16. Wes

Chapter sixteen

Wes

T he smell of stale beer and body odor hits me smack in the face as I walk inside this tiny fucking dive of a bar. Layne’s father wasn’t hard to find, seeing as he is a raging alcoholic that has spent the entire time he has been out of jail drinking his pathetic existence away. There he is.

Sporting a few day old crusty clothes, greasy as shit hair and pounding shot after shot of Jameson.

I see black when I look at him.

How does a man kill his own kid? How the fuck does a man let some lowlife piece of shit molest his daughter while he is in the next room getting high?

It fucking makes me sick to my stomach. When Layne felt comfortable she told me a little bit more about her childhood. Her staying a virgin into adulthood made more sense with the little bits she told me. She wouldn’t give me a name, but I’m hoping that at some point she will.

Then I can take care of that son of a bitch .

I order a whisky neat and sit at the far end of the bar. Just so I can watch this motherfucker. He talks to himself, shouts at the television that’s playing the Giants game, then orders another beer.

“H-hold that thought, Larry,” he holds his finger up to the bartender. “I’ve gotta take a piss.”

Sean Murphy gets up and stumbles his way to the back of the bar, to the bathrooms. I pay my tab and slide my drink to where Layne’s father was sitting. I follow him back and when I open the door, her dad’s leaning with one hand on the wall, holding himself up as he pisses in the urinal. Pushing past him to get to the stall, I brush his shoulder, slipping the tracking dot in his open jacket pocket.

“S-sorry, lad,” he hiccups.

“No worries.” I say, closing the door behind me.

I wait for him to leave and I pull out my phone and make sure the tracker works.

The dot glows and a grin spreads across my face. “Gotcha motherfucker.”

The satisfaction of finding Layne’s father is the icing on the cake. When I am confident that the tracking device is functioning perfectly, I exit the stall to wash my hands. Leaving the dive bar behind, I step out onto the street, my mind racing with thoughts of justice for Layne. The stench of the bar lingers on my clothes, but I push past it, fueled by the need to make sure this piece of shit suffers for the pain he caused my girl.

My girl.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see some of our diamonds, sir? Those are the traditional engagement rings.” The jeweller asks as I peruse the rows of emerald gemstones.

Fuck tradition. I want something I know Ma Petite Mort is going to love and enjoy wearing. She isn’t a traditional girl. It’s one of the things I love about her. I’ve been looking at the case of rings for well over forty minutes, and this is the second jewellery shop I’ve been to. I want it to be perfect.

“Nah, lemme see that one there.” I point to the princess cut, emerald set in a white gold band at the way back.

He pulls it out and hands it to me. It’s perfect.

Just like her.

“This is it. I’ll take this one.” I hand it back to him, a smile on my face.

Time to ask this girl to be my wife. I’m just praying she says yes.