Finally, alone in the bar, I rolled my hands into fists. I’d been sitting too long, and my tailbone ached like a motherfucker. My first thought was to pour me another drink and take a pain pill.
Oxy and alcohol didn’t mix well and were a no-no according to my doctor. I hadn’t listened to him before now. Following my release from the hospital, all I wanted to do was drink and sleep. The accident had changed me. It changed my body.
I hated my miserable life.
But I needed to be clearheaded in the event the club found itself in a war with the Bratva. Too many innocent women were in the building, along with baby Chance.
I took out the pills I carried in my pocket and took two. The drinking would have to wait until I went to my room for the night.
“Set those tables up to make a buffet line,” Mama Virgie told a couple of members. “Tequila is bringing some food from his restaurant, and I have enough pozole and pan dulce to feed all of México.” She waved her hand in the direction of where she wanted the banquet tables set up.
The funny thing about Mama Virgie, El Jefe’s mother, was she loved to give orders even if she’d given them a million times. Everybody knew where the banquet tables went. They were in the same spot for every event because to the right of the bar was the only available space. But that lady marched around dictating to all of us like we were her children. I didn’t have a mother, so she could order me around all she wanted.
I chuckled to myself as the guys nodded, each carrying a table. They unfolded the legs and placed them along the wall as directed.
“Good job,” she told them. “Now go find Jefe and see if he needs you to do anything.” She waved them off and shuffled toward me. The sound of her flip flops on the wooden floors was familiar. No matter how cold it got, you could bet she waswearing what every Mexican in the club calledchanclas. She owned several colors, too.
“Hey, Mama.” I jerked my chin at her.
“How are you, Mijo? You’ve been busy today.” I liked when she called me mijo. Naturally, she called all the Latinos mijo, but she treated us white dudes exactly the same way.
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.” She pointed her finger at me. “I can tell you’re in pain. Your eye twitches.”
I touched my right eye. Now that she mentioned it, I felt it twitch.
“See, you know I’m right.” She nodded and made the sound all the Mexican women made. “You should go rest for a while before things get crazy around here.”
“I need to keep watch. Can’t be too careful.”
“You’re a good boy, Gideon.” She patted my cheek.
“Shh, don’t say my real name,” I whispered, sternly. Not that I minded what Mama Virgie called me. It was just that Gideon wasn’t a cool biker’s name, and I preferred to be called GQ.
GQ was what Jefe called me the day we met not long after I graduated high school. He’d approached me in the park where I’d sit on a bench for hours a day, pondering my sucky life. When I told him my name was Gideon Quick, he quickly saidgross. That my birth name didn’t fit with my pretty face and I should be on the cover of GQ Magazine. I laughed so hard, I nearly broke a rib. From that day forward, I was GQ to everyone I met and when I patched into the club, it was my road name.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I didn’t like what I saw. I wasn’t asprettyas I used to be.
The garbage truck had won. It tore me to shreds dragging me across the road. Broke me in multiple ways. I would never be the carefree, playboy I used to be. Probably spend the rest of my days alone and hating the universe for destroying my life.
“I have arrived, muchachos.” Tequila strutted in, carrying a large box. “I brought carne asada burritos. And chicken for the health freaks.” He belted out a chuckle and set the food on the table. “And enough guacamole and salsa to last for days.”
“Sounds great,” I replied, flatly.
“Sounds great, you say. You should have said, sounds muy delicioso. I thought you were practicing your Spanish while recuperating.” He came to the bar. “Sounds great,” he said in a mocking tone.
“I know enough Spanish, ese.”
“No. You can never know enough.” He considered me. “You look really good today.”
“Because I’m not mixing booze and oxy.”
“Oh.” He furrowed his brows. “You shouldn’t be mixing those, brother.”
“Yeah, I know.” I leaned against the bar. “Just didn’t care, y’know?”
“Sí, I know. But if you want to be a King and part of the council, ya gotta be sober.” Tequila was one of the older guys in the club. He was “knocking on forty’s door,” as he and Jefe liked to say.
