Error (Adrenaline Series Book 5)

Error

Adrenaline Series Book 5

Xavier Neal

Error

Adrenaline Series Book 5

By Xavier Neal

© Xavier Neal 2015

Published by Entertwine Publishing

Cover by Entertwine Publishing

All Right Reserved

License Note

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without authorization of the Author or Entertwine Publishing. Any distribution without express consent is illegal and punishable in court of law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

Dedicated to: The Universe. Thank you for letting me know there are no true errors, just learning chances.

Destin

There is a lot of internet porn out there. I mean a ridiculous amount. And I've clicked on some crazy sites. Have you ever seen a dude shove a fist up a chick's ass and spit on their own elbow? Oh you're not into that? Me either. Found that out the hard way during a battle with a bottle of whiskey. Lost twice that day. Hey, don't fucking judge. Have a shot with me instead. You know you want to. No? Fine. More for me.

Disappointed with my latest search results, I mindlessly reach for something to drink from my nightstand. The sound of crashing bottles causes me to flinch.

Fuck that was loud.

I glance at the mess and give my forehead a good rub.

This is clearly a sign I need to go out to have a drink, don't you think? Wanna join me? Wanna see me naked? Total possibility if you get me a little more drunk. What do you mean how drunk am I right now? Does that matter? You're not prudish are you? I don't wanna ride the prude train right now.

Clicking over from the open internet window of porn to the monitor I have set up. I watch the flashing dot of the tracking chip we planted in a sculpture The Devil is now hauling around the country.

The Devil is a fucking nightmare. He gives an entire different vibe to the whole Devil Wears Prada thing. And yeah I know about that movie, my cousin Ben, who died a couple months ago, sat through it once to help him screw some chick. He was a freshman in high school and the girl he wanted to deflower required a little more effort than most girls who sleep with McCoys. Our reputation is enough. My point was...wait what was my point again?

I tab over once more studying the latest bank account of his I'm helping drain.

The Devil looks like a stock broker but behaves like a dictator at the end of his rope. To be fair, he's definitely creeping to that point. Over the past month, since his men killed one of my Triplet brothers, Daniel, I've passed the time drinking profusely and hacking into every possible thing I can involving him. Hacking is like breathing. It requires very little effort, but ripping rug after rug from underneath him has turned destroying his life into an Olympic sport for me. I want that fucking gold medal. This week alone I've forced three of his Swiss bank accounts to close, had two of his accounts here in the states frozen, and leaked to the Police Commissioner through an anonymous tip every location he has traveled to with the statue. Some of them are homes he hides in. Some have been allies. Others just safety sanctuaries he thought he had discovered. Regardless, the rope around that smug fucker's neck is tightening. And I love it. Do they make platinum medals? They really should.

Without my eyes leaving the screen I lean down to search for another bottle of liquor.

I know I have at least a shot left in one.

When my efforts come up empty yet again, I grunt, shut my laptop closed and stumble off my bed.

Definitely think tonight is a good night to go out to the bar. Find a little something to bring home and bury my misery in. Daniel style....It's not like porn can touch me back and honestly? I think I'm getting callouses. Yeah. Exactly.

Azura

I have seen some crazy board designs, but why on earth would anyone want one painted to look like a bloody toe? That's just so gross. I don't know what's wrong with people. Is it supposed to be funny because you can break your toe skateboarding? Do they think that's ironic? It's not ironic. It's moronic. I can see how easy it is to get the two confused.

Scrolling down, I continue to review some of the designs I've seen on my client's boards. Frustrated, I lean back in my seat.

Is it so wrong to want something different? I blend in with everything else in life, it would be nice to stick out a little here.

“Hey,” my step sister, Angela pops in my room, hand still gripping the door knob, eyes everywhere around my room, but on me. “Have you seen my lacy white top?”

I look away from the computer. “The see through one or the one that ties in the back?”

“Ties,” she says in an indecisive voice, almost as if she doesn't believe it herself. “At least I think I'm looking for the one that ties. I'm pretty sure I let Lacey borrow the other one.”

Angela is the definition of a goddess. Everything every guy typically dreams of. She's petite and not afraid of a push up bra. Blonde, mostly natural, but doesn't mind spending the extra few hundred bucks to truly bring out the color. Most importantly, and the biggest fact might I add, is she has no problem being proud of the fact she's easy. Yeah. She's
proud
of that. She used to be Daniel McCoys “Tuesday Girl' when he was alive. Can you guess what she did on Tuesday afternoons? Sometimes I think she misses that more than she lets on. It's not like she talks to me about anything. Or even typically acknowledges I fucking exist. If she did, I would ask why she let herself be used like that. She's not a useless airhead with no future. She's actually really smart. We're talking a semester away from finishing her degree at med school, so she can finally ditch this city for one up north to complete her residency to become an obstetrician. That's right. She wants to help women having babies, but can't keep her own legs closed. Again, not quite irony, but at least it made you tilt your head a little in contemplation.

Watching her search my room that looks military precision clean in comparison to hers, I shake my head. “No.”

“Shit,” she grunts. “How can I not know where it is?”  Her search continues, this time invading my bed. “Tommy really likes me in that. Well...he really likes me in that before he likes it on the floor.”

I scrunch my face. “That’s…a lot of information.”

As if completely unaware she is indeed in my room, she prepares to walk out of it, making sure to say, “We'll probably swing by the bar for a couple free drinks.”

Upon her disappearance, I push my glasses up my caramel colored face and mutter, “Of course you will.”

That's right ladies and gents. She's about to leave the house to finish her residency while I help kick drunks out of a fairly busy local bar. I love working at Mickey's. It's an odd home away from home. It helps keep my actual passion afloat and to be fair, it's gonna help get me an apartment so I can stop living at home. Oh, before you look at me like that, Angela and I both live at home for two reasons. The first, to save money. The second, our parents are rarely home. They travel so much this house is more like their vacation home rather than the one they live at. Since I can remember it's been that way. When we were younger, we had rotating nannies who kept an eye out on us. Sometimes I think my mother couldn't stand the idea of being around me too long. Even when she was home she kept her distance, unlike her husband who couldn't get enough of his little girl. Angela's dad, married my mom when we were both four. He does Pharmaceutical Rep. stuff, which I think is where her need to be in the medical field comes from. My mom on the other hand, she does website maintenance and updates for various small businesses. Hm. Funny how she managed to pass that love over to me. Though, I prefer to cut and edit videos. Documentaries. That sort of thing. Believe it or not, it's a little harder to find a use for my degree when every asshole with a camera or a cell phone puts up their shit on YouTube. And yes...I am on YouTube. Let's not talk about that.

A text causes my phone to vibrate across my desk.

Spencer: You're late for work.

Annoyed at the insistence of one of the only friends I have, that he knows me as well as he does, I type back.

Me: No.

After a quick glance at the time, I shout, ”Yes! Shit!”

He types back immediately.

Spencer: You are terrible with time.

Me: Yeah. Yeah. I'll see you shortly.

I close the windows once more putting the things I love in life on hold for the things I do in life to get by.

Don't we all do that? Isn't that the definition of life?

**

“No. No. No.”  Ted, a retired Marine, and bar regular says to his buddy. “A chick like Azura is off the market. She just doesn't wear her ring.”

Okay, so you see him right? He looks like he could be twins with Dwayne Johnson. He could eat me as a pre-workout snack and still be hungry. What? Oh the problem? He's not at all my type. Plus, it's best not to date the customers. I will be the first to admit he is one helluva good piece of eye candy though.

“Are you?” His friend flirts fixing his tie, making one very bad mistake.

Popping a hand on my hip, I shake my head. “No. But you are.” When his eyebrows furrow, I tilt my head at his hand. “Faint tan line on your finger.”

He quickly places it in his lap. “Good eye.”

“Not my first day on the job.” I wink. When Ted starts to laugh I ask, “Do you two need anything else right now?”

“Wings?” Ted suggests. His friends nod and Ted smiles at me. “You know how I like 'em.”

With a friendly giggle, I prepare to walk away. “You bet your ass I do.”

At the machine I put in his food order quickly and grab the bottle of Jack Daniels. Approaching Destin McCoy, who is at the opposite end of the bar from Ted, I dangle the drink in front of him. “Ready for a refill?”

“Nah,” he hisses. “Didn't you hear? Jack and I broke up?”

I smile wide at his lame joke.

Ugh. Don't give me that scowl. I can't help it. Destin McCoy is not only one of the infamous McCoy brothers, he's a part of the even more legendary Triple D. Triplets so damn identical most people can't spot the differences. I guess when you've been longing for one in particular as long as I have you start to notice them.  Sure his body has matching sleeve tattoos to his brothers and the thin yet muscular shape, but his eyes are more toffee colored than brown. He rocks a tongue ring when they're not busy trying to play live action three card monte with themselves. A tongue ring that if I do say so myself, I've spent many nights dreaming about between my legs. I swear he owes me some serious cash back for the batteries I've had to buy. Mickey's is home to the McCoys as much as it is to me, and that's saying something. In general, I don't feel at home anywhere.

Attempting to flirt I say, “Sorry to hear that.”

Destin shrugs and pushes his glass at me. “Shit happens. People leave you. Then you die. Whatever. Jim and I on the other hand, have started to fuck like crazy so if you could hook me up with that, it'd be appreciated. Ghost version if you've got it.”

“Comin' up...” I sigh and turn to retrieve his request doing my best to ignore the comment that doesn't sit well with me.

I can't imagine the pain he's going through. God, I wish he'd talk to someone. Sad thing is it is the first time I've seen him since Daniel's death. How do you reach someone who barely registered you're alive before tragedy began to consume them? Who am I kidding? Aside from paying customers and video clients, no one registers I'm around.

Once the bottles have been swapped, I grab him a fresh glass and pour it on the rocks. Sliding it across to him, he wastes no time chugging it back. Without a word he taps the rim implying he wants it filled to the top.

Against my better judgment, I do. “Did you drive here tonight?”

He moves the glass away while looking over his shoulder. “Nope.”

Disappointed at the known action, I sigh, “Well that's good at least.”

Destin doesn't reply. He simply gives a wave to a blonde in a back booth who is there with what has to be a bachelorette party or sorority sister outing.

Good to know some things will never change.

Strolling away, I tend to the other bar members in between filling the incoming orders. The night continues on as smooth as any Friday night does. Business booms, drinks are demanded at outrageous paces, and I'm once again proud I've managed the art of handling the weekend alone.

It took some time but eventually Mickey trusted that I could manage being the only bartender on Friday nights. It does great things for my pockets, plus it lets me request many Saturday nights off without taking a hit.

Finally, it's last call and I'm thankful Ted typically waits until everyone is almost out before leaving himself.

We do have a bouncer, but Ted is convinced he scares no one.

Ted tilts his head towards Destin, whose head is lying on the bar. “You sure you got that?”

Giving a quick glance, I bite my bottom lip. “Yeah...I'll take care of him.”

“I hear those McCoys are dangerous,” he sighs. “Azura-”

“I've handled them drunk and sober.” A small sigh comes from me as I look at him again. “Trust me. He'll barely even realize I'm helping him.”

Ted hums, “His loss...”

When I turn back around I simply press my lips together.

Guess it's that obvious to everyone who is
not
him.

Slowly Ted exits the bar and into the fall night. After locking the door behind him, I finish the remaining closing duties while Destin simply drunkenly sings along to the radio that's still playing.

By the time I'm finished, I lie my head to face his from the opposite side of the bar. “Hi...”

“Hi....”

“You need a ride?”

“My lexabition to foqrukulate has failed.”

Care to translate?

“I see. So, yes?”

“Yes,” Destin whispers closing his eyes. “Or I can sleep here. Sleep here good.”

My fingers twitch with the urge to touch his sad face. Instead I grip my keys tighter. “You know what's better than sleeping here? Sleeping in your bed.”

“Bed,” he repeats. “Bed. Bed good too.”

“Is that a deal?”

Rocking, he manages to lift his head to agree, “Yes. You may take me to bed.”

If only that was the invitation he was offering. Oh and of course I would prefer that invite to be while sober.

With a smile I hop on the bar, slide across, and slip his arm over my shoulder.

“Holy shit,” he drunkenly mutters. “It's like you’re an acromat!”

Before you ask me why I let him get this drunk, I didn't. I told his waitress to stop serving him liquor, which she did, but women kept sneaking it to him when they thought I wasn't watching. It's not like I could kick him out. I told you. Mickey's is home to the McCoys. Besides most nights he slips home with one of the groupies before that's even an issue.

I hum and help him through the back where Steve is waiting. Immediately puzzled at the sight he says, “You're not supposed to take them home, Azura. You're not a taxi service.”

“Your head is shaped like a fushroom,” Destin drunkenly declares.