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CHAPTER EIGHT
*Baylor “Bae” Secretary*
Very rarely are our numbers this slim while in the Florida Panhandle for Bike Week. Hell for Leather tends to stick together, aside from the moments when a couple members are engaged in a work assignment.
Clearly, something went awry; several hours have passed, and only Chaz, Brodi, and I are here at the condo where, if everything went to plan, all eight of us are supposed to be. Nine, including Lace.
Seeing as I am the one generally responsible for roll call, among other things as club secretary, I step out onto the deck to be alone with my thoughts while Chaz and Brodi stay inside.
Watching the ebb and flow of the dark gulf helps me keep calm and focused. With each small wave flowing onto the shore, I work through a mental headcount, starting with Vincent, who technically should have showed up around the same time Brodi did. After short consideration, I assure myself that Vee is probably fine; Brodi does seem a bit perturbed, but if something terrible happened to his assignment partner, he would be a hell of a lot more out of sorts.
After leaving the brawl and congregating not far down the road from the Kick-Start Party, Hell for Leather scattered. Brodi and Vee were already gone, of course, but Coty was the next to leave. I can only hope he found Lace and got her to safety. Not long after Coty left, Kal got a pressing call and hightailed it out of there, then Zane took off like a bullet shortly thereafter.
That left Kio, Chaz, and me. With no specific instructions given to those of us remaining, we decided it would be in everyone’s best interest if the three of us turned back to the event and did a little damage control.
Kio took it upon himself to check on the wellbeing of the pageant contestants but ended up conveniently finding Jess. He then disappeared with her and is still gone. Chaz scolded the event coordinator for not having enough security scheduled for the event and threatened to pull our contribution if they didn’t get their shit together for the remaining contest rounds.
Our cash man did a hell of a job keeping his expressions hard while putting the blame on them as opposed to the Rolling Stones or our crew — the real instigators. The event coordinator was a blubbering mess and scared shitless by the time he turned his back to her and stormed off.
Always the mediator, I smoothed things over with the police, lying through my teeth, pretending that it was a random brawl and not one set up by us to create a distraction and antagonize Stoney and his men.
Thanks to an incredibly apt crew, that was the long and short of it for me; after speaking to the cops, I was able to lie low and watch from the sidelines while babying my stab wound.
That thought triggers my mind-body connection, and the throb along my flank that now radiates around to my lower back returns my focus to the lapping waves.
The painkillers Brodi has been administering to me started wearing off about an hour or so ago. I hoped to get away with not taking another dose, but considering everything that appears to be going on backstage right now, I decide the risk of not being able to help my men because of pain outweighs any other risks. But, damn, I hate drugs. Medicinal or otherwise.
Succumbing to the decision, I leave the breezy deck and reenter the condo. A blast of manufactured icy air hits me hard. The vibe inside, on the other hand, is still hot and raw.
Brodi is sitting at the bar, knee bouncing a mile a minute as he compulsively checks his phone every couple of seconds with one hand and scrubs at his dark hair with the other. Chaz is on the couch, his eyebrows flattened and gaze unfocused on the black television screen, such a contrast to his usual jokester attitude.
When the sliding glass door clicks shut, they both snap out of their thoughts and look in my direction.
Brodi launches off the stool, instantly noticing me favoring the side of my body opposite of my wound. “Ready for another dose?” he asks, verifying by tapping at his phone screen to check the time. He skips waiting for a response and simply disappears into the bedroom.
“What a damn shit storm the Kick-Start Party turned out to be.” I attempt to cut through the building tension between the two of them, but the statement comes out as a rough hiss through my clenched teeth as I ease onto the stool, still unable to comfortably sink onto the couch.
”Yeah, but did it work?” Brodi asks, returning with a medicine cup containing oxy and something to help prevent infection.
Chaz pushes his palms along the side of his head and locks his fingers through his long hair. “The coordinator and other judges were none the wiser that you and Vee went MIA. They assumed you took off along with the rest of us, not before.”
The three of us have been here together for at least an hour, and this is the first time either of them has spoken to each other.
After rummaging through the refrigerator and sliding a bottle of water over the bartop to me, Brodi takes out his cocaine and favorite sniff plate and starts setting himself up for a session.
The process is methodical, his hands incredibly steady despite the tremor vibrating through the rest of his body. Three lines this time, each one a little shorter than the other. Brodi lifts a glance past me at Chaz and holds up the straw, eyebrow raised. Chaz shakes his head and gives Brodi some serious stink eye, his lips pressed tight together.
Addressing the degradation of Lace on stage is coming any minute now; the silent shots Chaz keeps aiming at Brodi will hit their mark soon. Brodi did the event paperwork. In essence, it appears he was the one who fucked Lace sideways.
I personally would like a bit of closure as well. That shit was not cool. Though, I do wish more of our crew were here as backup right now in case these two go at each other.
Brodi places the straw up high into his nostril, inhales the first line, and his balloon of anxiety pops instantly, knowing that in a few short minutes the effects will be legit and not just placebic from the initial rush of performance.
Chaz, fingers still woven in his hair and lips going from flat to pursed in impatience, starts tapping against the back of his hand. Maybe this will end cleaner than expected, seeing as he is being congenial enough to wait until Brodi’s version of a chill pill kicks in before pouncing.
The small pop of each tamper-evident plastic closure breaking on the cap of my bottle as I open it is like a firework exploding in the stifling quiet. I tip the medicine into my mouth, chug the entire water, and toss both empty containers toward the garbage can. The bottle makes it, but the plastic medicine cup clatters against the tile flooring, undoubtedly to be forgotten until our special housekeeper, Jane, comes to clean up our messes later.
Surprisingly, once Brodi visibly loosens from shoulders to feet, it is he who addresses the topic first: “What the hell did you expect, Cash? I barely know Lace. Not like those of you who are from around here do. I mean, damn, the only things I really know about her is that she likes the ocean and she likes to fuck.”
