First Chance, Last Chance by M.J. Garrett (love novels in english txt) 📖

open and the blank white walls of the bedroom stare back at me.  Blinking my eyes to allow them to focus, I could hear the small speaker on my phone.  “Chance!  Come on and pick up the phone!”

 

With my voice deep and full of air, cracking from the dust that settled in my throat while I slept, I grabbed the phone and placed it to my ear.  “Hello?”

 

“Chance, I need you.” 

 

“Lucy?” I rubbed my eyes and gathered my senses, “What the fuck do you want?”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2           

 

I used to spend hours riding around the country side, dragging a knee into the sharp desolate paved curves of the only road worth riding on.  Bugs ricocheting off the face shield and the hum of bike’s 599cc engine would drown out any thoughts that didn’t have to do with staying alive.  I used to ride scared, now I just ride to push the limits of both me and the bike.  I was as safe as you could be when digging 90 mph turns that heated my knee, as sparks flew from the peg as it scraped the pavement.  It was a freedom that was rare these days; especially when you sell the bike just to keep from being visible.  A bright blue Yamaha R6 wasn’t rare, but when it had as many gadgets and features as mine did, it’s very hard to miss.

 

By now, I’m sure some 19 year old biker boy is either showing it off to his 17 year old girlfriend sitting on the back of it, or it’s been shredded in some accident that wasn’t worth news coverage. Either way, it wasn’t a care of mine anymore; I had other things to worry about. 

 

Lucy, my lovely cheating whore of an ex-wife, sounded a little distraught when I talked to her this morning.  I don’t know why she wasted her time calling me; she and my old partner were bound to be keeping the neighbors up at night with the way she screamed in the bed.  It’s not like I had anything to offer her.  I didn’t have any answers.  All I had to give her was a middle finger, which she never took me up on that offer; even while we were married.

 

Surely she wasn’t in any trouble.  She may have been a whore who should have worn a cocksucker’s neck brace, but she was smart.  She always covered her tracks.  The only problem I could think of was Bodie. 

 

Bodie, my ex-partner, always had his hands in something.  In her case, it was more than just his hands, but let’s not argue semantics.  Bodie, was a good cop.  He could see the streets like no one could; not unless you grew up in them.  The strange thing, he grew up in Highland Park, one of the nicest parts of the city.  Sure, he had a class about him and all the ladies thought he was an angel, but I’ve seen him work.  He wasn’t as crude as I used to be, but he knew how to get people to talk.  He used to tell me that it was easier to understand a person when your pistol wasn’t in their mouth.   I could see his point, but they definitely understood mine.

 

She never called me about anything.  Usually, Bodie could handle anything.  Either he is in some shit or he is balls deep into some little piece of ass and she found out about it.  I guess it could be said that he was in some shit either way you looked at it.  I figured it was the latter of the two scenarios, so I just hung up the phone. 

 

I hated that she transitioned from me to him so effortlessly.  Listening to her try to explain to me the rigors of love was like listening to a rich kid complaining about being sent to his room where he could only play his XBOX or Play Station.  Sure, I loved her, but what she has now is something that I could never provide.  Soon enough, Bodie will realize that he can’t provide it either; but he didn’t really care.  It’s ironic in a way; she left me to be with another version of me…a richer, slightly younger, sexier version of me.

 

*

 

In my own way of making myself look presentable, I wet my hair and run the comb from front to back.  I used to be so particular.  I’d wear sweater vest and button up shirts; black or brown slacks; shiny brown or black shoes, all just to show the world that I was a beacon of civility.  Now, I throw on a shirt that I haven’t worn or washed in a week or so, slick my shaggy hair back, and throw on a leather blazer.  It’s kind of funny how that’s exactly what we do to not look like a cop, but all cops seem to dress like that.  The only thing that makes me appear not so cop-like is the fact that my beard and hair make me look homeless.  If I throw on the aviators, I look like a not-so-undercover narco.  I guess when you live the life; it’s hard to get rid of the remnants.

 

I’m supposed to meet a Lucy at Jiang’s Chinese and Japanese Cuisine at 2 pm.  I haven’t seen her in months and she insisted that today was of the utmost importance.  She didn’t have a clue where I was living now.  I’ve changed residents so often that it was hard for me to remember.  The good thing was that I lived two blocks away from Jiang’s.  A short walk from the apartment, but none the less it seemed like the longest walk ever.  I take it that most walks of shame felt this way.

 

The ringing of the bells hanging on the door gave me away as soon as I walked in.  Turning to look at me, I could see that she made a point to wear my favorite sun dress.  The one I bought her for her birthday last year.  Ironically, it’s the same dress that was on the floor of the bedroom when I walked in to see Bodie’s naked white ass bouncing in the air as Lucy screamed to be choked.  I was more than willing to oblige, but the fact that Bodie was still wearing his shoulder holster, with gun in tow, made me feel a little less obligated.

 

As she stood up and walked toward me, she quickly peeked to a table of men in the corner of the restaurant.  Normally, I wouldn’t think anything about it, but when she walked by like I was a stranger and whispered “It’s Bodie”; I felt the tug of her hand in my jacket pocket as she slid in a small folded note.  Obviously, this was meant to be read at a more convenient time, so I nonchalantly made my way to the bathroom.  As I walked into the bathroom, I quickly locked the door and began to hoist myself on the sink and pushed the bathroom window open.  As I crammed myself out of the window, I could hear the pushing and tugging on the door. 

 

Leaning up against the wall, I took my phone and aimed the camera inside.  The small video clip later revealed three men entering the bathroom with guns ready.  It’s a little hard to watch video or a live camera feed when the only thing for them to see was my ass and elbows running and turning the corner of the alleyway. 

 

Running through the alleys, from one street to the next, I figured that I had lost them.  I knew these streets better than most and while hunkered down with Richard and his dog beside their makeshift cardboard box house, I had hoped that Bodie wasn’t around. 

 

“What kind of trouble are you in now, Chance?” Richard asked me looking disappointed.  His weary bearded face was inches away from mine as we laid there covered in smelly blankets and dog hair.  “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a buck would you?”  Looking at his blank face for a moment, I shuttered to think about what all happened under this blanket when it was just him and the dog.

 

“Not now, Richard.”  I whispered to him.  His dog, looking as shaggy as Richard, pulled his head from its resting spot as his interest was peaked by movement from the end of the alley.  He slowly trotted a short distance with his growl, making himself known.  “Richard, what is it?  I can’t see.”  I asked him as my face was now completely covered by the nasty blanket.

 

“It’s nothing.  There is no one there.”  I uncovered my face and peeked through a hole in the cardboard wall.  As I moved my head around to catch every angle through the small hole, I watched as the three men stood there in confusion.  Holstering their weapons, they tried their best to not look so obvious and then walked off.

 

Laying my head back down on the blanket, a sigh of relief escaped my lungs.  Richard snapped his fingers and called his dog back to camp.  “You know, Chance, we have to stop meeting like this.”

 

Taking a deep breath, I sat up and looked at him.  His face holding a smile that probably represented “I told you so”, made me smile as I dug into my wallet for a dollar.  “Do you have change, Rich?” I asked him politely.

 

“Change?  Are you fucking kidding me?” he almost looked disgusted by my audacity.

 

“I’ll take that as a ‘No’.  Better luck next time then?”  I stood up and dusted the dirt and dog hair of my shirt and pants.  Richard, still holding a look of shock, quickly reminded me that my mother would be disappointed.  Maybe she wouldn’t be disappointed for the drastic measures I took to hide from the men, but to ask Richard to make change for a twenty dollar bill was a disgrace.  “Richard, all I have is a twenty and we both know that you’ll only use it to get booze.”

 

“What the hell is wrong with that?” he asked me surprisingly.

 

“You’re right; there is nothing wrong with that.  No money today though.  Do me a favor, find out who the hell those men were, and I’ll give you more than twenty bucks.”  I told him as I used my hands to slick my hair and beard down.

 

“Sure thing, Chance.  Oh, and while I’m at it, I have some investment tips for you.” He’s been homeless for 10 or 12 years, but he still had his sarcasm.

 

“One more thing, Rich, don’t you think it would be wise to get a dog that looks and acts like a dog?  This thing here isn’t going to keep you alive.”  I started to make my way toward the end of the alley when Richard pipes up again.

 

“It’s not about the size of the dog in the fight, Chance; it’s the size of…..”

 

“I know, I know, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Rich, it’s a fucking Pomeranian!”       

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Walking into my apartment, I throw the keys on the coffee table and I reach into my pocket to fetch the note given to me by Lucy, “Bodie, Baily, Bale, Villa, Rick-2am/Blue Bayou”.  I wondered what exactly she was trying to tell me.  Bodie, Baily, Bale; those names I know.  Villa and Rick; not so much.  Blue Bayou? 

 

Leaning back on the leather couch, I examine the video from my bathroom visitors.  I didn’t recognize any of the faces.  Bodie and I had history and as much as I knew at this point, what I did know wasn’t worth me dying over.  Confused for a moment, I closed my eyes.  Repeating the note over and over, I quickly call a friend of mine that I hope can help me out.

 

“Susan!”

“Chance?  What the fuck do you want?!” She harshly asked.  Susan Wychek was the District Attorney a couple of years ago.  However, after some questionable testimony from a possible dirty