Rocco
“That was . . .”
I trail off because there aren’t words to describe what I just felt with Simone. Or if there are, I don’t have any clue what they’d be. I’ve never been a wordy kind of man. All I know is I enjoyed that more than I’ve ever enjoyed sex in my life. The alcohol has hit me now, making my head fuzzy, but I’m not even close to being too drunk. Comfortably drunk. Nicely drunk.
Simone looks up at me, a cute smile on her face. She was right about her hair. The braids have come loose. It spills down her back. Her cheeks are flushed from the orgasms. I could feel her coming, her body twisting and her sweet singing filling the booth. “I know,” she says. “It really was.”
Outside, the party is still in full swing by the sounds of it. We should get up, get dressed, get out there. We shouldn’t stay in here long enough to make people suspicious. Not that I’d care. I’d go out there right now and tell everyone about us, but Simone might not want that. I reckon I’ve gotta be careful not to push it here . . . I let out a gruff laugh.
“What?” Simone asks.
“I just . . . I’ve never thought like this about a woman before.”
“Like what?”
“Like I care how you think of me.”
Simone smiles, and then moves away from me to start pulling on her tights. “I care how you think of me too, even if you’ve poisoned me with shots—” She covers her mouth with her hand. “You almost made me burp then, mister.”
I poke her in the belly. “Burp, then! Don’t be shy!”
“No!” she protests, giggling and sliding across the chair. “Stop it. You’re a madman.”
“True.” I nod. “But I never claimed I wasn’t.”
“Seriously.” She bats my hand away. “Quit it. Cecilia won’t be happy if we steal her thunder. Remember, this is her big night. Do you want to know how I know? She’s told me about one hundred times.”
“I guess we should get back out there,” I agree. I don’t want to, though. I’d much rather stay in here with Simone, stay here forever and just ignore everything else. Maybe we could get an en-suite bathroom installed and have our meals brought to us. Maybe we could just live here and the world could go to hell but we wouldn’t care.
I click my neck from side to side as I pull on my jeans, trying to remind myself of who I am. Maybe it’s the shots. I’m getting ahead of myself here. I try and tell myself it was just sex, that’s all, like I’ve had with other women on other nights. But watching Simone wriggle into her tights, shooting me a cute look, I can’t believe that.
Once we’re both dressed, we head for the booth door. “Rocco,” Simone says, just as I’m about to open it.
“Yes?”
“Do you . . .” She hesitates. “My hair!” she proclaims, turning away and searching for her clips on the floor.
I wait patiently as she rebinds her hair.
“That isn’t what you were gonna say, is it?”
“No,” she admits. “Do you think . . . ah! This is hard, you know.”
“What’s hard?”
She glances at my crotch. A silent joke passes between us. We both laugh.
Then she blurts out, “Are you going to sort of ignore me now?”
“Because we fucked?”
She nods.
It’s a fair question, I reflect. “No,” I tell her. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”
“Okay.” I can’t tell if she’s disappointed or pleased. She’s gone into a businesslike mode now, not touching me, making no move to be close to me. “Shall we get out there, then?”
I open the booth door and together we step into the bar.
When you’ve lived this life as long as I have, you pick up a second set of senses. Those senses are honed for telling you when to get the hell out of a situation, when to fight, when a job’s going south. As soon as I glance over the bar, I know something’s wrong. The air is different. The atmosphere has changed. And on top of that, there are around twenty-five more people in the club. That shouldn’t be a big deal. The club is open to the public. All night, there have been a few folks in the corners, or dancing on their own. Not everyone in here is a Seven Sinner. But now, with all these people . . . they’re all men, I notice, rough-looking men, men who don’t look too different to me.
“Are you okay?” Simone asks.
I look for Shotgun, a feeling of dread coming over me. He’s in the corner with Cecilia, drunker than I’ve ever seen him, shouting so loudly I can hear him over the music. Three men sit opposite him, three non-Sinner men.
“How does your sister look to you?” I ask Simone.
“Wow, yeah. I know what you mean. Drunk. Drunker than I’ve ever seen her.”
“Shotgun’s the same. Something’s wrong. Stay close to me. Whatever happens, don’t leave my side.”
“I’m scared.” She moves close to my shoulder.
I think about telling her to leave, but if these men really are Crooked Demons, they’ll have guards posted out front. I find Beast and Poker Face and Adams a couple of tables over from Shotgun, sitting down with three outlaw-looking men.
“Beast.”
“R-ko!” he calls, as drunk as Shotgun. His eyes are bloodshot. “Take a seat, why don’t you—”
I grab his arm and drag him to his feet, leading him away from the table. The three men watch me silently. “Who are these men?” I ask. “Why the fuck are you sittin’ down with them?”
“They gave us good drink, Rocco. Don’t be so paranoid all the time.”
“They spiked your drinks, you fuckin’ idiot. We need to get out of here. Look. Really look. Don’t see what you wanna see. They’re Crooked Demons. We’re near their turf, ain’t we? Or what they call their turf. We’ve pissed them off, we’re outnumbered, we’re in no goddamn position to defend ourselves. We need to leave.”
Beast’s eyes narrow. Even drunk, he’s a Sinner. “What do we do?” he says quietly.
“Act natural,” I tell him. “We need to get Shotgun out of here. Once that’s done, I’ll handle the Demons. Might be we have to pay them a fee for being here.”
“Rocco . . .”
“What else do you want?” I snap. “You’re the one sharing drinks with the bastards.”
“This is bad, isn’t it?” Simone shout-whispers in my ear over the pounding music.
I nod. “A fight here would be bad for everyone,” I tell her. “I need to get to Shotgun. And you need to get to your sister. Make her see that we need to get out of here.”
The three men opposite Shotgun look all alike to me. I’m in that amped-up state now where everybody is either a threat or an ally, and these men are a threat. Grimy-looking, with death in their eyes, looking at Cecilia in a way that makes me protective since she’s Simone’s family. They just stare at the couple, listening as Shotgun rants and raves.
“It’s all about clutch timing!” Shotgun shouts, waving his bottle of whisky at the men. Cecilia lolls against his shoulder. “You have to know when to gear up and gear down! You can lose half a second messing with the gear, and just think of that. Half a second here, half a second there, and soon you’ve lost ten seconds! Rocco!”
“Boss.” I sit next to him, looking into the faces of the three men, one by one. I know they’re Demons from their reactions. They sit up, looking momentarily nervous. They know who I am. I lean in close to his ear. On the other side of the table, I see Simone doing the same with Cecilia. “We need to get out of here. Don’t react. Don’t do anything. But we’ve gotta go. See all these men? They’re Demons. We’re near Demons’ turf, and we’re in no shape to fight. I’m pretty sure they’ve spiked our drinks. Just stand up quietly and we’ll—”
“My friend thinks you’re Demons!” Shotgun roars, laughing drunkenly. He shoves me away. “This is Sam, Sam, and Sam. How weird is that? They’re brothers from . . . I forget where they’re from.”
“That’s because you’re blasted. Goddamn. Let’s get out of here.”
“Would you just calm down!” Shotgun shouts, flapping his hand at me.
I feel sick looking at this man who was once a father figure to me, who took me off the street and gave me a place in the club. He was once a giant, once a hero, once the bloodiest, deadliest man I’d ever met. I try and tell myself he’s drunk and that’s why he’s acting like this; it doesn’t stick. He’s been like this for a while now. Even before Cecilia, if I’m brutally honest with myself. Maybe he was always like this.
I grab him by the elbow and drag him to his feet. “We’re leaving,” I tell him, leading him away from the table. “No fuckin’ arguments. If you wanna hate me, hate me when you’re sober.”
Shotgun snatches his arm away—he’s still strong, even drunk—and walks over to the three men. They’re on their feet now. Their leader, the one with the meanest eyes, takes a step forward.
“You a Crooked motherfucking Demon, eh?” Shotgun wobbles from foot to foot.
Somebody switches off the jukebox. The whole place gets tense. A laugh dies. Everybody’s on their feet, watching. I turn to the nearest Sinner, who turns out to be Jerry, and whisper, “Call the cops and tell them there’s a man with an automatic rifle and ten hostages.”
“But . . .”
“Either that or a bloodbath. Go, now.”
Jerry runs toward the bathroom, taking out his cell.
“And what if we are?” the Crooked Demon says. “What then? Look at you, pal. And you’re the president of this club? Can it even be called a club?”
“What the fuck’d you say to me?” Shotgun squares up to the man, looking for a second like the old Shotgun. It’s watching a scarred, ancient lion go on one last hunt. For a moment I’m not scared. I feel stupid for being scared. Shotgun’s in charge. Shotgun will handle it.
But then reality sinks it. We’re still outnumbered. Everyone’s still wasted.
“What’s going on?” Cecilia cries, when Simone tries to lead her away. “Why is everything so quiet?”
“You’re on Demon turf,” the leader says, stepping forward so that he’s eye to eye with Shotgun. “You made a big mistake.”
“A big mistake!” Shotgun pulls a switchblade from his pocket. I try to stop him, but I’m too slow. He stabs the Demon in the chest, blood pissing everywhere, a fountain of it spraying into Shotgun’s face and onto the floor. “A big mistake?” He stabs the man again, and again.
For a split second, the bar is dead. And then somebody pulls out a gun and fires. The bullet hits Shotgun in the belly, opening him up like some twisted Christmas present, blood soaking into his shirt and dripping to the floor. Maybe they’ll fire another shot. Maybe they’ll finish the job here and now. But then sirens whine, getting closer, and everybody scatters.
“Get a car!” I roar, catching Shotgun. “Get a fuckin’ car right fuckin’ now! We’re getting outta here!”
Shotgun smiles up at me, his eyes sleepy. “Was I really shot?” he asks. “I’m dreaming. Is that you, Rocco?”