flickering right in my eyes when I passed.
     
    Sliding past
two lipstick lesbians trying to score free liquor out of the
gawking young businessmen cheering them on, I made it to the men’s
room.
     
    Ignoring the
putrid combination of vomit, urine and various hard liquors
permeating the air was a challenge. I managed and stepped past the
people in my way, bellying up to the sinks to inspect the eventual
new scar on my face.
     
    Wasn’t bad all
things considered. Less than an inch long and just under my
cheekbone. Barely swollen at all. Fat, fleshy cheeks were good for
something other than turning off women. If it wasn’t for the blood
the cut wouldn’t look so bad.
     
    Sadly head and
face cuts are bleeders so there was enough of the red stuff to
trail down my unshaven face, onto my double chin and down my
neck.
     
    “No black eye.
That’s something,” I muttered to myself while unbuttoning my
long-sleeved black security shirt.
     
    Cold water was
all there was in the men’s room. Not too surprising, really. None
of the drunks populating the stalls would notice. Though given the
lack of cleanliness on display a bit of hot water for sterilization
would’ve been nice.
     
    An operating
room this wasn’t.
     
    Soaking one of
the shirttails in cold water I scrunched it up into a ball and used
it to carefully scrub at my face while ignoring the looks and
gestures from the other men in the room.
     
    I’m not
normally self-conscious about my size. Like most big men I tend to
revel in it to a degree. But standing in a filthy men’s room,
tending to a fight-induced cut with a dirty shirt while stripped to
my stained white undershirt as my belly showed itself to the world
isn’t a good look for anyone.
     
    Aggravating.
Given the amount of time I spend walking around tensing my abs to
hold my gut in you’d think I’d have a King Leonidas style six-pack.
Alas, eating like a thirteen year old trumps constant abdominal
tension. No matter what the late night infomercials try to sell
you.
     
    Still, when
you’re well over six feet and hovering at the three hundred pound
mark you tend to get a lot of looks at the best of times. This
example, not being one of them.
     
    Course’ it
tends to bother a guy who spends as many hours in the gym as I do
to get stronger and fitter to get looks from skinny dudes who don’t
know how hard it is to change a body that’s built to be big.
     
    Fuckers.
     
    Abs are for
losers.
     
    Yeah, keep
telling yourself that.
     
    I finished
cleaning the cut as best I could and attempted to make myself
presentable. I completely failed but “A” for effort. I scrubbed my
thick fingers through sweaty, starting to gray curls and settled
the long sleeve shirt back in place. I nodded politely to the
recent African immigrant working as a bathroom attendant and made
my way back into the cacophony.
     
    Let’s get
something cleared up before we go any further. Being a nightclub
bouncer sucks. But when you’re my size and in need of a part-time
gig it’s the kind of job that’s always there for you. Especially if
you’re good at