And I like her more than I should.
Second mistake: These guys aren’t here to drink. Rey’s a decent enough king, but he’s running his court like a leakybucket. His boys spill everywhere. They are loud, sloppy, and on no fucking leash. They’re like feral dogs chewing scenery because no one’s bothered to put them down yet.
Last week, some of Rey’s guys wrecked the laundromat on Fifth. Not over money. Not even over turf. One of them just decided the old lady folding shirts didn’t “show him respect.”
On their own damn land.
They tore the place apart in broad daylight. Tossed baskets full of clean clothes into the street, dumped detergent everywhere until it foamed across the tile. One genius even unzipped and pissed on a washing machine like he was marking territory.
Heard about it. Word of mouth.
Made me sick.
And something tells me this bunch is the same type.
The tallest one clocks Rhea behind the counter. His grin spreads slow and filthy.
It makes my teeth ache.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “pour us something strong. Don’t be stingy.”
One of the others peels off toward me, drags out a chair, and flips it backward to straddle it. For a moment, they pretend not to see me—and that’s how I know they absolutely do.
I’m not in the mood. Truth is, I don’t think I ever could be. Not in this bar. Not with this girl running tabs. Not ever.
“You wanna drink, you gotta pay first, dude,” I tell the one who ordered the booze.
He looks at me funny. Not in the oops-my-bad way either.
“We pay in protection,” he says. “Ain’t nobody gonna bother you, pretty lady.” He turns to Rhea. “Not when we’re around.”
Uh-uh.
“Not much trouble around here,” I say. It’s pointless, because these guys already know that. That’s why they came. They’re not the ones who keep the peace—they’re the ones who destroy it.
In hindsight, that’s probably why he recognizes me.
If you’re always hunting fights, you learn the faces you’re allowed to unleash on.
The guy straddling the chair leans forward, elbows on the backrest. “Wait a damn minute,” he says. “I think I’ve seen you before.”
“Yeah?” I cock my head. Rhea gives me a warning look from behind the counter; I don’t let my eyes linger on her anymore.
“Yeah… You’re Fisher’s little speed demon.”
“Got me confused with someone.”
“Hell no,” another pipes up. “You crashed a race years back.”
My gut clenches, but my face stays flat.
Crashing Rey’s race. Four of his guys dead. A girl in the passenger seat…
I lift my pint, sip slow, let the foam coat my lip while Rey’s boy stares me down. Outside I’m calm, smirk locked in place. Inside I want to bash his head against the counter and watch red splatter.
“Got me confused with someone else, champ,” I repeat. “Really.”
His grin doesn’t budge. “Well… maybe. But Rey’s still got a score to settle with that fucker, and you look a lot like him.”
