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“A courtesy visit?”
I know all about the Outcasts and Candy’s girls back in the day. Also, her helping Droga when I was high as a kite and announced the manhunt on him.
“She said, rumor has it, Butcher had a guy on the inside, here at Ayana, part of your crew. And he went missing.”
“No one went missing. Unless they are staff, which we don’t exactly keep track of. Unless it’s…” I pause, thinking about O’Shea and Cunningham. I told Droga about them.
“That’s what I was thinking,” he says, taking a swig of a beer. “Unless it’s one of those guys you have held up.”
Fuck. This is such a mess.
“I’m just giving you a heads up,” he says. “Raven should talk to Candy. A lot of guys go through her place and spill things. You’d be surprised.” He takes another sip of his beer and then shoulders me. “I don’t wanna bother you with rumors or work stuff. Sorry, man.”
“Is that all you went to Port Mrei for?”
“Got a new tattoo.”
“Like you need more?”
He only shakes his head. “Callie designed it. It’s private.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t be a perv, Crone.”
“C’mon. Is it her name? On your dick? Wouldn’t fit, I don’t think.”
Droga throws his head back. “Fuck off. But also… Got you this. It’s nothing much, just memories.” He gives me a wrapped package he’s had tucked under his armpit for a while. “Didn’t want anyone to see it in case you wanna keep it private.”
“The hell?” I’m curious. I tear off the paper and see the back of a letter-size picture frame. Then flip it and—
“Holy shit, Droga,” I exhale.
“Yep.” He takes a sip, studying people around like a watchdog.
It’s a picture of Droga, me, Marlow, and other frat guys standing in a row on a lawn, naked. A bet. A drunk night. A chicken dance. Talk about bad decisions…
“We fucking deleted this picture, Droga. All of us. We swore,” I murmur, staring at the blast from the past as my lips stretch in a grin against my will. Some shameful things don’t seem so bad years later. This is definitely not for the public eye, but holy crap.
“I don’t remember swearing to anything,” Droga says, innocently looking around.
“So you kept it.”
“On my phone, yeah. There’s plenty of candy for the eye. I might just give you a whole photo album of this stuff next year.”
It’s a full-on comeback, the walls that we built around us have crumbled, and Droga marches across the rubble toward me.
“Thanks, man,” I whisper, not able to kill the grin.
“Have fun, yeah?” He slaps me on the back and walks off and I walk back inside.
Marlow is leaning on the bar stand, scowling across the room. I follow his gaze—Raylin is laughing about something Axavier is whispering in her ear, her hand on his shoulder.
I could tell him that Axavier plays for the opposite team, but it’s not my secret to spill.
Marlow needs to grow a pair. It’s surprising, considering Marlow is a lady’s man, but not tonight, not with Raylin, drowning his bravery in a glass. It’s familiar and makes me smile. Unlike me, he’s a soft drunk, turning into a teddy bear with a wild streak as the liquor makes its way into his system. The famous streaking episode from Deene that everyone credits me for was Marlow’s dare after a bottle of rum we shared.
“What’s up, buddy?” I clink my glass to his as he drops his head back and exhales like he’s weighed down by some existential problem.
