Page 13 of Raze

“Well no… I don’t think so.”

“It’s still early, most members won’t show their faces till late afternoon. By the time they do, you’ll be too wasted to worry about gettin’ into trouble.” He coaxes me with a sinful grin and after making a heavy sigh I give into temptation and follow him back up the beach toward the clubhouse.

Sinner was right, this beats sitting in Raze’s hut, listening to the ocean, and thinking about my fuck up of a life. I’m high on his weed and wasted on tequila and there’s not anyone here at the clubhouse to demand what I do or tell me it’s a bad idea.

Me and Sinner shoot some pool and I spray a mouthful of tequila all over the floor when he proves to me that he can fit his entire ball sack into one of the pockets with a live demonstration. I nearly fall off the stool laughing when he gets himself stuck, but after he downs more vodka and does some very awkward-looking maneuvering, he manages to get himself free. While he gets over it, I step behind the bar ready to attempt to make my first cocktail.

I jump when the club door opens. Polly steps inside and she takes one look at Sinner before she rolls her eyes. She struts across the floor and starts picking up all the empty bottles that are scattered around from whatever went on in here last night.

“Didn’t Raze give you an order?” She looks at me sternly.

“I got bored,” I giggle, looking to Sinner for some backup. He must still be in pain because he’s got one hand resting on the pool table and the other stroking over his forehead.

“You wanna drink?” I offer, she really looks like she could use some cheering up. Maybe Sinner has some of the blunt he just rolled left.

“Sin, you got some more of that special tobacco?” I make my way over to him and when I notice him staring at the green felt on the table, like he’s in some kind of trance, I nudge him with my shoulder.

“Sin,” I laugh wondering just how wasted he’s gotten himself.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head and when he eventually opens them back up again they look real scared.

“Oh fuck.” His voice sounds completely different as he backs away from me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He shakes his head and starts tapping himself over like he’s paranoid.

“You came to the beach hut to save me from my misery, remember? How much of that joint did you smoke?” I laugh.

“No.No. No.” He taps the heel of his palm against his forehead. Then growls when he cups his balls like they’re hurting him again.

“We didn’t… I mean he didn’t?” He gestures his finger between us both.

“What? No… we just hung out, we drank and we smoked…you...” I slam my hand over my mouth when I giggle and hiccup at the same time.

“He did the balls in the pocket thing again didn’t he?” Sinner slides his hand over his face as he makes his way over to a chair and carefully eases himself down.

“What are you talking about, he? Sinner, you did that like five minutes ago.” I’m starting to wonder if this guy is wired right.

“I ain’t Sinner.” The guy sitting in front of me looks up, and as crazy as it seems I realize he’s right. His skin isn’t as pale, his eyes seem softer and his expressions are completely different.

“I’m Saint, and you just had your first encounter with my other personality,” he explains and I quickly back away from him, looking at Polly who nods her head to confirm I heard him right.

“What the hell is this place?” I pick up the bottle of tequila and knock it back

“What is your real name?” Burlusconi takes off his sunshades and places them on the table as I approach him in the backyard of his ranch. He gestures his hand to the seat opposite him at the bistro table he’s sitting at.

“No one uses my first name, no more,” I answer, trying to remember the last time someone called me by it.

“I’d like to know it.” He furrows his brow, and since I’ve been told that Burlusconi is to get exactly what he wants, I give it to him.

“Logan Ashford.” The name comes off my lips as if it belongs to a stranger.

“Logan Ashford.” Burlusconi nods his head like he’s impressed by it. “You bikers should think about using your normal names instead of the pet ones you give each other. Tell me, Logan, how did you earn the name, Raze?”

“I thought I came here to discuss us movin’ forward, not my personal attributes?” I point out, nodding politely to the waiter who places a tray on the table. It contains a jug of lemonade, two glasses, and two already-cut lines of cocaine beside a generous heap.

“Past experiences have taught me that it’s in my interest to know the men I put my trust into,” he points out. Holding out a rolled-up 50-dollar bill so I can sample his product. I don’t need to take it to know it’s good. I’m aware of its street value and how sought after it is. But in the spirit of building trust, I indulge.

The powder’s so fuckin’ fine it tickles rather than burns and I wipe under my nose with my thumb before handing the bill back to Burlusconi.

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