Inside, the Saints Outlaws are celebrating like tomorrow owes them money and tonight is the last chance to spend it.
There are brothers on the bar. Club girls on laps. Prospects running liquor like battlefield medics. Magic is pouring tequila directly into Dune’s mouth while Tubbs counts down in Spanish and gets every number wrong. Key Rat is on a speaker table with two phones in his hands, yelling that he is absolutely working while a brunette in leather shorts tries to lick his neck.
Disco is perched on a stand beside Darling like a feathered bodyguard with anger issues.
“¡Pendejo!” he screams when I walk in.
I lift two fingers. “Good to see you too, shitbird.”
“¡Pretty Lady!”
That hits.
The room doesn’t stop, but I do.
Darling sees it from across the bar. Her hand drops to the new ring on her finger. Diablo stands behind her, one arm braced on the bar, eyes already on me because the bastard misses nothing.
He looks disgustingly happy.
Still dangerous. Still president. Still the kind of man who would put a body in Biscayne Bay and be home in time to kiss his woman goodnight.
But happy.
I hate him for it for about three seconds.
Then I’m glad.
Then I hate that too.
Magic spots me and throws both arms wide. “Road captain! Come drink before your face ruins the party.”
“My face improves property value.”
“Only if the buyer likes haunted criminals.”
Wrong joke.
The room nearest us goes quiet for half a breath.
Then Magic’s smile fades.
He heard it too late.
I grab the tequila bottle from his hand. “Good thing I’m popular with degenerates.”
Then I drink.
It burns all the way down.
Perfect.
Vice appears beside me. “You good?”
“Ask me after I forget my own name.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
