He flicked the safety on the gun on and stuck it into his jeans. The weight of it pressed against the small of his back. Bass waited, but Mick just smiled sourly and hitched his hip up onto the desk.
“Five minutes,” Mick said quietly.
Bass turned to go but hesitated at the door. He liked Mick. He had probably—definitely—deserved to go to jail as much as any of the other Brothers. Still, Bass was going to give him a chance that none of the others would get, just because Mick didn’t give a fuck who Bass liked to fuck.
“If you went and got that girl from wherever Shepherd stashed her, took her to Merlo—he’d give you a deal,” he said. “I’d burn that bridge, if I were you.”
“I’m not a snitch.”
“Someone will take the deal,” Bass said. “Sonny won’t want to limp into jail as a lame duck, Carter needs to see his kids grow up, and Ville’s just weak. I’d rather you got the second chance.”
Mick raised his eyebrows, and deep wrinkles scored over his forehead. “How come you don’t want it for yourself?” he asked. “You got some other arrangement, Bass?”
“I’ve got Doc. I don’t want to push my luck. It’s up to you, Mick, but if you wait too long, Shepherd will sell you all out.”
He pushed the door open just wide enough to slide out and stalked through the bar.
“Where you going?” Ville’s old pool partner called across the bar. “And what the fuck happened to your face?”
He’d forgotten. Bass reached up and rubbed at the gluey stripe of blood on the side of his face.
“Shepherd shot some guy at the hospital earlier,” he said. “He wants me to go and shut him up. And my face is my own fucking business.”
The pool player backed off with a shrug and an upraised hand. No one else bothered Bass on his way out of the bar. He loped over to his bike and swung his leg over it.
Second chances, he mused as the engine coughed and spluttered for a second before it caught. He’d already had more than most—the foster family that took him out of juvie, even when most people didn’t want to take an angry teen into their life, the police department who looked at that juvie record and decided not to prosecute, Tag and his soft heart. He didn’t deserve another, but maybe he could get just one more.
He gunned the engine and roared away from The Sheep’s Clothing.
