I felt my chest clench at his words. They were far too true to be ignored, and I suddenly felt like a complete moron. I had been slacking off, not just at the gym but with everything. I was so unaware of what was going on around me, I had even managed to walk into a dude on the beach. No one from Franks’ organization would be as obvious as a guy on the beach—those people would be sneaky bastards, not tournament fighters but real hit men.
We polished off the nachos. John Paul finished his beer, and we parted ways. I hopped back onto my bike and sped back down I-95 to Miami Beach. With John Paul’s words still in my head, I changed my clothes and headed up to the gym for a good workout.
He was right; it had been a while. I couldn’t do as much on the weights as I used to, and I needed to fix that shit. I finished my sets and headed back to our floor by running the stairs. I was a little out of breath and decided my endurance was also a little lacking. I’d have to hit the beach early in the morning and run again. I’d start keeping track of distance and time.
And so my fitness craze began.
I hit the beach every morning and was pretty pleased with how well I was progressing. I started going really early before there were any tourists on the beach and before Raine even headed off to her classes. My routine runs on the beach became cathartic. The pounding of my feet in the sand, the call of gulls, the scurrying of sandpipers, and the chill of the early morning waves across my shoes were relaxing. At the hour I began, the sun wouldn’t have quite risen over the horizon, and the beach would be all but empty.
One weekend morning, as the sun broke over the sea in brilliant red and purple, I reached my halfway point and turned to head back south. There were a handful of early risers looking for seashells left from the high tide, a couple other joggers, and some fishermen around. I dodged the fishing poles jutting out over the water and the tractor smoothing out the high tide line and slowed to a fast walk.
There was a guy sitting at the edge of the water, dark Ray-Bans concealing his eyes, but his head was angled in my direction. Just as I veered away from the shore, he spoke.
“Good morning for a run.”
I narrowed my eyes a little. Who wears sunglasses this early in the morning? Then again, the whole Miami fashion scene didn’t make any fucking sense to me, so for all I knew, it was normal. I looked him over, appraising the tattoos on his decently muscled arms and chest. He wasn’t my size but obviously spent more than the occasional day at the gym. Around his neck was a long chain with a pair of dog tags hanging from it. Across his chest were the words “God forgives I don’t” in scripted black ink.
“It’s South Beach,” I replied. “It’s always a good morning for a run.”
He shrugged.
“Guess so,” he said. “I’m not from around here, so I typically hit the gym. Too cold for outside running.”
He tapped his sunglasses up with one finger, and I could see a bullet tattooed on the inside of his wrist. It was one of those brothers-in-arms symbols, marking him military. There were more words on the inside of his right arm and down his left side, but I couldn’t make them out.
The guy was looking at me and appraising me as much as I was appraising him, maybe even more so. I tensed, suddenly anxious. I wasn’t sure if he was spoiling for a fight or actually checking me out in some other way, but I didn’t like it—not at all.
“Who the fuck are you?” I asked.
He smirked.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m not the pheasant plucker.”
I narrowed my eyes and looked him over again. I thought about his words, and determined the guy must be high or something.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a tongue twister,” he said. “Haven’t you ever done tongue twisters?”
I glared, and he laughed.
“I’m not the pheasant plucker,” he said again and much faster, “I’m the pheasant plucker’s son. I’m only plucking pheasants ‘til the pheasant plucker comes.”
He stood up, adjusted the sunglasses again, and gave me another half smirk.
“Here’s the catch,” he added. He briefly pointed his finger at me like a gun. “You’re the pheasant.”
One more smirk flew at me before he turned and walked away. I stood there at the edge of the water with a sense of dread and just watched him walk off. By the time I had collected myself enough to run up the beach with the intention of beating an explanation out of him, he had disappeared.
A week went by, but I didn’t see him again. Thoughts of the strange encounter became a faint memory. My routine continued. I still went to Bar Crudo most days, but I didn’t feel as much of an urge to order something. I usually left feeling pretty good, and I even called John Paul to tell him his advice had helped. Raine seemed really happy I’d found something to occupy my time, and I was a little less irritable.
I’d even found a dude named Zack at the gym in the condo building who didn’t totally piss me off. He was a big guy like me and spotted me a few times for bench presses.
“Thanks, bro,” I said as he helped me rack the bar. “See ya tomorrow.”
“No problem,” Zack replied.
I took the stairs from the top floor gym down to the fourth floor. I caught my breath at the landing outside our condo and then proceeded to the door. As soon as I opened it, I paused.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I held my breath. My fingers tensed reflexively, and my body went on alert.
Nothing was out of place. Everything was exactly how I had left it a couple hours ago. There wasn’t anything missing, moved to the side, or disturbed in any way. There weren’t any abnormal smells in the condo, and the balcony door was closed and locked from the inside. I still knew it, though.
Someone had been in here.
I felt my skin crawl, and I continued to hold my breath as my eyes scanned the room to find…nothing. I let the air out of my lungs and took a few steps inside. I stealthily made my way through every room, but the only evidence of an intrusion was the tingling in my spine and the raw, gut instinct that came from spending years watching my back to stay alive.
Maybe John Paul was fucking with me.
I knew he wasn’t though. Not only was it not his style, he also knew such actions could get him killed before I would realized he was the intruder. John Paul wouldn’t break into my apartment because he wouldn’t have a reason to do so. He also had no skills when it came to breaking and entering.
I shook my head to try to get the tension out of my body, but it didn’t work well. I wondered if I was just on edge because of what John Paul had said, but I dismissed the idea immediately. I would be the first person to admit I had the occasional attack of paranoia, but this didn’t feel the same—not at all. My fingers were twitching, clutching slightly, as if they’d like to wrap themselves around a shot glass about now.
Fucking fabulous.
A noise at the door caused me to startle, and God knows what Raine saw in my eyes when she opened the door, but her expression went from a smile to wide-eyed fear in a split second.
“What is it?” she asked quickly. “Bastian? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing,” I lied. “Just in my head, I guess. You surprised me.”
Her eyes narrowed into a “don’t give me that shit” glare.
Unable to voice what was going on in my head, I turned without a word and headed to the bathroom. I even shut the door to pee though I didn’t usually bother. Too much time in the wild made me kind of oblivious to someone watching me take a piss.
She hammered on the door.
“I’m not buying that!” she called. “Tell me what happened!”
“Can’t hear you, babe!” I called back as I flushed and turned on the water at the sink.