The Fixer Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - THIRTEEN

  - FOURTEEN

  - FIFTEEN

  - EPILOGUE

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - THIRTEEN

  - FOURTEEN

  - FIFTEEN

  - EPILOGUE

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  The

  FIXER

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2017 Jessica Gadziala

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.

  "This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."

  Image credit : Istock.com/ VeronikaCh

  Dedication

  To Peg Scholer, who I always knew as Ms. Scholer, my middle school language arts teacher who once told a very insecure, yet ambitious, me that I had a 'unique style of writing that should be developed.' I have always held those words in my heart, remembering them whenever I doubted myself. I will forever be indebted to her for encouraging me to follow my passion.

  #TeachersChangeTheWorld

  #OneStudentAtATime

  ONE

  Aven

  He was going to kill me.

  I wasn't being dramatic. I wasn't being some weak, pathetic, overreacting, crazy, hysterical woman. That wasn't me. I was a realist, plain and simple.

  And the reality was, he was going to kill me.

  It was a long time coming actually.

  I had been anticipating the eventuality of it for eight months exactly. Because, the fact of the matter was, I knew plenty about men like him and what happened when they graduated from creep to psychopath. Blame my obsession with true crime TV and books.

  And because of that knowledge, I hadn't been sitting on my hands and waiting to die. I didn't exactly have the wildest, most amazing life. In fact, it was somewhat lame. But it was mine, and I kind of wanted the chance to have exciting things happen. To do that, I needed to be smart.

  First and foremost, I went to the cops.

  That was what any well-adjusted woman with my issue did, right? Even if you knew that the NBPD was corrupt as they come. They were supposed to help people in my situation.

  I was led past rows of desks manned by men and women who looked utterly miserable dealing with their paperwork, where I was told by a middle-aged detective with a silly, but somehow charming handlebar mustache, and warm green eyes that, he's sorry, it sucks, but there's not much he could do. They could, of course, file a restraining order but warned me that more often than not, that tended to escalate to anger. I left the station frustrated, but determined.

  The first stop was the pound. Generally a lover of the uber fluffy, pocket-purse type dogs, I had felt trepidation well up as I moved past the rows of outdoor cages where dozens of homeless dogs were living out their days. The descriptors on their doors called them 'terrier mixes,' but they weren't fooling anyone. Everyone knew a Pitbull when they saw one. Sturdy across the chest, wide-headed. There was no mistaking these terrier mixes who had to live their lives in cages with no toys or soft, fluffy beds because the whole species got a bad reputation thanks to a few sour apples. I had a Springer Spaniel as a kid who went rabid. The vet called it 'Springer rage,' and it wasn't uncommon. But people still buy that breed by the dozens. Unfair, their reputation.

  But their reputation was exactly why I was walking past them, reading their signs for their personality traits. I wanted something that seemed mean. I walked past the ones happily waggling their tails, jumping up and down at the idea of getting some scratches.

  Instead, I zeroed in on the ones that were pacing their enclosures, looking like they were just waiting for an opening to bust out of this joint and make a life for themselves on the street. The ones that looked pissed that I even bothered to be near them.

  Sure, I was going to pee myself trying to take care of one the first day or two until we found a rhythm. But if he was scary enough to be a deterrent, then I was going to have to deal with that fear.

  It paled in comparison to the fear I was up against to begin with anyway.

  I settled on a gray-colored Pitbull named Mackey who had 'food aggression,' did not like being on a leash, and was prone to chronic barking. I swear he gave me a look that said, 'you're a f'n idiot, lady' as the guy who worked there leashed him up to go for a walk to do his business as I filled out paperwork claiming I was experienced with difficult dogs.

  An hour later, Mackey was in the backseat, casually gnawing at the passenger side headrest, eyes on me the whole time, silently daring me to say something about it.

  Which I didn't.

  I drove him home, carefully reaching for the leash, then setting him free in my house to get acquainted with his new surroundings and, let's face it, destroy some stuff.

  Stop number two was the home improvement store. I got locks and deadbolts and those little alarm things you can put on your windows so that if they are pulled open, they scream. I got external motion lights to put around literally every corner of my modest house.

  The third stop was the local sporting goods store where I loaded up on steel-toed boots, bats, knives, and pepper spray. Then, for the hell of it, I bought bear repellant as well. It had a longer spray. In my opinion, the further away from him I could remain while defending myself, the better.

  Mackey had been true to his promises. He paced. He barked until my nerves felt like they had been shredded by the sound. He lunged at me when I went to put his food down, making me need to preemptively lock him in the bathroom before I started preparing it.

  And despite his nastiness, he was not the deterrent I had hoped he would be, though I did feel mildly better at having him around.

  But he still showed up night after night.

  And it was equal parts ridiculous and terrifying. Because, really, how cliché was it to have a stalker? It was the stuff of cheesy daytime TV shows or, alternately, low-budget primetime crime shows with some somber-toned narrator and God-awful reenactments by what could only be described as F-rate actors.

  I always watched them with a detached kind of entertainment.

  Somehow, I shrugged my shoulder over the warnings they always gave about how one in every six women will be stalked in their lifetime in varying degrees; certain that I was one of the five.

  I was not the kind of woman who would get stalked.

/>   Stalkers liked young, stupidly pretty, extroverted women who smiled at them in the grocery store or went on one disastrous online date with.

  I was closing in on thirty; I was pretty enough, but not spectacular; I was reclusive by nature, and had a resting bitch face that would shrink a man's balls from one-hundred yards.

  I should have been safe.

  But there I was, instead, night after night, watching a man outside my windows. Sometimes he just stood there, being a creeper. Other times, he had a camera. Then, as he got more comfortable with the incredibly slow response rate of the lovely NBPD when I called on him, he decided to start jerking off while standing there, coming all over the ground or, when he was being particularly disgusting, his hand, then smearing it all over my windows.

  He was always gone by the time the cops showed up, disappeared into the woods or down the street where he could have ducked into Chaz's bar, or She's Bean Around, a local coffeeshop, or any other place that might have been open.

  And the cops started thinking I was yanking their chain or out of my mind and their response time got even slower until, one night, they didn't show up until over an hour after my call. It was about then that I stopped bothering to call at all.

  They couldn't help me.

  And, to be perfectly honest, I couldn't afford to pay to have private security. Also, thanks to a mortgage that was killing me, I couldn't move either. The only reason I got the house in the first place was that it was, well, a shithole, and I had the requisite twenty-percent to put down. But that twenty-percent completely strapped me, and soon after moving in, I lost my decently-paying job as an esthetician when the salon went under. Given that there were no other job openings in that particular field anywhere within thirty miles, I took a job as a waxer. Yes, waxer. I was all up in lady bits all day. The hours sucked; it was awkward as hell, and I had precious little money left over after paying bills.

  You would find me situated quite reluctantly between a rock and a freaking hard place.

  I did the best I could, but it was proving not to be enough.

  He had gotten bolder.

  The staring and picture taking and jerking off had escalated to notes under the door with sexual advances that had undertones of increasing violence.

  The first note was innocent enough - albeit creepy given the circumstances. You're so beautiful. I love when you look at me.

  Back away from him when I noticed his face in my window was more like it.

  But the one from last week had been enough to make my stomach drop.

  I'm going to hold you down and fuck you until you scream.

  Not exactly a love note, that.

  Then, finally, just a few nights ago, he started banging on windows when I was asleep at night or trying to get in the front or back doors. The back door, five locks aside, also had the refrigerator butted up against it. At night, I moved the bookshelf in front of the front door as well. But he was a big guy; if he could get past the locks, I very much doubted my fridge or Ikea bookshelf could keep him out.

  But this morning, I woke up and I knew.

  I wasn't superstitious or anything like that. In fact, I had never had what was commonly referred to as a "gut instinct" before that moment.

  But I knew.

  He was going to get in tonight, and it was going to escalate.

  Desperate for someone, anyone who could help me, I searched around online for anyone in Navesink Bank for any type of security or hired muscle that I could beg to help me... on some kind of payment plan.

  That was when I came across his name.

  Quinton Baird.

  It was a pretentious name.

  His website matched.

  Apparently, he "fixed" things. He was a "fixer." Whatever the hell that meant.

  But I was desperate, and my situation was absolutely in need of some "fixing."

  I called. I got the girl at the reception desk. She asked me what it was concerning. I gave her all the gory details right up to my gut feeling about things going to hell that very night. Then she put me on hold, and another person picked up, a man, obviously the one who was in charge of giving the bad news because he did it the band-aid way- quick and painful.

  Fixers, it seemed, only fixed things after they went to hell.

  He told me he would relay the message to 'the boss' when he got back in the morning, but not to get my hopes up.

  I hung up feeling so desperate that it was nearly enough to bring me to my knees.

  I couldn't protect myself with a dog who barely liked me, let alone enough to protect me, baseball bats, and bear spray.

  Desperate times and desperate measures. There was a reason that was a idiom.

  I took a deep breath, corralled the dog into the front room, slipped on a leash, grabbed pepper spray, and made a walk down the main street toward a place I would never have walked into willingly before.

  I had seen enough movies and TV shows about bikers to know they generally saw women as beer-servers and spread legs.

  But, if the rumors were true, they were where I could get a gun without any kind of trail leading to it.

  The Henchmen MC compound was long and windowless with giant fences and scary-looking men walking the grounds at all times.

  "Hey baby," the guy at the gate said, giving me a quick once-over. "Can I do something for you?"

  I wasn't so wrapped up in my terror, and impending possible rape and murder that I overlooked this guy. Scary? Sure. But hot also. Tall and fit, he was covered in tattoos that snuck out of his sleeves, and up above the leather cut he was wearing with The Henchmen MC logo I knew was on the back from seeing them riding around town all the time. He had dark hair, classically attractive bone structure, and gray eyes.

  I wasn't exactly sure how one went about criminal activities, never having done something illegal; not even downloading music for free or streaming a pirated movie online. I figured blunt was generally the way to go about such things. "I need a gun," I said, lifting my chin a little, trying not to be offended when he laughed at first.

  "You're serious?"

  "I'm serious," I agreed, trying to keep my face blank, not wanting them to see any of the desperation I felt.

  "For what?" he asked, interested.

  "If I wanted to do a background check, I would hit a legal gun store," I said, squaring my shoulders, pretending like I wasn't at risk of turning and running at any second.

  "Fair enough," he said with a casual shrug. "You got the cash?" he went on.

  That really depended on how much the damn gun was, but I figured that guns, like any purchase, had a wide range of prices. I didn't need the 'holy shit' gun. I just needed the 'can put a hole in someone if they are charging at me to rape and kill me' type.

  "Yes."

  "Low or high end?" he went on, doing another once over. If he were a woman, I would figure he could tell that my jeans were from a cheap box store and my heels had spots that were colored in with permanent marker where the fake leather had scratched. But being that he was a man, I figured all he saw was hips and ass and boob. Oddly, I somehow preferred that.

  "Low is fine. It's... just for home protection."

  His smile went a little devilish then, eyes brightening. "If you need home protection, baby, I can protect you in your home. From your bed..."

  I felt my lips curve up, but it was sarcastic, not amused. "Just the gun, thanks."

  "Offer stands," he said, waving a hand at one of the other guys, then giving him a couple orders and the guy ran off.

  "What will I owe you?" I asked, hoping that what I had in my back pocket, literally every last dollar I had to my name, was enough.

  "Tell you what, since you're so pretty and the fact that you need it for home protection means you don't got yourself a man, I will shave some off the top. Let's call it an even two-hundred."

  Two-hundred?

  I had grossly overestimated the cost of a gun.

  Suddenly, I was worried that maybe low end me
ant that the damn thing wouldn't fire or would like... backfire and take out half my face or something. But what was done was done because the other guy was running out, doing some slick kind of move that obviously somehow deposited the gun on the other bikers' person because the other guy ran back off again.

  "Come over here, baby," he said oddly, making me stiffen. "Don't worry, ain't gonna try to fuck 'ya. Though, I wouldn't turn down that if it was offered. But you need to get your ass closer because I can't just hand you a gun in broad daylight."

  Right. Okay. Duh.

  I leaned down, pretending to be petting my dog who whined and tried to pull away as I moved to grab the money out of my pocket then stood and moved closer to the very hot, very interested biker who suddenly reached behind his back as he pulled me almost flush to his body, his warm breath on my ear. "This is a Smith & Wesson® SDVE nine-millimeter pistol. It's heavy, but it's smooth. When you go home, figure you might want to go online and look up how to handle it since it's clearly your first gun." With that, I felt his hand touch my belly, and jerked back, but his other hand went to my lower back, holding me still as something long and hard and cold slid into the front waistband of my pants and his other hand slid into my back butt pocket and I felt what I assumed was a baggie of bullets settle there.

  "Right," I agreed, swallowing a little hard as his hand left my pocket and moved to cup my asscheek instead.

  "Payment, baby," he reminded me, making me shake my head as if to clear it.

  "Oh, yeah," I said, but waited for instructions.

  "Why don't you slip it into my front pocket?" he suggested, smile devilish again.

  And well, the deal was almost done. I had what I came for, and cops hadn't swarmed in on us like I maybe had been paranoid they might.

  So I wasn't going to be put-off by some cocky biker who wanted me to cop a feel. I reached out, shoved my hand in, then yanked it back out before he could even blink.