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I laughed and linked my arm in hers as we sashayed along that busy strip.
CARSON
I flicked through my statements looking for a hint of good news. The security agency had gone under, and now I faced bankruptcy.
Angus stuck his head in the fridge. “There’s nothin’ here.”
I rubbed my head. “I haven’t had time to shop.”
“Let’s get pizza, then,” he said, bouncing on the spot. My brother had never been able to sit still. How he’d lasted in that cell for three days was a miracle.
After using everything I had to bail him out, I’d started moonlighting as a bouncer.
“Are you paying?” I asked, knowing the answer. Every spare penny my brother got went either up his arm or his nose.
He scratched his arm filled with track marks from twelve years of drug abuse that had started at sixteen.
Angus opened the cupboard, where a lonely packet of crackers and can of soup stared back at him. “Shit, man, there’s nothing here.”
“I used up everything to get you out. My company’s folded.”
Responding with an unfazed grunt, he shot me a “nothing I can do about that” look. He picked up his keys and a pouch of tobacco from the table.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Just going to hang with some of the guys. They’ll have some food.”
I puffed. “You’re on bail, Angus. If you’re caught even puffing on a joint, you’ll go back in.”
Staring at me blank-faced, he went to move, then I grabbed his arm. “I fucking mean it.”
He shrugged out of my clutch. “Leave me alone. I know how to look after myself.”
Having to work, I couldn’t exactly put a ball and chain around my younger brother’s ankle. I’d promised our mum I would care for him, but Angus was beyond help, and now he’d dragged me down with him. He would shoot up again for sure. At twenty-eight, Angus wasn’t doing anything to help himself.
Our mother had died when he was twelve. I was sixteen and could fend for myself, but my brother ended up in foster care with some nasty people who had him stealing, taking drugs, and doing errands by the time he was fifteen.
Now I was back to square one. I’d used up all my savings. The agency had folded, and I was about to return to Bridesmere and resume working at the boot camp for Declan. At least I had that to fall on, and the pay was generous. But I couldn’t exactly take Angus with me. He would rob everyone and cause no end of issues.
I headed out and jumped into my car—an SUV Declan had kindly let me keep. It was a fuel guzzler, though. I would have preferred something small and easy to park, especially in the city.
Tapping the steering wheel and humming to John Mayall, I drove along crowded streets of party-central Soho. Girls in skirts within an inch of their arse wobbled along in dangerously high heels, while boys sniffed around in packs.
Like it or not, without this rabble of fun seekers, I wouldn’t have a job.
When did I decide to become everyone’s strict father?That was how it felt some nights—me having to knock sense into hormone-drunk teenagers and young adults. They weren’t always young either. The worst were the male packs in expensive suits hovering about gentlemen’s clubs. They couldn’t fight their way out of paper bags, despite their egos telling them otherwise.
I parked my car at the back of the dance club. As I jumped out, a heavy bass beat hit my ears, which wasn’t my idea of a great night out. I was more a blues man myself, music from the deep south of America.
As I walked through the alleyway leading to the entrance, a mob of males in expensive sportswear and gold chains loitered in the shadows, peddling chemicals cooked up in some makeshift lab. Judging by the well-dressed girls and boys hovering about, I imagined the dealers were about to cash in.
I hated drugs. Never touched the stuff. I’d seen what it had done to Angus. And as a bouncer working at clubs, I’d also seen my share of overdoses and girls being carried off by some fuck-now, regret-later guy. But my job wasn’t to stop that, even though I’d done that on occasion. My job was to block packs of hungry males from entering the popular dance club. Because of that, there was the odd skirmish or two, which, after Afghanistan, was like dealing with a bunch of toddlers chucking tantrums.
“Sam.” I waved.
My colleague nodded. “Hey, Carson. How’s it?”
I shrugged. “You know, another boring night arguing with drunken dickheads. Life could be better.”
