One of Larry’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “You mean links?”
“Yeah, whatever. Bring ‘em into the clubhouse when they’re ready.”
“How many do you want?”
“Dozen,” he answered and pushed through the swinging door. “Of each.”
Before it even closed, he spotted Rat, one of their newer prospects, leaning over one of the pool tables.
What the fuck was that dickwad doing?
Zeke caught the door before it swished closed. He slowlyclosed it himself so that rat-faced motherfucker didn’t know he was watching.
A second later, the young prospect snorted a line of white powder off the table’s rail, stood up, and held one nostril closed with his thumb while he snorted again.
Fuckin’ motherfucker.
Rat laid out another line, and when he bent over to snort that up his other nostril, Zeke made his move.
While the prospect’s head was still down and he was in the middle of hoovering the blow up his nose with a rolled dollar bill, Zeke used his elbow to slam Rat’s face right into the wood rail.
Rat popped up and cupped his nose. “What the fuck!”
“I break your fuckin’ nose?”
Blood mixed with the powder clung to Rat’s face and beard, but his beady eyes went wide and his face as white as the coke when he realized who had face planted him into the pool table. “Prez!”
“Not any fuckin’ longer. Know we got a fuckin’ rule ‘round here ‘bout hard shit on this property. Got it for a good goddamn reason. Shoulda done it elsewhere. Not here.”
“Sorry, Prez, just?—”
Zeke shook his head. “Shut the fuck up. You’re a prospect and got no fuckin’ say. Or was a prospect. You failed.” He pointed toward the back door. “Now get the fuck outta here and leave your goddamn cut on the table.”
“But—”
Zeke lifted both eyebrows and waited to see if the prospect was stupid enough to finish.
When Rat didn’t move fast enough, Zeke grabbed the pool stick laying across the felt. He spun it around in his fingers like a baton. “Cut off. You out. Got thirty seconds before I break more than yourfuckin’ nose.”
It was bad enough the asshole was snorting coke in the common area right out in the fucking open, but Kyra would be there any moment with Ledger.
He didn’t need to get a bunch of shit over that.
He wanted Ledger to be able to spend time around the DAMC and if Kyra saw someone doing hard drugs, it would cause an issue.
As Rat scrambled to shed his cut, Zeke growled, “Tick tock, motherfucker.” He swung the cue stick close enough to the former prospect to feel the whoosh of air, but barely missed striking him.
That swing was a warning. The next one wouldn’t be. He’d prefer not to break the stick, though. Knocking some sense into Rat wasn’t worth having to replace it since it was worth more than a coke-snorting rodent.
And the damn stick wasn’t worth much at all.
Rat held out the cut to him. “Sorry, Prez.”
Zeke grabbed it and tossed it onto the pool table. “Ain’t your prez. Now, get the fuck out.”
Was the asshole going to cry?
With his fingers still pinching his nose, the former prospect marched toward the back door with his head hanging.
