“Uh, no, Saint.”
I rub my chin as I slowly approach the two men. Ghost and Roc are at my side.
“You were laughing, so something had to be funny. And since I’m in a bad mood, I’d love to hear the joke that had you cackling while standing amongst the carnage of my fucking livelihood.”
“Saint,” Ghost calls my name trying to reign me back in. I guess he can sense I’m on the verge of a blowup.
The guy who laughed rubs a hand at the back of his head. The other guy looks down at his feet.
“Well, Jim was just telling me about his night at the bar last night. That’s all.”
“Let’s hear it then, Jim? Make us laugh.”
Jim’s face pales as he looks around at all the faces staring at him.
He clears his throat. “I…uh… just…. met a girl at the bar, and she took me back to her place with her roommate. She told me she and her roommate like to have threesomes. I told her I was willing, but it turns out her roommate was her sixty-year-old mom that looked like one of those chicks from that TV show.”
“The Golden Girls,” the one that laugh supplies.
“Yeah, that show. She looked like the tall one with the deep voice.”
“Bea Arthor?” Roc asks.
Jim smiles and nods his head. “Yeah her. I told him I might’ve been okay if it were one of the other ones.”
There is a moment of silence before a smile spreads over my face.
“That is funny.” I shrug.
Both men’s shoulders drop as if they are relieved. Pulling my gun out of my holster, I placed a bullet in the forehead of the one that laughed. His body drops to the ground. Jim flinches and shuts his eyes. I guess he assumed he would be next.
“Time and place, muthafucker.” I snarl down at the dead body.
“Saint,” I turn at the sound of Mason calling my name.
His black Rolls Royce Phantom is parked not far behind me.
“A word,” he says before turning and heading back to his car. Grant opens the back door, and Mason climbs in. I was so far in my anger that I didn’t even hear him pull up. I’m not shocked tosee him. The moment this shit went down, I knew Mason would find out.
I walk over to the Phantom and climb in behind Mason. Grant shuts the door, leaving us alone in the car.
“Talk,” he demands.
I roll my eyes but slink back into my seat.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Mase. I’m good.” I know he isn’t asking me about the fire. No doubt he already knows everything I do. Mason doesn’t interfere in our business, but like an overprotective big brother, he’s always going to be involved.
“A few days ago, you destroyed your fucking office in the home where your son and wife sleep. Today, you shot an innocent man for laughing at a joke. Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’re slipping.”
“I’m not slipping,” I argue, running my hand down my face.
Mason watches me closely. His steel-blue eyes narrow at me.
“I think it’s time you go see someone about your—”
“Don’t finish that got damn sentence.” My growl is unmistakable.
Mason knows exactly why that sentence was a dangerous one. Look, I know I have anger issues. I’ve dealt with this shit since I was a kid. It’s the reason I found myself in that godforsaken therapist’s office at Bone’s. But I’ve managed my issues for years. I have tons of ways of controlling my anger. It’s been difficult lately, but I’ve managed.
