Slade stared down at the back of his hand, the mark oddly visible by the light of a street lamp. The dark image blended with his sleeve tattoo. No rough burn scars. Even a gentle stroke with a fingertip shot shockwaves up his arm. Okay, okay. No touching. Pumice soap had irritated the skin without fading the mark.
Marked. Permanently marked against his will.
Wait until he got his hands on Mr. Bentley. He’d deliver a well-deserved ass-whooping.
“I’m telling you, man. The dude held something hot in his hand. Burned the shit out of me.” Slade sat beside his brother on the leather couch he’d paid too much for the moment he finally made enough money to afford nice things. He hedged the truth. Calling the whole incident a fight worked, right?
“Lemme see.” Chuck pulled Slade’s hand close to his nose. The asshole needed glasses. “Man, I don’t see a damned thing.”
“Because you’re blinder than a fucking bat.” Slade yanked his hand back. What did Chuck mean, he couldn’t see? The fucking mark practically glowed. Two weeks of looking for the muthafucking Bentley driver to find out what the hell he’d done turned into wasted time.
The whole thing pissed Slade off so much he’d not even brought anyone home lately. Lack of sex didn’t improve his mood.
“Why did you get into a fight?” Chuck asked.
Slade let out a sigh. He’d catch hell now. “I fucked his boyfriend.” Future boyfriend, or some such. Nothing the asswipe said made any sense. Lecture starting in five, four, three…
Chuck slammed his beer bottle onto the coffee table covered with Harley parts and magazines. “Damn it, man! How many times have I told you not to poach? I bet they were somewhere together, and you took the boyfriend to prove a point.”
Slade’s youngest brother knew him far too well. Past M.O. didn’t mean Slade repeated mistakes.
Often.
“No one twisted his arm and made him come with me.” No, the blond oohed and aahed over Slade’s tats, happily jumping on the back of the Harley.
“Well, yeah. The guy should’ve kept his cock in his jeans if he was in a relationship. I agree with you there. That’s on him, not you.”
“The man who came by was over twice the kid’s age. Expensive car. Expensive shoes. Expensive everything. I have no idea why some rich asshole’s boy toy hangs around a place like The Last Call.”I let him taste life, be like any other young man his age.Weren’t those the bastard’s words? “What if the kid didn’t want to be with him?” Which, honestly? Not Slade’s concern.And you treated him better?the little voice in Slade’s head asked.
Chuck pasted on his stern third-grade-teacher look. “You taking him home, fucking him into the mattress, then making him leave before he even caught his breath helped how?” Yup, the little voice sounded exactly like Chuck.
Chuck, younger by a year, got the socially acceptable genes, the sole family member capable of walking down the street without folks crossing to the other side. He kept the family’s nearly black hair short, while Slade wore his long, Chuck ordered wine at restaurants, Slade ordered a beer. Chuck took pains to never go out in public without a clean-shaven chin. Slade usually sported at least two days’ worth of scruff.
The Slaters earned their less-than-stellar reputations. Dad, a mechanic who’d make ends meet if he didn’t snort most of his paycheck up his nose. Dalton, the oldest son, currently spending twenty years behind bars for aggravated assault. Preston, the second son, held the position of the family drug dealer and all-around bad influence. Third son, Slade, the biker, must be dealing drugs, too, right? Especially after his stint in rehab.
Chuck attended college, graduated with honors, became a teacher. Talk about the black sheep of the family.
Instead of being tall and muscular like Dad and the rest of his brothers, baby of the family Chuck barely stood to Slade’s shoulder. Slade dwarfed his slender brother, who more than passingly resembled an old neighbor. A Slater boy with blue eyes instead of brown.
Their mother left all her boys behind when she ran off to marry her boss. Between cokehead Dad and “fine, upstanding citizen” boss, Dad was the better man.
“I’m poor but honest,”Dad often said.“I see a definite pattern there.”
Slade learned young: rich and powerful meant never owning up to your actions. The day he’d tried to tell his mother he’d spotted his stepfather getting a blowjob from a twink in an alley, he’d seen Mom for the very last time.
“You know how I feel about entitled rich people.” No need to say who weighed on his mind. They’d discussed the fuckwad many times.
“I think you need professional help.” Chuck managed to keep any trace of accusation from his voice. “I hate our stepfather too, for destroying our family. But, do you know what I hate even worse? You letting the past ruin your present. Let it go, man. Let. It. Go.”
Spoken like a guy who attended yoga classes three times per week. Even during the divorce, Dad refused DNA testing for his youngest son. No, he’d declared Chuck a Slater. End of story. Everybody else in town called him the mailman’s kid.
Yeah. Dad. A good man with a cocaine addiction.
“You don’t need to kick me. I’ve been kicking enough.” For the repercussions, more than Slade’s actions.
“Well, the guy who messed with you left you alone since then, right?” Chuck cocked his head to the side.
“I haven’t seen him.” Not for lack of trying. Slade also avoided pickups since the kid. Could the mark and mumbo jumbo be some kind of curse? If not for the mark, Slade would shake his head and forget the whole thing. Why couldn’t Chuck see the burn?
