But the dude gave her up without a fight.
Tells me everything I need to know about him.
A man fights for what he wants, no matter the consequences.
Even if I beat the living shit out of him, at least I would have respected him. And so would Faith. I don’t give a shit what lies she’s telling herself. I know her. She’s Mayhem, and when that dude threw in the towel with no hesitation, he lost her. I saw her disgust, and yep, most of it was for me. But it also aimed at Mr. Good Guy when he threw his hands up in defeat without a fight.
That was all it took to ensure this was their first, and last, date without me having to do further damage control.
For the record, I purposely acted like a tool.
Also, for the record, I don’t give one single fuck. I don’t even give a shit for the fortune I’ll fork over to get rid of Faith’s masterpiece. Or the humility it’ll take to fix the mess I made by being a world-class douche. But those are worries for tomorrow. Tonight, I have a ton of drinking to do, and as Havoc climbs into the passenger’s seat, he turns on the radio, filling the Wrangler with Insane Clown Posse’s “The Neden Game.”
Havoc shoots me a questioning glance. “Devil’s Den?”
“Is it Friday night?”
“Point taken.”
Discord climbs in the back and flicks the side of my neck. “Next time you get me excited to cut someone and you take away my fun, I’m stabbing you instead. Got it?”
“You really are deranged. You’re aware of this, right?” I say to him.
I see Discord’s evil grin in the rearview mirror. “Jester, my friend, you have no fucking idea.”
Nor do I want to, actually.
Discord may be younger than us by two years, but if we’ve said it once, we’ve said it a thousand times… he’s one creepy little bastard. We love him to death, but holy shit, even Malice doesn’t go too hard on him. He’s not playing when he says he’ll stab me. Not to kill me, mind you, but to satisfy whatever nasty demons live in his head. He and Havoc had it rough, and their childhood carved deep damage in their gray matter. No one would come out of their situation sane, but is it too much to ask for Discord to at least pretend not to be completely psychotic?
Apparently, it is, because another glance in the rearview shows him staring out the window, an unguarded sinister expression on his deceptively innocent face.
I drive us through Mayhem to the red-light district. Neon electrifies the night, and when I park behind the only black building on Main Street, we’re in the thick of the action. Devil’s Den is a standout among the row of pastel bars, brothels, and strip clubs. We enter through the back door and breeze by the ginormous bouncer manning the entrance.
“What’s up, Jose?”
Jose glances up from his phone. “Same old shit,” he says to Havoc.
Discord and Jose share a secret handshake. “Try not to kill anyone tonight.”
“I make no promises,” Discord returns.
He and I exchange one of those handshake-man-hug things. “What’s good, Jester?”
“Me, my dude.” I pull away with a wink. “I’m always good.”
I’m such a liar. There’s an undeniable pit in my gut, and this is new because I don’t do the whole regret thing. But I fucked up tonight, and it’ll be a helluva lot of work to make it right. But Faith is worth it.
We’reworth it.
God, I need alcohol.
The boys and I cut through the immaculate kitchen, where the staff pretend to ignore us. Can’t say I blame them. Individually, we’re intimidating. Together, we’re a force of fucking nature. I mean, come on. Each of us is over six feet, and we’re built like brick shithouses. Then there’s the teensy fact that two of us are enforcers, with the other an assassin. So, yeah, you bet your ass decent folks who know what we are avert their eyes when we walk into a room.
With the Den divided into three sections, the ground floor has two areas. The main room is a public bar that faces Main Street. Behind it is an upscale cabaret reserved for members only. Upstairs is a brothel, run by a madam who is meaner than the devil himself. When she cracks the whip, even Shotgun listens, and he owns the damn place. But that’s what makes the Den successful. The owner, an ornery old cuss, picked his staff wisely. From management to the dancers, each worker is hand selected by him, and each person is a storied character who enhances a customer’s experience. The bouncers are ruthless. The servers, bartenders, and dancers are dainty creatures with a talent for making every customer feel as if they’re a god among mortals. Yep. Shotgun has a talent for selecting his staff, and when we’re here, it’s the one place the Unholy can relax and have a good time.
Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” pumps throughout the building, and we follow the frantic beat to a black door where another bouncer stands sentry.
Even if his black Staff T-shirt didn’t proclaim him a bouncer, his size does. The guy is huge, and when he opens the door for us as we approach, he gives us a curt nod in greeting. “Gentlemen.”
