Dead Man's Hand

In a pool of sweat, he shot up in bed. “Jesus!”

Pain bolted through his swollen right knee, but the emotional pain from a shattered ego hurt even worse. It was the same pain and nightmare that had visited him many nights over the last four years. He was the only one to blame for USC’s humiliating loss and his own humiliating personal downfall.

Removing the sweat-soaked sheets, he hobbled across the room, dodged the strewn clothes on the floor, stepped into the bathroom and quietly closed the door behind him. He flicked on the light and squinted as the sudden brightness blinded him. Then he reached for the bottle of Percocet, his loyal companion in these isolated, agonizing nights.

He shook three of the blue painkillers into his hand, his steady diet of Percs. When he couldn’t get enough from his doctor, he bought extras from a dealer. He downed the pills, chasing them with a mouthful of water. They would take some time to kick in, but relief was on its way. The drugs, along with his secret hopes and plans, were all that kept him from slipping over the edge.

He used his hands on the vanity to hold his weight and stared into the mirror. At twenty-six, he already had the hair and face of a stranger.

“You should let your dreadlocks grow long,” his boss suggested. “More intimidating.”

The patchy facial hair was Calvin’s decision. The overall effect was menacing—just right for his line of work.

His sharp brown eyes, which at one time had won him glances from beautiful women in college, were usually hidden behind dark sunglasses. Unseen eyes were intimidating too and when he took them off to stare at a victim, he could use his eyes to look like a madman

He closed them now and shook his head in disgust. “You look like shit. Hell, you are shit.”

The press had certainly thought that, four years ago. Always ready to tear down a hero, they had shown no restraint in attacking him for his egotistic, selfish decision and obvious desire to break his own school record. One minute he was touted as the next Walter Payton, the next he was a door mat for local media.

Looking at him now, no one would believe that back then he was a thousand-yard rusher in the NCAA and welcomed with open arms in every established club in Southern California. Hell, he had been bigger than the mayor of LA.

The sports pages of the various newspapers in the USC area had indeed printed headline stories about him the day after the game, but not the kind he’d imagined when he’d decided to run with the ball.

That the resulting injury had ended his college football career and most importantly, any chances of a pro career didn’t matter to them. By making the wrong, selfish, prideful decision, he’d made himself a target for the press and all USC fans.

“No one to blame but yourself,” he muttered to his haggard reflection.

If he’d just fallen on the ball, taken a knee and stopped the play without trying to be the hero, his life would be different.

The devastating, career-ending knee injury wasn’t the quarterback’s fault for missing the audible, or the fullback’s fault for missing the key block. It was his and it had taken him some time to understand and accept responsibility for it. In the end, Calvin Watters, an unstoppable force, had been brought down by his own foolish pride.

He splashed cold water on his face, took a step back and turned sideways, assessing his body, proud that he’d been able to maintain his well-sculpted physique through hard work, discipline and the right diet.

Three months after his last surgery, when the doctors said they’d done all they could, he had set up a home gym in his apartment.

“Everything okay, Calvin?”

He looked at her in the mirror, her eyes barely open from the sudden light.

“How long you been standing there?” he asked.

“Only a minute.” Rachel approached him and wrapped her arms around his midsection, rubbing his abdomen. “How long have I known you?”

He smiled. “A few years.”

She pinched his minimal fat and squeezed his bulging pectorals. “In all that time, your body continues to get harder and more muscular. What a six-pack. A guy in your line of work, with everything you’ve been through, shouldn’t be able to keep up like this.”

He turned and pulled her to him. Her hair smelled of sweet jasmine and her body felt warm and soft.

“Go back to bed, Rachel. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Okay, but hurry up. I’m in the mood.” She winked and smiled as she closed the door.

She was right. His abs were still smooth and rock solid and although his legs had lost some of their bulk, focusing his exercise around a permanently disabled knee had made them more lean and muscular.

He grunted. I could keep up with any twenty-year-old on the field.

He was now aerobically in the best shape of his life, even with the long hours and emotionally exhausting nature of his work.

My work.

After he spent three years building a reputation as the toughest collector in Vegas, no one even knew he’d been one of the greatest college running backs ever. To them, he was just “The Collector.”

He knew Rachel would feel his misery and he didn’t want to bring her down. Not tonight. He shut off the light.

When he tiptoed from the bathroom, he saw that Rachel had already fallen asleep.

“So much for being in the mood,” he whispered, smiling to himself.

He limped across the room and sat next to her, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty.

When he’d run into her three years ago, just legal at eighteen, he’d wondered how she’d reached that point, how she’d fallen into a life on the streets. He didn’t know much about her back then, didn’t even know her name or even how prostitution worked. He’d seen a lot and learned not to be taken in by a sad story and a pretty face.

A blonde, blue-eyed angel.

He slid beneath the sheets, growing numb and weary as the Percocet kicked in and the pain began to subside. A strand of hair covered Rachel’s mouth and he inched it away from her face.

He marveled at her. She’d survived years of abuse from her stepfather. How such a petite woman had escaped and recovered—for the most part—inspired Calvin. And he had taken it upon himself to pay her stepfather back, even though Rachel knew nothing about it. The man now knew what pain was all about.

Calvin had to collect enough to take her with him when he got out.

He was well paid for his gruesome work and he spent only the bare minimum to cover basic expenses and bills. And to cover those special purchases spread out over the last three years that were his investment for the future. His cheap, rundown apartment and dilapidated workshop, as sparsely furnished as a prison cell, were all ways to reduce costs.

He stared at the ceiling and thought about how he’d had to force himself to do the job on Pierce. How much longer could he take it?

He shook his head against the pillow. I just want a life.

The Percocet sank in deeper and he drifted into unconsciousness. He fell asleep with his leg hanging over the edge of the bed, dreaming about one more chance.

Chapter 2

“Dale, we need to talk.”

Dale Dayton bounded down the staircase still wet from his shower. He thought he knew what his wife wanted, but he’d give anything to avoid the discussion.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, kissing Betty on the cheek.

He noticed the coffee pot half-filled and realized his wife must have been up early drinking coffee and waiting