"You hit him with a baton," I wheezed, the words scraping out of my throat like sandpaper. "For asking for insurance."
"I was protecting myself from a deranged intruder," she corrected smoothly. "Apex Patrol is fully authorized to use necessary force to secure HOA property. And since your property is currently in violation of seven different neighborhood ordinances, you're lucky I don't have them drag you out to the street and leave you for the trash collectors."
She stepped closer. The pointed toe of her red heel hovered inches from my nose.
"Wipe it off," Karen demanded.
I blinked, the pain making it hard to focus. "What?"
"The mud on my shoe. You tracked it onto my lawn when you trespassed. Use your filthy shirt and wipe it off."
The sheer arrogance of the demand hung in the air. The two guards standing over me chuckled, a low, cruel sound. The man standing on my back eased up his weight just slightly, giving me enough room to move my arms, expecting me to comply.
I let go of the grass. I pushed my palms flat against the earth. But I didn't reach for her shoe. I turned my head, looking up at her from the ground.
"Go to hell, Karen," I whispered.
Karen’s face went rigid. The smug satisfaction vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine, ugly rage. Her perfectly manicured hands curled into claws at her sides. She despised defiance. She had spent years bribing, threatening, and buying out everyone around her. The fact that a retired mechanic in a faded work shirt was refusing to submit to her broke the pristine illusion of her control.
"You arrogant old piece of trash," she hissed.
She bent down, ignoring the expensive silk of her dress pooling in the grass. She reached out and grabbed the collar of my faded blue work shirt. I tried to pull back, but the guard on my back immediately dropped his weight again, pinning me flat.
Karen gripped the fabric with both hands and yanked violently.
The old cotton gave way with a loud riiiip, tearing straight down the middle from my collar to my stomach. The buttons popped off, scattering into the grass.
The torn shirt fell open, exposing my chest to the cool morning air.
Karen froze for a split second, her eyes dropping to the left side of my chest.
There, etched deeply into my skin, was a massive, faded tattoo. It was a skull, its jaw slightly open, wearing a detailed, jagged vương miện rực lửa—a flaming crown. The ink had faded to a dark, bruised blue over the decades, but the aggressive, imposing nature of the design was undeniable.
It wasn't a gang symbol. It was the emblem of the 47th Rescue Squadron, my old military brotherhood. We had flown into the worst places on earth to pull broken men out of the fire. The flaming crown represented the hell we walked into, and the skull represented what we defied.
But Karen didn't know that. She didn't care to know. To her, it was exactly what she needed it to be: proof that I was the enemy.
"Look at this," Karen sneered, her lip curling in absolute disgust. She stood back up, looking down at me as if I were a dead rat on her porch. "An old man playing gangster. You really are just gutter trash, aren't you? Tattoos like a criminal. A rusty motorcycle ruining my street view. You don't even belong in a civilized neighborhood."
She reached out blindly. Marcus, standing silently behind her, handed her the plastic iced coffee cup she had left on the retaining wall. It was half-full of an expensive, milky brown latte.
Karen held the cup over my chest. She popped the plastic lid off.
"Trash belongs in the dirt," she said.
She turned the cup over.
The freezing cold, sticky coffee splashed directly onto my exposed chest, running over the flaming skull tattoo, soaking into the torn edges of my shirt, and pooling on my skin. The ice cubes hit my ribs, sending a fresh jolt of agonizing pain through my broken bones.
The three guards laughed out loud. Marcus smiled, tapping his heavy baton against his thigh.