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Grass rustled as Quinn shifted his weight behind Jem. “Who are you calling?”
Emery cocked an eyebrow.
“Who are you calling?” Quinn asked again, louder, and this time, Jem could hear the uncertainty in his voice.
“The Cottonmouth Club,” Emery said. “Well, more specifically, I’ve asked for the manager of the Cottonmouth Club.”
The silence spread like a flash-freeze, and Jem thought he could hear the air crackle.
“We don’t—” Quinn began.
“Don’t embarrass yourself,” Emery said. “I followed you dipshits out there today. So, I’m going to ask for the manager, and I’m going to tell him I’ve got the Rangel brothers, and they’re pissing me the fuck off, mostly because they’re so fucking incompetent that spending my time like this is a fucking disgrace. And I’m sure the manager will tell me he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, and then he’ll run like his ass is on fire and tell his boss, and the next time you two crawl out of whatever septic tank you live in, somebody’ll put a bullet in your head.”
The change in Quinn was the way the air changed before a lightning strike. Jem couldn’t see him, but he must have moved because Emery said, “Point that thing at me, and I’ll kill you.”
Quinn’s breathing quickened, and then Tean grunted and stumbled into Jem. Jem caught him, trying to balance both of them. The sound of the Rangel brothers beating feet filled the night. By the time Jem and Tean were standing steady again, the brothers were two black dots, the night swallowing them up.
When Jem looked back at Emery, he said, “Don’t they need their Jeep?”
“They’ll skulk around until we leave. I’m tempted to slash their tires because they ruined my day.”
“What if—” Tean made a weird noise that Jem realized, a moment later, was supposed to be a laugh. “What if they hadn’t run away? What if he’d tried to shoot you?”
“Then I would have shot him first. Or, more likely, John would have shot him in the back.”
Brush whispered among the trees, and when Jem craned his head, John-Henry was emerging from the deeper shadows, picking at a twig that had gotten caught on his sleeve. He wore a pale linen suit over a blue shirt that looked like linen as well, and when he glanced up and smiled, Jem wanted to do a mental eye roll.
“You know, if I looked like that,” Jem whispered to Tean, “I could rob Zions Bank with a Tootsie Roll.”
Something that might have been surprise flittered over Tean’s face, and then he smiled, some of the tension in his body unwinding. “You’re very handsome.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You’re the handsomest man I’ve ever met.”
“At least I don’t have those little lines around my eyes.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Emery asked.
“Nothing,” Jem said.
“Crow’s feet,” Tean said.
Emery shot John-Henry what must have been a meaningful look, and John-Henry’s easygoing expression reassembled itself into chagrin, with a dash of amusement.
“See?” Emery asked.
John-Henry ignored the question and looked at Tean and Jem. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Jem said.
“Would you really have shot them in the back?” Tean asked.
“I don’t think it would have come to that,” John-Henry said, which Jem recognized wasn’t exactly an answer. “Ree?”
Emery grunted and flapped a hand dismissively.
“What are you two doing here?” Jem asked.
