Page 66 of Thug

“Any luck?” I asked.

He didn’t need to respond. I could see it in his face. The inspector, a complete prick in the eyes of the men who’d performed the work, was scouring the kitchen for any violations of construction code. According to Panzer, everything was in order and I had nothing to worry about. The inspector, on the other hand, had been going over their work with a fine-toothed comb for at least an hour. I couldn’t believe he didn’t have better things to do other than nit-pick the quality and accuracy of the men’s work. It was as if he were settling a vendetta.

“He’s still looking for a reason to deny it.” He balled his fists and raised them to his chest. “If that bastard doesn’t pass it, I’ll have a little one-one-one with that motherfucker in the parking lot.”

I glanced at the clock. I was supposed to open in an hour. Refusing to throw in the towel, I was ready to negotiate with the inspector myself. “Can I go in there?” I extended my right leg and twisted it back and forth. “Maybe show him some thigh?”

He chuckled. “Couldn’t hurt. I’ve done everything but beg. All I’ve got left is dragging him into the parking lot and breaking his jaw.”

Panzer was proof that people aren’t always in-line with the first impressions they make. When we met, I was convinced he was an arrogant asshole who had a crush on me. I came to realize he was nothing more than a man who was confident in his own skin, and that he thought I was a beautiful woman. He wasn’t afraid to tell me I was beautiful, nor was he opposed to making something else clear.

Beyond the declaration of my beauty, he wasn’t attracted to me. According to him, it was merely an observation. He said I was fun to be around because I didn’t know I was pretty. Although I initially expected Brisco would become a big brother figure to me, I now believed Panzer was taking on that role.

While I mentally prepared to sweet-talk the inspector into signing the inspection card, the cowbell clanged.

Wearing his normal attire of jeans, his leather kutte, a wifebeater, and boots, Price barged in. A folded bandana tied across his forehead topped off his outfit for the day. He looked like a complete hoodlum.

He pulled off his sunglasses. “Asshole sign off on it, yet?”

“Not yet,” Panzer said.

“I’m going to see if I can sweet talk him.” I patted my thighs. “Show him some leg.”

“You won’t be showing him a goddamned thing,” Price snarled. “I’ll go have a talk with that prick.”

Panzer’s brows knitted together. “Wouldn’t be a good idea for you to go in there.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not a licensed contractor,” Panzer said. “He’s not going to listen to you.”

“Wanna fucking bet?” Price pushed his way between us and paused. He kissed me. “Watch this.”

He stormed into the kitchen. Panzer and I snuck past the bar and took positions on either side of the door, hoping to hear what was said. Muffled voices raised and lowered. The sound of water being turned on and off followed. Elevated voices. Then, nothing.

The kitchen door swung open so hard it hit the wall with a thwack! “Cocksucker,” Price muttered under his breath. He gazed into the seating area and noticed we weren’t there. He glanced over each shoulder. Upon seeing us, he put his hands on his hips and glared. “What the fuck are you two idiots doing?”

“We were trying to hear what you were saying,” I whispered.

“Man’s a prick,” Price said. “Said if I didn’t leave him alone, he was going to call the cops. Said I didn’t have the right to be talking to him because I wasn’t a card-carrying licensed contractor.”

Panzer walked to the beer tap and leaned against the bar. “What’d I tell you?”

“Fuck that asshole,” Price said. He glared at the kitchen door. “He ought to at least listen to what I have to say.”

“So far, the asshole hasn’t listened to anything,” Panzer said. “At least not what I’ve had to say.”

The way things were going, I had my doubts I’d ever have a working kitchen. “I’m going in there,” I declared. “Worst thing he can do is tell me the same thing he told you.”

With some reservation, I headed toward the kitchen. After drawing a breath of courage, I pushed the door open and walked inside.

A balding man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, the inspector was wearing khaki-colored slacks and an off-white short-sleeved button-down dress shirt. Two sizes smaller than it needed to be to cover his distended belly, it was half untucked from being stretched to the point of failure. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and his shoes were hideously scuffed.

By my guess he was divorced and spending half his income on child support. Angry at the world for his miserable existence, he loomed over the contractors with the authoritative clipboard he carried tucked under his arm.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

He glanced up and then did a double take. “Not bad.” He scanned me from my ankles to my ass. “Who might you be?”