I apologize, my stories get long. I know. That's just what happens. Also my characters have flaws. You probably won't find an ex special forces billionaire CEO in my stories.
If you are after quick sex, this really is one to skip. If you decide to read it I hope you enjoy it.
Found Money
Oh Fuck! I've got to get out of here, Damon thought. He knew there were some risks operating in this city. The police did not like drug dealers, and the mayor had declared a war on drugs. But the money was so good, and it had worked well for so long. I almost had enough to move home Damon thought. He thought working out of this high end neighborhood would keep him safe.
And it had, for a while.
Damon saw the action from the upstairs window. Down the street it looked like they were assembling. Damon had a choice, get the drugs, or get the money.
He grabbed the beat up stuffed backpack out of the hidden spot in the basement. Damon then slipped out the backdoor into the backyard.
Damon saw the reflection of the police flashlight on the sides of the neighbors house. They were close. He took a moment, looked around, and soon was climbing over the back fence into the neighbors yard.
They're going to catch me, he thought. Fuck! I need to stash this money somewhere, quick. Damon was in the backyard of the house directly behind the rental house he had been living in. Frantically, he looked around. He noticed a foundation vent. He thought that could work.
Quickly Damon was on his hands and knees. He swung open the vent window. He squeezed through the vent opening and was now in the crawl space under the neighbors house. It was filthy and God knew what was living under this house.
He didn't care. He needed to stash this money. This was his future. Damon crawled deep under the house, pushing through spider webs and other filth. He found a small depression in the ground. He tucked the red backpack into the depression and slid a loose piece of lumber over it.
Now I've got to get out here, he thought.
He emerged filthy from the debris under the house. So far no cops he thought. Damon walked straight through the side yard toward the front of the house, brushing the dirt off his clothing as he walked.
He took a moment and studied the house. He memorized the address, 5718. He repeated the address over and over, committing it to memory.
He turned right heading down the sidewalk one street over from his street, where the cops were. If I can make it to the corner, Damon thought, I can cross into the parking lot and quickly slip into the park. At that point I should be free, he thought.
With a flicker of optimism Damon walked briskly toward the corner. The route seemed to be clear and he started to jog casually across the street toward the church parking lot. That's when the first two police cars showed up. Damon's reaction was to try to escape. He turned, took two steps in the opposite direction. That's when the third cop car appeared blocking his path.
Hands behind his head he stopped and was quickly surrounded.
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
I wondered how my life had gotten to the point I was at now? It didn't seem that long ago that all seemed wonderful, things were going well. I used to be happy most of the time I thought.
On the other hand I can't really complain. I have this great house in Ballard. True, I've had to make some changes. I no longer have the trendy office space I once had. But I do have a nice home office and a decent contract job in the tech industry. And I have Mel. I think. She's beautiful and successful.
Just then my phone rang. I saw from the screen it was my cousin Mike.
"Yo, JD, What is up?" Mike greeted me.
"Just wrapping up." I told him.
"Mel working?" He asked.
"I guess so. She's not home." I told him.
I never knew when she was working or not. With her job she could be gone a lot. Even more so lately it seemed like.
Mike suggested we meet at The Norsemen, a neighborhood bar partway between Ballard and downtown Seattle where Mike's office is. Mike is an assistant district attorney working out of the King County Prosecutors office. He often had interesting stories of criminal activities.
My mother and his father are twins. Our families were close growing up and we were just a year apart in age. Mike and I stayed friends and I would have to say he is one of my closest friends.
He was already at the Norsemen by the time I got there. He had ordered me a Porter, my normal beer of choice. He looked like he'd had a long day. Suit jacket off, white shirt wrinkled, tie loose.
"Thanks Cuz," I said and we silently toasted clinking glasses.
We sat there for a moment in contented silence just enjoying the solid bond of family and many years together. We are very different. Mike's kind of an alpha, and me more of an introverted nerd. In reality I really wasn't that bad, that's just how I thought of myself
"How are the criminals treating our fair city these days?" I asked Mike.
He just shook his head. During the protests and rioting in the city the liberal downtown government had slashed funding for the police department. It was as if the mayor had rented a billboard with a sign saying "criminals welcome, and don't worry if you are caught you won't be punished".
The only thing there seems to be a firm stance against was drugs. Drug trafficking was looked at quite seriously.
"There was something a little odd that happened not far from your place. Some guy was selling drugs out of a house real close to you and Mel."
"Where was that?" I asked him.
"I don't know but I'll find out. It's possible I may even get the case. The odd part about the deal is that usually these drug houses aren't in a nice neighborhood like Ballard. Your house has to be worth a million, if not more." Mike told me.
"Normally we see this happening in the bad parts of Renton or Tacoma. Not in your type of neighborhood." Mike said.
He was right. Our home value along with the entire neighborhood had gone way up. Amazon, Microsoft and other tech employment had increased demand dramatically. The house I had purchased not that long ago for around five hundred thousand was easily now worth more than a million.
"Huh," I thought. "I wonder which house it was?"
"Not sure," Mike said. "But if it's like any of these other drug houses look for the one that's rundown looking, probably an overgrown yard. That's probably it." Mike went on.
I thought for a moment. Most of the neighbors worked hard to keep their houses and yards nice, or hired people to do it for them. I did recall one house around the block that was in much worse condition than the rest of the neighborhood. Hmm, that was pretty close to us. Was that the drug house? I couldn't remember seeing any activity that looked like drug dealing in the area.
