It’s pitch black when we arrive at the storage unit where I’m keeping Richie. The street lights are broken, forcing us to blindly shuffle Barry’s body from Jackson’s truck to the shed. I'm holding the rolled carpet on one end while Jackson carries the other, and you’d think this would be easy for two grown-ass muscular men, but never underestimate dead weight. 

Puffs of fog escape our mouths as we scoot along from the truck to the storage unit. It’s eerily quiet in the darkness, aside from the grind of our shoes against the gravel, and a thought hits me.

“Hey, Jacks…” 

“Mmhm,” he grunts.

“Here were are, getting rid of a dead man’s body in a creepy as fuck area. We’re a cliché.”

“How so?”

“If this were a horror movie, we would die.”

Jackson’s hands slip, causing the rug to hit the ground with a thud. “My dude, don’t you go jinxing us.”

“I think we’re fucked no matter what, but Chloe is our friend, right? So we’re doing this because we love her.”

“Yes and no.” He grabs his end of the rug again, and we continue shuffling.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re doing it because we can’t have this shit trace back to those sisters. I’ve done some reading up on them, and their family is scary.”

“How? Google didn’t tell me shit,” I say.

“You didn’t look hard enough. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a detective, so I’m good at digging things up. Anyway, their family came here from Europe in the early 1900s with a lot of money in their pockets and were do-gooders giving back to the community. But their charity came with a price. According to rumors over the years, if the Abramovitz did you a favor, they basically owned you for life. Sound familiar?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But where’s the scary part?”

“Well, the Sisters’ father was arrested for murder on multiple occasions for making people disappear. They once found fifty bodies buried beneath an abandoned warehouse.”

“No, shit…” I pause, forcing Jackson to do the same. "Maybe it was the same warehouse Kay took me to kill those pedophiles?"

“I wouldn't doubt it. But the Abramovitz have top-notch lawyers, so their dad always got off clean. Some say he paid the judges to declare him innocent and have some poor asshole charged with the crime instead. I also learned their grandfather was nicknamed The Executioner. If someone did him or the family wrong, he’d shoot them right then and there. Even in broad daylight. That entire family has a backlog of crimes they’ve committed.”

“So what you’re saying is, this family does whatever they want because they can get away with it,” I grunt.

“Which makes me wonder about the Sisters,” Jackson continues. “Are they cold-blooded like their father and grandfather?”

“They don’t have to be. They’ve got their security to jump when they snap their moisturized fingers.”

“Like that neanderthal… what’s his name?”

“Kay,” I say.

“Yeah him. That guy scares the piss out of me. He’s like a ninja popping up everywhere. I swear, if he shows up here, I’ll shit myself.”

“That’ll make both of us,” I grunt again as I hold the rug with one arm and reach back to grab the handle on the storage unit door. 

However, I stop.

Even with a dead body in my arms, the guilt from earlier plagues me and bubbles up my throat. “I fucked my ex tonight.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jackson rattles his head.

“Yeah… not long after I got home from work, she showed up at my door. We argued, and as most toxic relationships go, the arguing turned into hate sex.”

“Hate sex?”

“When you bang even though you hate the person. Hate-sex.”

“Nah, man. I don’t have sex with people I hate.”

“Anyway, the point is, I betrayed Mindy. We agreed to be exclusive, and I broke the arrangement.”

“Listen, did you mess up? Hell, yes. But you’re complicated. You’ve always been complicated, and Mindy knows your history. If you’re truly remorseful, and you’re honest with her, I’m sure she’ll forgive you.” 

"Do you really think she will? I mean, I am fucked up, as you say, so maybe I should stay away from her."

"Just talk to her about it. Gwen says we need to be open and honest with our communication, whether it's a romantic or platonic relationship."

“But what if I don’t know how to be monogamous anymore?” 

“What do you mean?”

“I still love Celia because she’s what I’ve known since I was a teen, and that kind of love is hard to get over. But I also love Mindy, and despite fighting it… I have feelings for Angie too. I realized that tonight at the club.”

“Well, Celia needs to be cut out like cancer. She’s a liar who cheated on you. So your choices are Mindy, Angie, or no one.” 

“No one?”

“Yeah, no one. Sometimes you gotta fly solo for a bit and focus on yourself. It’s not a bad option. Now…” Jackson grunts as he struggles to keep holding his end of the carpet. “This body is heavy. Can we save this shit for later and focus on the crisis at hand?”

“Yes!” I reach for the storage door handle but pause again. “One more thing…”

“Christ! What is it?”

“I think I want to kill Ramona.”

“I’m sorry, what!?”

“Yeah. I think I want her gone.”

“So, Ramona, the woman your ex left you for?” He adjusts his hands on the carpet.

“Yeah, her.”

“Right…” He nods. “How about we circle back to this later? One shitshow at a time.”

“Right. Right. Right. At breakfast, then.”

“Sure. Nothing like plotting murder over pancakes. Now get the door open!” Jackson urges.

Giving the handle a hefty tug, the rusty metal squeals open, and we step into the darkness to set Barry’s body on the ground. The place smells like fresh urine and a hint of poop. I probably should have warned Jackson that Richie is here too, but it’s too late as he closes the door behind him. 

“Smells like hell in here,” Jackson gags, and when I flick on the light, he jumps back at the sight of Shit-Pants Richie. 

“Christ! What the hell, Miguel.”

“Yeah, so… this is where I’m keeping Richie.”

“Is he alive!?”

“Oh, he’s alive.” I walk over to clap my hands in Richie’s face, and it’s as if I’ve resuscitated him because he bolts upright on the stationary bike with wild eyes. But after a few blinks, Richie’s head flops back down.

Well, that’s not good.

Jackson drops his face into his hands. “I swear to God, Miguel. If we have one more dead body on our hands!”

Part of me feels terrible about the state Richie is in because he seriously looks like a cocaine addict who stuck their finger in an electrical socket. The other part of me still feels he deserves this shit.

“He doesn’t look good,” Jackson says. “He’s a brown man, yet looks as white as the artic, and he’s sweating. Does he have a fever?”

“I don’t know.” I press my hand to his forehead, and his flesh is scalding. “Shit.”

“How does he have a fever?” Jackson studies Richie at a safe distance as if he’s got leprosy.

“I don’t know,” I mumble, except I have a good idea, and rip open Richie’s shirt. 

“What the hell…” Jackson bends as he takes in the crusted blood around Richie’s areolas and the puss oozing out of the scabs where his nipples used to be. “Did you… did you do this to him?”

“I might have gotten carried away…”

“Miguel, what the fuck?” Jackson thrusts his hand toward Richie. “This asshole has an infection!”

“I see that.”

“Richie.” Jackson snaps his fingers in his face. “Richie, are you dizzy or nauseous?”

“Mmm,” Richie grunts, his eyes struggling to open.

“Richie!” Jackson claps, then steadies his head and pulls back his lids. “Follow my finger.”

However, Richie can’t stay focussed. Instead, his eyeballs roll back.

“That’s not good,” I say.

“He might have sepsis.” Jackson backs up. “Listen, as a firefighter, I’m also a trained paramedic, but this… I don’t know, man. He needs a hospital.”

“We can’t take him to a hospital. Besides, we’re already up to our tits with this.” I motion to Barry’s body.

“Then what do we do? What the hell do we do!” he barks.

“Jacks. You’re losing it.”

“Yeah, I’m losing it. This is one giant diarrhea of a shit show, man.”

And he’s right. It’s one thing getting rid of Barry’s body, but it’s another to have Richie’s rotting ass to take care of too. This situation needs an interception. It needs someone who has connections and can guide us toward a solution.

“Yeah…” I rub the back of my head. “Keeping Richie here was supposed to be temporary, and I hate to say it, but we need help.”

“From who? Kay?”

“Hell, no. We can’t let the Sisters catch wind of this. So, I gotta call Angie.”

Jackson's eyes widen. “Angie?”

“Yeah. Maybe one of her connections knows how to handle situations like these.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“Honestly, I don't know, but Richie keeps refusing to eat, and now he has an infection and a fever. It’s like he wants to die to haunt my ass in my sleep.” 

“Well, until then, we should probably bury this body while we figure out the next move.” Jackson nudges the rolled-up rug with his foot.

“Ok. Grab the shovels while I call Angie.”

∆∆∆ 

An hour later, we’re smoothing dirt over the hole we dumped Barry’s body in. The best part about this area is how dark and deserted it is. The train tracks run in front of the storage facility, which creates enough noise to muffle sounds, and there’s a peninsula of water that crashes against the rocky bank. There is also plenty of trees, so we picked a spot where a pile of abandoned flat tires has accumulated over the years. No one will come looking here, and I bet there are countless other bodies hidden here somewhere. Perhaps people the Abramovitz have killed.

Headlights beam down the drive, where a car slowly creeps up like a flashing firefly in the dead of night. We collect the shovels and wait for whoever might step out. Angie said she needed to make a few calls and would get back to me, but I haven’t heard from her since, so who the hell are we about to greet?

“Shit,” Jackson says. “Do you think Angie called an Uber to get here? Because that’s a terrible idea.”

“I hope she’s smarter than that…”

The headlights turn off as soon as the car eases in front of the storage shed, where everything is pitch black aside from a flood light aiming at the door. The engine cuts, and out steps someone unfamiliar. 

“Who in the fuck…” I grip the shovel, staring at an old man with a leather jacket, and a fedora, his hands rubbing together against the cold.

“Miguel?” he calls into the dark, so I step forward, emerging from the shadows of the trees.

“Who are you?”

His head shifts towards me, exposing the grey hairs sticking out of his hat and sprinkling his goatee. “I’m Samuel Costello, but my friends call me Sammy Blue Eyes.”

“I’m sorry. What now?” 

Because the only Sammy Blue Eyes I’ve heard about is some mafia guy, who got sent to San Quintin prison to serve time on a Rico charge ages ago. 

“I’m a friend of Angie,” he says as if it were that simple. “I’ve come to help you with your… situation.”

“And what did she tell you about my situation.”

“That you need a doctor.” He slides on a pair of leather gloves. “And I know one who takes cash under the table to keep her mouth shut. Now, are you gonna show me the shmuck who needs help?”

“Yeah…” I say, although I’m still wary about how the fuck Angie knows a mob guy with a rap sheet as long as the Gettysburg Address. “He’s in here.”

Jackson whispers behind me, “You sure we can trust this guy?” 

“No, but Angie sent him, so I’m trusting her.”

We cross over the pavement towards the shed, and droplets of rain begin peppering my hands as I yank the door open. Hopefully, the rain will wash away our footprints and any sign that we dug a grave by the tires. 

Without hesitation, the old man walks inside and heads straight for Richie. He doesn't even question the fact he's tied up to a stationary bike, but I suppose in his line of work, this is small potatoes.

“Yeah, he don’t look too good,” Sammy says. “Who is this kid?”

Clearing my throat, I reply, “His name is Richie Reddy.”

“Oh…” Sammy straightens. “I’ve heard that name before, but it was Rohan, not Richie. Any relation?”

“Beats me.” I shrug. “I only have the unfortunate pleasure of knowing this miserable, wife-assaulting fuck-face piece of shit.”

“A wife beater, huh?” Sammy scoffs. “Back in my day, we dumped that kind of trash in the bay to swim with the Great Whites.”

“Wish I could do the same, but we kind of need him for something big we got going on, so he needs to be alive.”

Sammy nods. “I’ve heard.” 

“What exactly have you heard?” I say.

“Listen, kid. I’m not here to judge. I’m just here as Angie’s friend and offering help.”

“Alright. Then what do we do?”

“First, get him into my car, and I’ll drive us to the doctor. Sound good?”

“Sure. We've got no other choice, so let’s get to it.” 

When Sammy turns his back to head to his car, Jackson elbows me and says, “Now I know why I recognize him. This old guy is part of the mob. He got released from prison a few years ago. I saw him in the news.”

“Yeah, I made that connection too.”

“What are we doing, man? This is nuts.”

“Driving deeper into hell, that's what. Now help me get Richie to Sammy’s car.”

Together we hobble over to the black SUV idling in front of the storage unit and stuff Richie’s body inside. Then we buckle ourselves in, and I say a silent prayer that will probably catch fire before reaching God because I’m too much of a sinner. 

My gut roils, and I suddenly have to take a massive stress shit. Things are going to get worse from here. Every electrified hair on my body tells me so.

Gulp.

Double gulp.

*
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The last 2 updates have been a little short, but that's because I've been working on a Valentine's Day anthology with a few friends called Monstrous Love!

Starting Feb 1st, and leading up to Feb 14th, a batch of short stories will be published each day, featuring different monsters with heat levels from sweet to spicy. It's bizarre yet a ton of fun, and free to read, so I hope you'll check them out ❤️

Here is a link if you want to add it to your library or if you're follwing me, click on the writersconnx profile on my page and you can add the book from there 😊

https://www.wattpad.com/story/328543647-monstrous-love-a-valentine%27s-monster-short-story