Six of a Ind

Authors note.

Hey y'all, I'm back with a brand-new story. This one had been brewing for a couple years in my head, and I'm sure you'll enjoy it as much as my other stories. I'm excited to share it with everyone.

Before you get all mad and say, "Where's Lust at first sight!?--You know who you are. I'm working on the next part and took a short break to write this note before uploading.

Just relax, my guy.

Anyway, enjoy, and let me know your thoughts. More good good coming from me soon.

Peace out. Stay awesome.

Darth_Aussie.

Chapter 1

"Yo! Richie Rich, what's happening, my man."

I turned to see Dion and Trevor - a couple of wanna-be hustlers that hung around these parts - waving me down from across the street. Usually I would have kept my eye out for them around here, but I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts that I was lucky I hadn't walked into traffic yet.

I checked both ways on the one-way street - I learned to never trust Sydney drivers - before jogging across the narrow road. My old Converse shoes slapped against the wet asphalt, splashing water about my ankles when I hit a particularly large puddle.

"Yo Richie, what up," Trevor grinned, holding a fist out to me.

I hated the name Richie, especially when used in the nickname 'Richie Rich'. It came from an incident when I was about thirteen and I made my first stack of bills. It was only about a hundred dollars, all in five and ten dollar notes, but I'd acted like a jerk, waving it around like I'd hit the jackpot. Add that to my golden blonde hair and blue eyes and I was stuck with the shitty nickname.

Fortunately, Trevor was the only person who still used it. I mostly ignored it, hoping he'd grow bored and move on some day.

It had been seven years...

"What's up," I replied, giving Trevor's fist a bump, then Dion's. Dion was far more reserved than his hetero life-partner Trevor, opting for a silent nod.

You never saw one without the other.

"Shit all, man." Trevor said, suspiciously glancing up and down the street. "Just trying to move some weight. You in?"

"You know I don't touch that shit," I replied, taking a half step back.

"Shit, man. It's no different than what you do," Trevor shrugged nervously.

"I rip off rich assholes. I don't deal drugs," I replied sternly.

"Whatever man. Your loss," Trevor waved his hand dismissively at me. "Let's bounce, D."

Trevor already had his back to me by the time he summoned his friend to tag along. Dion and I shared a puzzled look. Trevor was always a bit of a space cadet - we were sure it was the glue he used to sniff in high school that addled his brain - but he was hardly ever irritable like he was today.

"I'll see what's up with him," Dion said finally. "You coming to the Treehouse later?"

"Yeah, for sure, man," I nodded. "I just gotta take care of a few things first."

"Easy. Take care, bro."

Dion and I clasped hands before he took off after his best friend. I watched as the two rounded the corner, with Trevor stopping to blatantly ogle a woman jogging by in grey yoga pants. By the movements of his lips and the look of disgust on her face, he hadn't been quiet about his appreciation.

Something that had earned him a black eye or two in the past.

"Mister McMillan."

I groaned inwardly at my name spoken in such a manner. There were very few people who would ever address me as such, and I enjoyed interacting with none of them. I took a deep breath, put on my best bullshitting face, and spun around with a grin.

Two police officers stood before me. One looked no older than my twenty years, but the rod crammed up his ass seemed to add ten years of arrogance to his stance. I had never seen him before, but he gave me a look like he knew exactly who I was and what I had for breakfast.

The other officer I knew, and I knew him quite well.

"Howdy, Officer Jones," I greeted the older man politely. "Nice day we're having."

Since my high school days, Officer Kevin Jones had been one of my biggest fans, back when he was a groundskeeper. He loved to spy on Me and my friends when we snuck off to skip class and smoke cigarettes; always running off to inform the principal or other teachers of what we were doing. It was like he had a vendetta against us.

He'd became such a pain in the ass we decided it was time for some payback.

Kevin Jones drove an old Mini Cooper that he treated like his first-born child. We always made fun of him for driving it since he was a 6'4 man squeezing himself into such a tiny car. Earning him the nickname Kevin, the clown. One day while class was in, a dozen friends and I planned to skip class and meet by the faculty parking lot. With a group effort, we were able to lift the car and carry it towards the assembly hall where we left it.

Kevin shot death glares at us the following week, but there was no proof, and nothing was damaged, so the school just chalked it up as a harmless prank. Kevin left two weeks later, and I never saw him again, that was until he started showing up in my neighbourhood and usual haunts a couple of months ago with a badge and a gun.

He had come a long way in two years. Also lost a lot of hair too.

"Nice day for some. Bad for others," Officer Jones replied.

Jones always tried to intimidate me whenever we crossed paths, but he never had anything on me. He always hinted at knowing precisely what I was up to, and that it was only a matter of time until he caught me. Unfortunately for Officer Jones, he was so confident I was fucking around with drugs, part of a gang, or breaking into houses nightly, that he never even came close to pinning anything on me.

"I'm just out for a morning stroll to get a coffee," I grinned. "Nothing illegal about that, is there?"

"No," Jones replied. "But stealing credit card numbers is a crime."

My confident grin stayed in place, but my heart nearly tripled in tempo. There was no way this Police Academy extra could pin that on me. We had been so careful. We never hit more than two shops in the same district, waited at least a month between bulk sales and copying the information, and made sure the numbers sold were not in any order. It would be incredibly hard for anyone to trace it back to me or anyone involved.

"You know what. I always thought that was a crime," I replied. "Thank you for clearing that one up for me. You really are a service to our great city."

"We know it's you, McMillan," the younger officer said, stepping forward. "We need you to come down to the station for questioning."

They had obviously caught onto what I was doing, but I still didn't think they had proof it was me; otherwise, I wouldn't be having this conversation with them. There was a good chance they weren't even out here looking for me and had just decided to take a shot. I'd play along for now and see what they got.

"Happy to oblige the boys in blue," I nodded. "Lead the way."

By the looks on both officers' faces, they weren't expecting me to co-operate.

Parking anywhere in Sydney was an absolute nightmare, which is why I never bothered getting a car or my license. I knew how to drive, but I never saw myself actually owning a car, so I didn't see the point in paying for a little piece of plastic that said I was legally allowed to drive. Officers ding-dong and douchebag must have realized the same when coming into the busier city areas and left their cruiser at the precinct. Kevin was breathing heavily by the time we arrived.

"Nice place you got here," I said, glancing around the precincts waiting room. "Very stark."

"This way," Kevin said, giving me a not-so-gentle shove towards the rear hallway.

"We've got a suspect for the credit card heists," the unnamed, younger officer reported to the front desk. "We'll be questioning him in room 3."

"Suspect?" I asked over my shoulder. "Aren't you meant to inform me if I'm being arrested? All that jazz about the right to remain silent."

"You watch too many movies," Officer Jones replied flatly. "Take a seat."

I knew for a fact that he was avoiding answering me as a loophole. They hadn't arrested me, so I could technically leave whenever I wanted. That may raise more suspicions though. I was also interested in what 'proof' they had. If it were ironclad, they would have slapped cuffs on me within seconds.

Officer Jones left me to myself for the next thirty minutes or so. He hadn't searched me yet, since that would have been admitting that I was under arrest. I still had my phone, but I left it in my jacket pocket. The last thing I needed was these ding dongs making up an excuse to confiscate my phone and go through it for evidence. Not that I kept anything on there. It would just be annoying as hell.

Phones weren't cheap after all.

The door to the interview room finally opened after I had counted the cracks on the ceiling for the fifteenth time--there were fourteen of them--and a police officer I hadn't met before stepped in holding a manila folder as thick as my forearm. He was even older than Kevin, although he had a thick head of pure white hair and an impressive moustache.

"Where's Officer Kev?" I asked, letting the front legs of my chair hit the floor for the first time in ten minutes.

"Officer Jones has been called away on other business," he said curtly. "I am Sergeant Davison, and I will be conducting your interview today."

"An interview that I am not arrested for, right?" I smirked.

"That's right. You may leave whenever you wish," the sergeant sighed.

"That's cool," I nodded. "I'll stay. I have nothing to hide."

I'd been in trouble with the law enough to know that a sergeant rarely got involved with voluntary interviews, and from experience it was always the officer who brought someone in that did the questioning. I would have bet my last ten dollars - if I had ten dollars - that Officer ding-dong and his sidekick had messed up by bringing me in and had been reprimanded for it. I was starting to think that maybe they did have something on me, and were waiting to grab me.

I clenched my fists under the table to stop my fingers from tapping nervously and pressed my feet harder against the floor to stop my leg from bouncing.

Over the next couple of hours, Sergeant Davison asked a series of questions designed to poke holes in my story. Anything out of place would be noticed, grasped, and unravelled until the sergeant found the truth. I had plenty of holes in my stories and events, but they were purposeful. I never planned to have the perfect cover; that was always a dead giveaway; but instead have a story and alibi so filled with inconsistencies and holes that it was almost impossible to figure out what was real and false.

Especially when those holes weren't around events in question, you came off looking like a stoner with shitty short-term memory, but it worked.

"How long have you known the individuals known as Dion Mathers and Trevor Corey?"

That question threw me off my game for a moment. It was the only question in the past hour that he hadn't already asked. Up until now, Sergeant Davison had recycled the same dozen or so questions in random orders with different wordings.

Not once had he mentioned Trevor and Dion.

There was no point lying about knowing them. It was common knowledge around the neighbourhood that I associated with those two, and Officer Jones had probably seen me speaking to them before he snuck up on me like a creeper about to blow his top. But what did those two have to do with this?

"I see 'em round the place," I replied. "We grab drinks from time to time. Shoot the shit and check out girls."

"Have you ever seen or been a part of a drug exchange that went on with the individuals Dion Mathers and Trevor Corey?" Sergeant Davison asked.

"No," I replied.

The sergeant studied me for a long moment, then noted something down in the novel he had been working on since we started talking. I technically hadn't lied to the sergeant with my answer. I hadn't ever been a part of their drug deals, choosing to make myself scarce when they were going down.

It wasn't that I was against people using drugs. I even partook in some recreational weed from time to time myself. I just didn't want to get caught up in anything I couldn't talk my way out of. Drugs usually brought out the worst people and the worst in them.

Especially the shit that Dion and Trevor were hustling.

"Do you want to explain this image then?"

The sergeant slid a tablet across the table, with an image displayed on the screen. The photo had obviously been taken with some premium gear and a bit of skill because the picture was clear as day without the slightest blur or distortion. The image showed Trevor, Dion, and me out the front of a local convenience store. It was my usual place to grab smokes, some drinks, and a frozen pizza on my way home. The owner was a kind older man that had spoiled my foster sister and me when we were little by throwing in a free chocolate bar every now and then. I smiled at the memory but froze when I saw what was happening in the photo.

I was leaning against the wall in the image with a plastic grocery bag in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Dion and I were caught in a half smile like one of us had said something funny. Trevor had his back to us, speaking to someone I didn't recognize. I remembered this meet-up and a strange guy coming up to Trevor, but I hadn't paid it any attention. Probably just some asshole wanting to bum a smoke. But the photo also showed me what I hadn't seen that day.

Trevor was handing something off to the man.

Before I could speak, the sergeant flicked through three more images like a slideshow. The other pictures showed Trevor being handed folded notes that he quickly stuffed into his pocket. The man who'd made the purchase lowered his head and darted away without a word.

This was why I didn't fuck around with drugs. People always did stupid shit like this.

"Picture says a thousand words," I smiled.

"But I want to hear what words you have," the sergeant replied.

"I didn't see anything. I was simply an innocent bystander," I replied calmly.

"You have a record and are a known associate of criminals," Sergeant Davison cut in. "You have been spotted on surveillance cameras at more than half of the locations of stolen credit card numbers, and..."

The door to the interview room opened suddenly, slamming against the wall with enough force to make Sergeant Davison and myself jump. A man in an expensive suit strode in like he owned the place, glancing around the room with a thinly veiled look of disgust.

"Who the hell..." the sergeant shot to his feet.

"My name is Nathan Parks, and I am here to represent my client," the suit answered. "Who will be leaving immediately since this was a voluntary interview. Unless you are placing my client under arrest?"

"He is free to go," Sergeant Davison sighed.

"Let's go, kid," Nathan said, nodding to the door.

I was expecting a little more push-back from the sergeant, or at least some final words like 'don't leave town, kid' or 'I'm watching you.' But this wasn't the movies, and he probably wanted me to think I was off the hook entirely.

Nathan kept his mouth shut until we were outside the station, where we met with a younger man in a far cheaper suit.

"Dennis here will catch you up on what needs to be done," Nathan called out over his shoulder, already walking towards a black sedan parked against the curb.

"What do you mean?" I called out.

"Stay out of trouble, kid," Nathan called out just as the door closed.

I watched the black BMW pull out into traffic and speed off. Well, speed off as fast as Sydney city traffic would allow.

"You must be Mister McMillan."

I turned around to see the younger suit - Dennis - smiling friendly at me. He clutched a leather folder against his chest as if the contents were worth more than his life.

"Maybe," I said. "Who's askin'?"

"Well, technically, it would be an Andrew Lindholm, since he is the client. But for the moment I'm the one asking," Dennis replied.

"Cool Story," I replied.

Dennis cocked his head as if he were trying to figure out how to best communicate with me. "I need you to sign this release form for me."

I took a step back when Dennis produced a sheet of paper and stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets. "What is it?"

"It's for a letter," Dennis replied.

"The mailmen in Darling Point wear suits to work, do they?" I chuckled.

"I am not a mailman," Dennis said, sounding frustrated. "I'm an attorney, and this isn't just a regular piece of mail."

"I've never signed my name for a letter in my life," I said.

"This isn't a regular letter. It's--"

"Excuse me, Mister Parks?"

A police officer jogged across to meet Dennis and I, waving down the man in the suit.

"Mister Parks has already left. I'm his associate Dennis Goodwin," Dennis answered. "What can I do for you, officer?"

"Mister Parks forgot to sign these," the officer said, holding up a stack of papers. "It's required by law to release a suspect."

"But Mister McMillan isn't a suspect. He was voluntarily giving a statement."

The attention had dropped off me for a few seconds, but that was all I needed. I quickly and quietly made myself scarce, filtering into the crowd as they crossed at a set of traffic lights. In the distance behind me, I could hear Dennis' annoying voice as he called out for me.

Fuck I hated suits.

I ditched Dennis with ease, not at all interested in finding out what he wanted to serve me. A big-shot lawyer doesn't show up out of nowhere without it costing something, and I had a feeling that it wasn't money they wanted as payment.

It was well into the evening by the time I arrived at the Treehouse. The fifteen-story building had been bought up by some douchebag millionaire and turned into a party building. Unfortunately for him, the building was far too large to maintain a stable enough customer base to make it worth opening. Instead, he rented the main building to temp companies and opened the Treehouse on the top floor. Then he grew bored with it and moved on to another project, leaving the club's management and building up to my buddy, Raz.

Raz turned the hipster's paradise into a profitable and well-known dance club that catered to various sub-cultures in the Sydney community. Tonight was the industrial and darkwave crowd for their monthly gig. I wasn't exactly sure what darkwave was, but I'd seen the girls that attended in the past. Pale skin, dyed hair, tattoos, piercings, and some incredibly short skirts. Each one of them dressed up like it was their last night to party, and I was so down for it.

Plus, it was my birthday today.

I never really gave a shit about my birthday until I turned eighteen. Then I could make my own choices without that dipshit George getting into my business. George was my foster father and had been the primary role model in my life since I was fifteen. Although calling George a role model was like calling a bird a dinosaur. Technically right, but George was an alcoholic asshole that ruled his home with an iron fist. I still didn't know how the state allowed him to foster kids.

The elevator dinged and opened on the top floor. Sound dampening worked like a charm, and I could only faintly hear the sound of electronic music from the main lobby. Two women--looking like they could be mother and daughter--sat at a table by the club's main entrance. The words 'The Treehouse' flashed slowly behind them in different hues of green.

"Evening, ladies," I grinned at the dark-haired women. I knew I didn't fit in with this crowd, but they had always welcomed me without too much judging. However, I hadn't ever seen these two before.