Page 5 of Death's Deal

It used to be Obi and J who ran the bar and V was the backup girl. The two were as thick as thieves and as dangerous as career pickpockets. Losing Obi has left a large hole in many of us.

Blowing out a heavy breath of stress, Curse shoulder bumps me. “Fuck, man. Are you going to make me guess why you’re stressed out or what?”

“What tells you I’m stressed?”

“Oh. I don’t know. It’s 10:00 a.m. and you’re drinking.”

Slapping the folder on the counter between us, I tap it. “Open that.”

Using his good elbow, carefully not bumping his busted arm, Curse slides the paperwork out. Reading it quietly to himself, the heavy stress of those simple words coat his soul. Setting the paperwork back down, taking a large tug of his drink, he absently munches on tapioca pearls. “You’re being made to do this?”

“Yeah.”

Leaning on the bar, pinching the bridge of my nose, and looking toward the flashing ceiling lights, I await Curse’s input.

“That family is your fucking nemesis.”

Curse has been with me, shit; since we were waiting for our balls to drop. He didn’t hit jail with me, but that didn’t mean we hadn’t got into enough trouble to deserve it. His mother and father owned the Korean five-and-dime across from Hades. Once a skinny punk who was worried about getting straight A’s, he, Des, and I had caused ample amounts of destruction as we grew up. His casted arm is just a new scar to add to the already damaged road map of his body.

Stuffing the paperwork back in the file, it heavily rests like an unwanted drunken asshole between us. “It’s not like I can avoid it.”

“Why now? What shit has that fucking family gotten into that they need someone like you?” I know what Curse is asking. Why not some security company or some other club? Why involve me at all?

“No idea. I hate that it can’t be avoided. I’ll have to go there.”

Without being asked, V has set a fresh drink in front of Curse. He motions with a nod, toys with the lemon slice stuck at the end of his bright green straw, and slides over his nearly empty glass. As it nearly falls over the edge, he reaches out with his bad arm to grab it before it crashes to the floor.

“Fuck!” Wincing, the expletive that accompanies his expression can be heard over the sound of the booming music. It catches the attention of half the club as he tries to regain his composure.

Weakness is not something Curse likes to portray to others. It’s been nearly a year since the attack on the repair shop that left his wife, brother, and six-year-old-son dead, leaving Curse in the hospital fighting for his life for a month straight.

“Still bothering you?” I ask. I hate seeing him in pain, and it’s taken a lot longer than he thought it would to repair. His arm was shattered at the joint, just below his shoulder. They installed a titanium replacement, but it worries me. He should’ve been back to normal by now.

“Yeah. Aches like a son of a bitch, and it feels like something needs to pop all the time.” He rolls his head around, before shrugging the shoulder. “I just wish it would release. I want to get back on my bike.”

Knowing how I’d feel if I couldn’t ride, his frustration must be through the roof. “Go see the doctor again, man. Maybe there’s something more they can do.”

“You done being my mom?” he chirps snidely.

Not taking it personally, I joke, “If your mom would take my calls, I’d tell her to give you shit. She hasn’t talked to me since the tenth grade.”

Smirking, Curse quips back, “She’s just not that into you, Death. You need to give in. Not all moms want to fuck you.”

I smile. “Enough of them do.”

This causes him to laugh, the sound of it is better than his griping.

As I’m taking a sip of my drink, letting the happiness of the moment wash over me, my name is called out by Piper, as she rounds the corner from storage. “Hey, Death.” Holding two bottles of vodka, the always frail-looking, half-starved Piper steps to the bar. With tight, jet-black curls that frame her face and a constantly frightened gaze, Piper smiles.

“Pipes. How are we today?”

“Were a bit short on some of the special products, and we could use a supply run on booze. I could make a list if you’ve got time to go over it.” She’s the old lady of Cap, the Pres of the SoCal Soulless. After our cartel war ended, Cap asked if I’d employ her here to give her an outlet. I thought for sure she wouldn’t last a day, but she’s as tough as nails and, thankfully, the club’s nearly naked attire doesn’t bother her at all.

The bar was Obi and J’s job. Run the bar, keep the stock up, and deal with this bullshit I don’t have time for. With J out of commission, I’m fucking pulled thin.

“Sure. Give me a bit, Pipes. I’ll just finish this with Curse.”

She wipes her hand on a bar towel. “Okay.” She stares at me as if there’s something else.

---