Page 5 of Hash

“Do we have a problem?” Scotch steps up.

I move to follow suit, but Cyrus slides in front of me, halting my path. “No one has a fucking problem. He’s just having an off night. You know how it is.” Cyrus shrugs, trying to ease the tension that has clouded the room.

Scotch stands his ground, not moving. The hard expression on his face tells me he’s ready for a fight.

My chest is rising up and down rapidly as I breathe through my nose, trying to calm down enough where I don’t want to punch my own fucking brother in the face.

Scotch beats me to it, stepping back a beat as he bends down to unzip the duffel bag, pulling out the tarp.

Cyrus turns around, giving me a ‘what the fuck was that?’ look as he pushes me back and he speaks lowly so only I can hear. “I know you’ve got something going on. I don’t know what it is, and I can tell you’re not ready to share. But that shit right there isn’t cool. You need to figure out whatever the fuck is going on and do it soon.”

“I know.” I scrub my hand roughly down my face. “I’ll take care of it.”

This shit ends tonight.

“If you two are done gossiping like a bunch of bitches, do you care to help me roll him up?” Scotch asks, sarcasm lacing his voice.

I checked Scotch’s sarcastic ass tone because I’m two seconds away from rolling up his body too.

Without another word, Scotch, Cyrus, and I place Zach on the trap and roll him up. We make quick work of cleaning the room top to bottom, making sure there isn’t a trace of us being here. Tension is still lingering in the air.

Two hours later, we’re done and ready to carry him to the cage.

“Who’s taking which end?” Cyrus asks. “I don’t mind taking the head. His hair looked kind of silky.”

“I swear to God I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you.” Scotch shakes his head.

“You can’t even see his hair with him wrapped up so why does it matter?” I ask.

“I know it’s there.” Cyrus shrugs. “We should have burned his hair off.”

“I bet if you ask nicely, Prez might let you do it in the basement,” Scotch tells him as he picks up his feet.

“He won’t.” Cyrus pouts. “Prez never lets me have any fun.”

“That’s because your idea of fun is the equivalent of a serial killer,” I tell him as I zip up the duffel bag and throw it over my shoulder. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. I think the smell of burnt skin is stuck in my nose.”

“Next time you two decide to burn someone and need cleanup, don’t call me.”

“It wasn’t us!” Cyrus and I say at the same time.

Chapter

Three

AISLING

“Why the glum face, buttercup?” Frankie asks that afternoon in the breakroom at the salon.

It’s Friday, and Hash is on the books for his regularly scheduled cut with her.

“Hash spent the night last night.”

Frankie lets out a squeal. Her face falls when she notices I’m not squealing right along with her. “Wait… why does that have you looking like someone killed your cat…?”

“I don’t know. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be upset,” I tell her, but really I’m trying to convince myself as I wipe down the counter with a cleaning wipe.

“Tell me what happened,” Frankie demands, setting the mixing bowl down on the counter, giving me her undivided attention.