I point to my bloody nose. “Malice already tried.”
Wraith lowers his book and rolls his eyes. Even with his scars, he’s still one hell of a handsome motherfucker—he just doesn’t own his good looks like I do. “Next time, he needs to try harder.”
“That’s not nice,” I scold my best friend with an exaggerated gasp of outrage as I grab a napkin and wipe away the blood.
“And when have I ever been nice?”
I mull it over for a second before answering. “Once, in eighth grade, when you caught Harrison What’s-His-Name bullying that girl with the bright red hair. You punched that guy right in the mouth. He never bothered her after that.”
The corner of Wraith’s mouth lifts in a crooked grin. “Oh yeah. Forgot about that. Didn’t I get suspended?”
“Yeah, for a week.” Malice takes a long pull from his bottle of beer. “Mrs. Ferris hated us.”
He’s not lying. Our principal couldn’t wait for us to get the hell out of her school. I’m sure she popped open champagne to celebrate the day we graduated. Messed up thing is, we weren’t even that bad. At least I don’t think we were—because trust and believe the four of us could have been much worse.
“She hated Havoc the most.”
Havoc grunts out his version of a laugh at Wraith’s statement. “Everyone hates me the most.”
I raise a brow at his astute observation. “Gee, I wonder why?”
“Couldn’t be because of his sterling personality.”
“Cut my big bro a break, Flask.” Discord, the Unholy’s lone assassin, joins the conversation from his place next to Havoc. “He tries to be decent, occasionally, but he can’t help being miserable.”
Havoc jabs a finger at him. “Don’t push me today, kid.”
We all fuck with Discord and treat him like he’s at least a decade younger than us. The truth is, I have two years on him, and he’s the most lethal—and definitely the most psychotic—of the Unholy.
That’s saying something because we’re all a little (a lot) messed up in the brain.
When the door down the hall opens, Crow steps out first. He leads the four upper management members to the main room. Of course, we younger assholes give those men the respect they deserve by cutting off our bullshit. Under a typical situation, the older men would jump right in and lay into us, serving up some harsh sarcasm. The afternoon would bleed into the evening, and we’d have one hell of a good time. But this isn’t a typical gathering at Sanctum, so we shut our mouths and sit up straight.
Crow takes a seat at the bar. Rotten, our vice president, takes his customary place next to him. Voodoo, the sergeant at arms, sits beside Malice, with Dirt, the gang’s secretary, and Rebel, the treasurer, crowding Havoc. I swear they do it to aggravate him. I hide my amusement at Havoc’s discomfort at having those three farts all up on him. But inwardly, I’m dying at how it’s obvious Havoc wants to move but won’t because he knows it will hurt their feelings.
Yes. Hurt their tender feelings.
The older these men get, the more…motherly…they become. To make matters worse, they seem to focus their sudden maternal tendencies on Havoc and Discord.
“Preacher is five minutes out,” Crow announces. Then to Flask, “Shot of Jack, please.”
Flask is right there with Crow’s drink, anticipating our president’s needs before he asked. See? And this makes him the best damn bartenderever. He pours a second shot and raises it. “This too shall pass.”
“Yes, it will, my friend.” Crow clicks glasses with Flask’s. He spins to face us. “What I can tell you is this. We found another dealer.” He motions to Discord. “Discord took care of him for us. But same as the last one, this dealer also proved stubborn.”
“I ripped the life out of him piece by piece.” Discord runs a hand through his brown hair. “But he wouldn’t give up much.”
“He gave us something, and for now, at least, it has to be enough.” Crow heaves out a heavy sigh. “We have to build on it.”
Sanctum’s door swings open, and in strides Preacher, with the afternoon sun shining off the silver streaks in his hair. “Sorry I’m late.”
Crow waves a hand through the air. “No worries. How’s Vlad?”
“Relieved that he’s nearing the end of his stretch.” Preacher slaps Wraith’s leg, and when the big bastard moves it to make room, the older man drops on the sofa next to him. “He sends his regards.” Vlad’s serving ten years at Pike County Correctional Facility for aggravated battery. “What’d I miss?”
“Discord killed another drug dealer,” I announce.
His brows shoot up. “Another one?”
