“Coke, K-X, whatever it was...it doesn't matter, Jackson! The pictures are all over the Internet, and you even made the goddamn Picayune, for fuck's sake!” He makes a sound of disgust.
Yeah, I know all of that. In fact, I've already gotten five texts from as far away as London about the pics. At least the ones in the print newspapers were censored with a black box over my dick. The pics available online show everything, and of course everyone's focusing on the ones taken from angles that make me look damn near dinky-dicked.
“No shit, Pops. By the way, Ellie in London says hi.” What Ellie actually said was I thought the cucumber in the pants thing was just in Spinal Tap, but I knew what she was getting at. Pops, however, doesn't think any of this is funny.
“You want to make jokes at a time like this, you little shit?” he asks as he rounds the desk to get in my face. I'm ready and on my feet in an instant. He might have a temper, and he's got a violent streak that makes me look like fucking Gandhi in comparison, but I'm no slouch either. I've got an inch on him, a lot less body fat, and twenty-eight years less mileage on my body. Pops knows this, and while his hands are clenched into fists so tight that I can see his knuckles turning white, he manages to hold himself back. I take a step back before either of us do something stupid.
I sit back down. “Okay Pops, you're right. Just... fuck, that was Katrina. Or Kat, as she's calling herself now. What the fuck did she mean when she said that was for her parents? What the hell do we have to do with Katrina Grammercy's parents?”
Pops shakes his head, and I know he's not going to answer me. I learned a long time ago that some things were off-limits. The problem is, I need to know. When it comes to his dealings with crooked cops, or the groups that run the Ninth Ward, or any of his other criminal enterprises, he's right. I shouldn't be asking questions, and I shouldn't concern myself with any of it. But this is Katrina... she was my best friend when we were kids. And less than twelve hours ago, she gave me half a handjob right before setting me up for global humiliation. No, this time, I need to know.
“Pops...Dad, I need to know this time.”
Pops shakes his head again and acts like he barely heard me. “Mike's already been informed, but you're not allowed to use the limo anymore. I can't have him associated with your bullshit any longer. These are matters best left to others, Jackson. I'll let you handle them someday when you're ready, if you ever are. In the meantime, I need you to go tell your mother that I need to discuss something with her after I speak with Nathan. Tell her to come see me here in my office.”
Nathan. I can't help but shiver at the mere mention of that cold bastard's name. Officially, he's our head of family security. Unofficially, Nathan Black is my dad's enforcer, or worse. I don't know for sure, but I don't think I want to know for sure. Nathan has this perpetual look of surprise on his face due to a long scar that winds up and across his left eye, pulling it up slightly. On anyone else, it'd be amusing, but there's nothing amusing about him.
“Fine,” I say and step out into the hallway. Nathan's already waiting. In the dark linen suit he's wearing, he looks like an undertaker coming to collect his next body. He greets me with a slight nod as I come out of Pops' office, but his expression is as unreadable as ever.
“Mr. Jackson,” Nathan says in that quiet, icy voice of his. Jesus, if the Grim Reaper needs a voice, I know who he can call.
“Nathan. Pops wants to speak with you,” I respond.
Nathan's fifty years old, but he could pass for forty, or maybe even younger. Up close it's easy to see the fine network of crow's feet around his eyes, but it's also easy to see how his eyes are completely flat, devoid of any emotion. They're a green shade the color of swamps, and they remind me of gators. Maybe it's because Nathan's clearly a predator, just like them. “Very good. Later, perhaps we can speak on how to avoid further... incidents?” he says.
“Perhaps,” I reply, trying not to stammer. Nathan scares the shit outta me, plain and simple. I've got at least thirty pounds of lean muscle on the man, but I have a feeling that if he wanted to, he could drop me without even blinking. “I need to get going.”
Nathan nods and goes into Pops' office, closing the door behind him. I know I should run along, even if the request to fetch Mom is bullshit. I shouldn't be hanging around. But... it's Katrina, and the look in Pops' eyes...
I know this is stupid, but I can't help myself. It's been years since I've done this, but I should be able to eavesdrop through the lock on the door. The mansion is an old antebellum plantation house, and it took a small fucking fortune to repair the place after Hurricane Katrina. No relation to Kat, I think to myself. Still, the interior doors are mostly original, and this one happens to date from the original Civil War days. I press my ear against the office door.
“Mr. DeLaCoeur, how can I assist you today?” That's Nathan, professional as always.
“That bitch...the one who set up Jackson. I want her taken care of.”
“Sir, no offense, but haven't we done enough to this girl? You know, ten years ago?”
“I don't give a fuck!” Pops hollers, slamming his hands on what sounds like his desk. “That bitch dropped a lot of trouble in our laps, Nathan. I want her found and eliminated, got me?”
There's a long silence on the other side of the door, and I can imagine Nathan coldly processing my father's words. Before he can answer, I hear someone coming down the hallway and I beat a hasty retreat, going to look for Mom. As I do, my head whirls. Sure, I've always known that Pops is involved in some bad business, even if I don't like to think about it. Seriously, who the hell has the police chief at his house one night, and then well-known gangsters there the next, unless he's also involved in some shit?
But I never knew for sure how much shit he's been involved with. Of course, I've lied to myself over the years. Denial is a powerful drug. And I guess maybe my coping mechanisms weren't the best, what with the parties and the sluts, and the drugs and the alcohol... but at least I've managed to keep my own hands clean.
Now I know for sure about my father, and I can't get it out of my head. What the fuck do I do? On one hand, Kat made me look like some high school dweeb who was whacking off in the back of a rented limo or paying some hooker to lose his virginity. But she was angry, and it wasn't the sort of anger I've seen before. It wasn't hot anger—it was the cold, obsessive type. Whatever she thinks my family did...she's been angry for a very long time. And it's the sort of anger that makes me think there's a genuine reason for her to be pissed off.
And then there's the way she made me feel. What the hell was that? A few touches, a few kisses, and I was ready to pop. Where the hell did she learn that? Was it because my body knew it was Katrina even if my brain didn't recognize her at first? Or does she know something that most women don't? I mean, I'd just busted a nut less than two hours before, and she had me trembling on the edge in minutes. I didn't even touch her skin other than feeling those lips on my neck...
I look down, realizing that I'm sporting wood again, and adjust myself. Not what I need. What I need to be doing is looking for Mom. I find her in her bedroom, looking at herself in the mirror. She and Pops have separate rooms now. Great, just great. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the craziest one of all?