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“Don’t do it man, trust me it ain’t worth the shit you’re going to get for fucking up his pretty face.” Drake comes around and meets Prophet eye to eye. Drake is more like the guys around here than either of us. Not so much because of his looks, since even I have to admit my brother is a knockout, but Damon Drake is a fucking beast. Six foot four, two hundred plus pounds of pure muscle and stealth. They don’t call him Dragon for no reason.
There is the slightest flinch in Prophet’s stance as Drake takes another step toward him. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. The Cobras have tried to recruit Drake since before I was inducted into the club, but he’s always wanted nothing to do with the brotherhood. Not because he doesn’t enjoy hanging around us, since he’s here just as much as I am, but apparently, he has too much on his plate and is trying to steer clear of the life that got his mother killed.
I know little about his dad, just the bit he does about how he wasn’t an upstanding citizen and was involved with the wrong crowd. That, along with the fact he was his mom’s supplier, getting her addicted to the shit that got her killed. A cocaine overdose which led to Drake and Ruby finding her dead in the living room when they were only six years old.
Between the cage fights and whatever other bullshit he’s gotten involved in, sneaking out at random times during the night, and spending whole weekends out of town, he’s got enough shit to worry about. I don’t pry. It isn’t my place to make my brother report to me. When he’s ready to tell me what he’s up to in his free time, he will. It’s not like I tell him everything I do, nor how I feel.
“You seem to care about him,” Prophet states, looking between the two of us.
“He’s my brother. It’s best you remember if you fuck with him, you’re fucking with me.”
Prophet laughs, although there is no humor in Drake’s tone. “Then maybe he’ll listen to you. Tell him to stay the fuck away from Stephan Silver. He doesn’t know the shit he’s capable of and best believe if he gets any of my men killed, he’ll have hell to pay. Zeke’s nephew or not.”
“Is that a threat, Prophet?” I mock, smirking at him and adding a wink for the fuck of it.
“It’s a fucking promise, Saint,” he says, taking a step in my direction, his hands fisted at his sides. “And while you’re at it,” he adds, meeting my mocking expression with a smirk of his own. “Stay the hell away from Stella.”
The sound of her name leaving his lips has me seeing red once again. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” I spit out at him. Drake doesn’t miss the fact I’ve pulled the pair of brass knuckles I carry with me out of my pocket. They’re old, rusting, and the only thing I have of my father. Makes sense. I have some sort of attachment to them since they were his weapon of choice against me.
“You heard me. Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. She’s suffered enough. Stay the hell out of her life if, in fact, you care even an ounce about her, since clearly it doesn’t seem like you do.”
“You have no idea what I do or don’t feel, so why don’t you keep your mouth shut, or better yet, let me shut it for you.” I raise my hand cuffing the brass knuckles to his face but stop just before they make contact with his skin.
“Malachi,” Zeke blares out, his deep, authoritative tone heeding a loud and clear warning.Don’t fucking do it.Looking up, I find him glaring daggers in my direction, his tattooed biceps crossed against his puffed-out chest. “Take him out of here Drake, I’m not cleaning up this fucking mess.”
Drake grabs my shoulder, hauling me away from an impassive-looking Prophet. “Let’s go, man, it ain’t fucking worth it.”
I listen for once without talking back and allow Drake to drag me to where his car is parked along the curb. Once inside the car, I turn the air conditioning on to the highest level and turn up the volume until the music is thundering out of the speakers at the side of the car door.
Drake lowers the music when I turn and glare at him. “Want to talk about that last bit he said?”
“What, how he’s a fucking idiot if he thinks he can tell me what to do?” I say, knowing that’s not what Drake is referring to. He’s talking about how Prophet said if I cared about Stella even the slightest bit, I’d stay away from her. It’s not news to me I hurt her, fuck I did a hell a lot more than that. How Prophet knows, though, I don’t have a fucking clue.
“No, about your feelings toward Little Silver,” he says nonchalantly, like it’s the most normal thing for us to talk about.
“Yeah right, now,” I mock, turning to look out the window, not wanting him to see the pain sure enough written on my face at the thought of how badly I fucked things up with her.
“No, you don’t want to share, or no, you don’t have feelings?” Drake continues, not getting the message to drop the subject.
I turn back to him and find him smiling at me, knowing he’s hitting a nerve with his incessant questions. “What the fuck, Drake, since when did you turn into such a chick wanting to talk about feelings?”
He chuckles, revving the engine and heading down the street toward Hillcrest. “Alright man, fine, have it your way, but I’m here if you want to talk or not talk.”
I shake my head, internally laughing at what the conversations turned into. “You know what you can do for me, Drake?” He looks up at me, ready to do anything to help me out. That’s why he's my brother. He’d do anything for me and I for him, no questions asked. “Take me to a bar, any bar, far away from here, and far away from home.”
He nods in agreement, hauling an illegal U-turn down the street, making the cars behind us honk angrily at him.
I’m getting shit-faced tonight.
