Blue 42 by C.A. Rene
Chapter seven
Sebastian
The rookie has a fucking death wish.
He actually asked if I was straight, does he want to fucking die?
“Bro, where did he come from?” Jameson has an ice pack to his swollen temple.
“Clemson.” I growl and throw a bag of coke to the table.
“Nah,” Jameson shakes his head and winces, “where did he grow up?”
I should know this, it’s something we’re all told about the rookies before they get to camp, but I missed North’s bio. He’s tougher than I gave him credit for but that doesn’t mean shit, and it makes me want to prove it to him that much more.
“I know that look,” Ortiz grumbles beside me, “this shit will get you kicked out of the league.”
“Ain’t nothing going to get us kicked out of the league, you think that pussy bitch will say anything?” I look from Ortiz to Jameson, “he has a family he needs to feed too, I can bet my life on it.”
“He handed us our asses today,” Jameson whines and the noise grates on my last fucking nerve.
“You want to suck his dick now?” I sneer at him. “Is that it?”
“Bro…” his face screws up in confusion but I cut him off.
“Don’t call me ‘bro’ if you’re ready to suck the rookie’s dick.” I grab my own dick through my pants, “because believe me, you’re either sucking dick or getting your dick sucked, you choose.”
“Sebastian,” Ortiz cuts in, “we’re on your side but fuck, this shit has gone too far.”
Bunch of pussies wouldn’t last a day in Rochester and it makes my insides boil when I think of the rookie making them piss themselves.
“I don’t need you anyways.” I grumble as I pour the powder on the glass top, “I’ll take it from here. You guys make sure you suck on those balls, too.”
They’re smart to keep their mouths shut as I run my nose along the white oblivion, because I’m ready to fucking snap; and I have no problem adding to the nasty bump on Jameson’s head.
Ortiz starts cutting the weed and rolling a blunt into the Backwoods roll as I sit back and watch him. I can’t involve them any longer in messing with North, the rookie thinks he’s too good for us and needs to be knocked the fuck down, but these two aren’t ready for that. They’re small-time gangsters, used to being told what to do, and never overstepping orders.
The dirty shit needs to be done by me, that way I control everything, and no mistakes are made. I still see the fear in Jameson’s eyes as he holds the ice pack to his head and I would bet my life this bitch has never had a gun pulled on him, never thrown to the ground with the barrel of a pistol cold against the back of his head. All while some rival gang member searches his pockets for that night's drop off.
Yeah, I’ve had plenty of guns held to my head, knives slashing my skin, and even a few bullets shot at me; but I’m here and you better believe I’m not going any fucking where.
Rookie is probably basking in the win he had today. I hate that he took us by surprise, and I hate that he thinks he’s won. I’ll let him have it though because when I finally tear him apart, I’ll laugh at the defeat on his face; and right after he thought he’d won.
He’s renting a townhouse in a nice little private, gated community. Like a good little rich boy now. Too bad the guard at the gate recognized me and when I said I was coming to meet a teammate, he was all too happy to let me in. Now I’m sitting in my car and watching his house like a fucking stalker.
This shit takes time; watching someone and how they move, and then finding out what or who their main priority is. When you figure that out, you find the person’s weakness, and if I want Dixon North to actually go away, I need that weakness.
I hate that this bitch thought he could just come on the team and land at the top, no work, and no struggle. That’s just not how this shit works, every one of us fought and bled to be where we are, and he needs to do the same. Respect is earned and I worked hard for this team’s respect, that’s why everyone listens to me when I talk.
It wasn’t hard to find out the simple things, where Dixon North comes from, where he went to high school, and what college he attended. When you’re picked first in the draft, that becomes public knowledge and everyone is salivating for every last detail they can get.
He was born and raised in Westport, Baltimore, Daddy dead, Mommy working three jobs, and a little brother who likes to get in trouble. Westport isn’t a good place to grow up in, a lot of gang violence resulting from turf wars, and soaring drop out rates for high schoolers.
His front door opens and I watch as he steps out onto his porch, his eyes on the sun rising in the sky. He’s wearing an orange tank top and the color makes his rich skin pop, glistening in the early morning light. He’s stacked, his muscles defined and flexing as he stretches. He puts ear buds into his ears and then he’s jumping off the porch and jogging down the street.
I get out of my car, pop my hoodie over my head and jog to the side of his house. He’s a corner unit and that means access to the back that the others don’t have. I keep tight to the brick wall and slowly follow it to the open concept backyard with no fencing to separate it from the neighbors. There’s nothing back here, no patio furniture and not even a barbecue, telling me this place is temporary.
He doesn’t plan on staying here or he’s waiting for someone to come live here with him. A girlfriend? A wife? Or maybe his mom and brother. If he’s smart, he’ll keep his family far away from his work, those two never mesh, and family has a way of dragging along drama.
I get to his glass back door and try to see inside the house. I soon realize I’m staring into his kitchen and the brand new looking stainless-steel appliances. Does he do anything more than sleep here? The place looks spotless, like maybe he has one of those cleaning OCDs, and can’t stand anything out of its place.
How long does he jog for? Would he have armed the alarm even though he lives in a gated community? Is this door locked?
I tug a bit on the handle and snicker when it slides open, no alarm alerting anyone to my presence. He really is a dumb little bitch. He said he’s from the streets but has no problem leaving his house unsecured? To this day, I still need my windows and doors secured before I sleep or leave the house. On top of that, a gun sits loaded inside the table by my bed. No one will get the drop on me, I’m always fucking ready.
My boots squeak on his shiny clean floors as I step through the kitchen, and I run my finger along his immaculately cleaned counters. A complete opposite to what my house looks like, but in all realness, I am not keeping that place for my family, and this is exactly what this looks like, a family home. Does the rookie want his mommy to come here and take care of him?
I stand in the middle of his family room and look around. There are no pictures, nothing that personalizes the place, and nothing to help with what I’m looking for. It looks like this place is barely lived in and if I didn’t hate him so much, I’d feel sorry for the little bitch. The stairs are to my left and I bound up them, taking two at a time. We’re all due at the field in two hours, I don’t know how long I have in here. There are three doors up on the small landing and I open one to find a closet, empty save for two towels. Again, it’s quite sad. The next door is a large bathroom, every surface shines, even the fucking toilet seat, and then I open the third. Inside is the one and only bedroom in the house, confirming he won’t have anyone come here to live with him.
The bedroom is exceedingly plain and the guy is still living out of his suitcase, it’s been over a month. I kneel beside the suitcase and push aside the clothing, there’s absolutely nothing. No pictures, no books, and nothing telling me this guy has a personality. It’s like everything about him and this place is temporary, what the hell is his plan?
I pull open his small closet and find a few sweaters hanging, along with a suit. I shut the door and then my gaze lands on his wallet sitting on his side table. Fucking yes. I sit on the perfectly made bed and flip it open, seeing a Baltimore driver’s license. I pull out my phone and take a quick picture before shuffling through a credit card, old school ID’s and a Baltimore bus pass. Weird. Until my eyes zero in on the name, Daniel North.
Not Dixon.
I turn the card in my hand and find a picture, the film over the top scuffed with age. It’s looks like a younger, thinner version of Dixon, but this kid looking back at me is tough, and he’s fuckin angry. It almost looks like I’m staring at myself, I can see that look in his eye, and I know it all too well. Before I can think twice about it, I slide the card into my hoodie pocket and set the wallet back on the table. Finally, something useful.
I slip back out of the house the same way I got in and jog back to my car. Not fifteen minutes later, Rookie comes back into view and jogs up his driveway, giving a quick look over his shoulder.
You feel my stare, little bitch?
