"Restroom," Whistle quickly offered, cutting her rant.
He couldn't stand to see a woman cry, but he also didn't want to speak ill of his best friend outside of his presence. That was women shit in his eyes.
"Just sit tight, En. He'll be back."
"Well, here you go." It was Ruthie, the one who'd been pining over Whistle but knew her lane, especially when Contessa was around.
He shifted in his seat when she bent over, her chest close to his face, and cleared his throat.
"Eight shots of whiskey."
"Appreciate you, Ruth. Think we're all done here," he muttered, looking down.
Still, Contessa was no fool. She'd seen how Ruthie pushed her tits up before she made her way to their table every time they came to the tavern.
To escape the hot seat, Whistle quickly slid Endea a shot.
"Drink up. Been a long day for all of us."
"Thanks… I guess." She tossed her head back, feeling the warm, brown liquor ease down her throat. It had been a long day, but she hoped it would be a better night.
"You might as well drink another one, and my word of advice is to let him tell you what's been gnawing at him when he's ready. You know how Lucky is," Whistle spoke. "All I'll say is that it's not a damn woman, En."
"I wish I could say the damn same," Contessa chimed in. "I'll come second to Lucky for now, but if Ruthie brings her sleuth-footed, lop-sided breasts ass over here, you'll be in the doghouse or barn at Lucky's."
"The hell did I do?" He threw up both hands, while Contessa sat with crossed arms.
While they sat and mulled in silence, short of people watching the patrons on the dancefloor who slow-dragged, Creed rushed inside, eyes stretched wide, in search of Lucky. Whistle sat up, hollering his name.
"Creed? Over here, son?"
He prayed nothing would happen when they decided to leave well enough alone. He and Lucky actually swung by Jack's for a game of bingo at the tavern, while Creed went to hang out with his friends. If Creed had disobeyed them, he feared they'd be in more trouble than financial debt.
"Everything's good with you?" he whispered, steadying him as he gripped each shoulder. "You don't look so good, son."
Sweat peppered Creed's skin as he paced back and forth. He was pale, as if he'd seen a ghost, which wasn't hard, considering he had lightly tanned skin like Lucky.
"Where's Luck?"
"The restroom. The fuck is wrong?" Whistle frowned when Creed shoved him off, eager to find his father. "Fuck that. Let me go see what's going on. Who's outside?"
"It's Choppa," he quickly relayed. "We saw his enforcers parked out back, and they didn't look too happy. Abe, Trek, and Striker are in the truck, but when I saw you both were here, I ran inside. Uncle Whistle, I thought we were all caught up."
"Shit, we've been making our payments, so fuck him." Whistle hiked up his jeans, then pulled him over to the bar. He didn't want to worry Contessa and Endea any more than they already were.
"You have your gun?"
Creed nodded.
"Good. Let's check it out. We parked out front, but I need for Tessa and Endea to head on up out of here, son. Matter of fact, walk them out."
"Fuck no. I need to tell Luck!"
Creed quickly rushed past Whistle with his gun in his hand. Whistle couldn't stop him, but when he rounded the corner, he stopped in his tracks when he was met with three men, guns trained on him.
"There's that little fucker," one of them spewed. "We saw you earlier. You and those same niggas you were riding around with took the boss's money and cut a deal with someone else."
Whistle came right behind him, and his eyes bucked as he lifted both hands.
