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Joker follows him. “You’re gonna fucking pay for a new door!” he says to me.
“I didn’t fuckin’ break the door!” I snarl as I cross my arms and casually slide down in my chair. Yeah, it’s posturing, but I’m not gonna quiver like a schoolgirl in the bully’s presence.
“We talked,” Joker says. He’s Robin to Hangman’s Batman, but not the ass-kissing kind. “The club’ll take it to a vote. If we get majority agreement, we’ll invest the money.”
“It has nothin’ to do with you fuckin’ her,” Hangman says stabbing his finger at me. “It’s business. You got that, you motherfucker? We don’t get the votes, you keep your fuckin’ nose out of it?”
“Got it,” I lie, already planning my campaign.
“Get out,” Hangman snarls at all of us. “I got some thinkin’ to do.”
Joker stops me outside the door. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot. That posh piece of tail isn’t worth getting into it with Hangman.”
I stare at him coolly. “Fuck off, asshole.”
As parting shots go, I’ve done better, but I’ve got a posh piece of tail waiting for me. Evanee isn’t where I left her, but I find her quickly. She’s sitting on the couch holding court with Hangman’s boys, Max and Ash, Eight’s kid, Oscar, and Sean, the thief’s son. Can’t hear what she’s sayin’ but she’s got them hanging on every word, the little fucks.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Evanee
Ido as Trigger asks and hang out at the bar watching a couple of bikers watch me as they play pool. One of them is tatted from head to toe in the most amazing ink I’ve ever seen. Clearly, he’s an artist because he has the taste of one. The other is keeping up an ongoing monologue. Older, a little portly, and not nearly as good at pool as the tatted one. Mind you, as skill goes, neither are impressing me, but then they are distracted.
I swing the barstool around propping my elbows behind me on the bar. The tatted one misses his shot as I straighten my back and cross my legs. I smirk inside. I’m not flirting or teasing. I’m bored and this is my amusement.
After a few minutes of watching them, yelling breaks out down the hall. I see a bearded man fly down the stairs then disappear. A moment later, he’s dragging Hangman down the hall in a bear hug.
“Get the fuck off you me, you motherfucker!” Hangman yells as he struggles.
“When you fuckin’ settle down,” the man doing the dragging snarls.
I’m trying to keep my jaw from dropping at the sheer strength of the man keeping Hangman under control. He could wrestle bulls and win.
I look over at the two who are playing pool. They haven’t even acknowledged the commotion, although the talkative one misses the four-ball to the left corner. He catches my eyes, smiles and winks, then shrugs his shoulders.
I’m not in the mood to engage so I twist out of my chair and stroll behind the bar, perusing the alcohol on display. There’s an Aberfeldy single malt bottle of scotch and given that all I’ve been able to afford lately is rotgut, I get excited. I grab it and one of the glasses stacked behind the bar, then return to my bar stool.
The scotch is heaven as it slides down my throat. I finish the shot and pour another, this time nursing it. A sound behind me catches my attention, but when I look over my shoulder, no one’s there.
I sigh as I finish my second shot of scotch and contemplate a third, but then things get interesting as three young boys enter the clubhouse, all carrying back packs and deep in conversation.
“Charlie needs a lesson,” a mini-Hangman exclaims. “You gotta do something, man.”
“Don’t know what to do. I get into a fist fight, Dad’ll have my ass.”
They’re 11, maybe 12 years old. The third boy says nothing as he follows them in, but his eyes are darting, looking around, checking corners. When they land on me, he stops in his tracks. I brighten up his life with a smile.
“Guys,” he says. His friends are oblivious, so deep in conversation with each other. He elbows the Hangman look-a-like, then when he has the kid’s attention, lifts his chin my way.
The kid looks up, his jaw drops and words fail him for the first time since he walked into the room. His friend follows his line of sight to me. I don’t get the typical reaction I get from men. Instead, he scowls, turns his back, and dumps his pack onto a corner of the couch.
I love a challenge, but before I stand, a fourth boy walks in, fair, lean, maybe 16. He sees me right away, looks startled, glances around, then leans toward the Hangman kid and whispers in his ear. The kid shrugs his shoulders.
It’s time to get to know the breakfast club.
I slide off the barstool and walk towards them, keeping my sashaying to a minimum. They’re kids after all, even if they are boys.
“Hi,” I say as I hold out my hand to the quiet one first. “I’m Evanee.”
