Three
Colin
The dorm Candy showed him to was narrow and shabbily furnished, but clean. It smelled like fresh linen and the small window overlooked an expansive back lot full of cars and bikes, all the metal glimmering dimly beneath a security light. He had a twin bed, a dresser and a footlocker. Extra blankets were in a closet down the hall, Candy told him, and there were two communal bathrooms that he would be expected to clean as part of his prospect duties.
“Have Darla make you something,” Candy said before departing, “and you can get started in the morning.”
Then he was left alone.
Colin sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing as he felt a spring dig into his backside. He didn’t understand the contradictions of this place; it had the air of a total dump that someone was desperately trying to turn around, the effort obvious, the motive – not so much. That wasn’t any of his business, though. He just had to keep his mouth shut, follow orders, scrub toilets, run laundry, and keep cold beers in everyone’s hands.
The charmed life of a prospect.
He unpacked his meager belongings and went in search of food.
Darla turned out to be the dark-haired woman he’d spotted in the kitchen before. She was plump in a pleasing, motherly sort of way, her face lined with age and humor. She was Blue’s sister, she told him, and she smiled at him and told him to go sit down at the bar, that she’d bring him a plate.
The twins were still absorbed in the game, and Blue was playing cards with three of the others – Jinx, for sure, with that beard and hair – but the others he couldn’t quite remember. Fox and Candy were gone, which was just as well. Right now, Colin wanted to eat and be left alone.
He picked a center stool at the bar, since it was abandoned, and a moment later Darla appeared, sliding a heaping plate beneath his nose, setting down a mason jar of sweet tea that thumped when it hit the bar top. God, it smelled like heaven. An open-faced pulled pork sandwich slathered in sauce, coleslaw, baked beans with big chunks of ham hock, collards, and a fat wedge of cornbread.
“There’s more if you want another helping,” Darla said, patting his arm. “You’re a big boy, bet you eat a lot.” She gave him a wink and headed back to the kitchen.
Okay, if he got to eat like this, maybe the transfer was worth it.
He’d just crammed the biggest bite of sandwich he could tackle into his mouth when someone climbed onto the stool beside him. A skinny, greasy, pimple-faced someone. The other prospect, Pup.
Awesome.
Don’t say anything, don’t say anything…
The kid looked at him with unguarded curiosity. “Darla’s a real good cook.”
Damn, he said something.
“She’s not anybody’s old lady neither. Candy pays her to do the shopping and make us dinner most nights. She makes real good spaghetti. But my favorite is the dessert. She does cannoli, you know, like the Italians do? And they’ve got this cream–”
“Yeah,” Colin said, shoveling in beans. “I bet.”
Pup blinked, surprised by the bluntness. But then pressed on, undeterred. “So you’re from New Orleans.”
“Yep.”
“I’ve never been there, but I wanna go. Candy’s been, which means Jinx’s been. They’re like this, ya know.” He twisted his first and middle fingers together. “Best friends since, like, forever I think. And I know Fox has been. Fox has been everywhere,” he said with a meaningful lift of his eyebrows. “You know. He specializes in stuff.”
Colin set down his fork and twisted his shoulders toward his fellow prospect. Annoying as hell, yeah, but suddenly, he was thinking someone who ran his mouth like this could be of some benefit. He’d have no better chance to get the down-and-dirty on his new brothers. “Specializes in what stuff?”
“You know.” Pup leaned forward, face comically serious, voice dropping to a hiss. “Killing people kinda stuff.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
Pup sat back, looking pleased that he had an audience. “The guys tell all sorts of stories about him. Shit knows which are true and which are just tales.”
The most dangerous man you’re ever gonna meet, Candy had said of the Englishman. Note to self.
Colin swallowed a mouthful of barbecue and said, “Where’s y’all’s president? Why didn’t I meet him tonight?”
Worry flashed across the kid’s face, maybe even a touch of fear. He swallowed, Adam’s apple jumping in his skinny throat. “Crockett…he don’t get out a whole lot anymore. He’s…well, he’s gettin’ up there in years, you know, goes to bed early.” His laugh was nervous.
Colin read between the lines. “So Candy’s pretty much running the show around here, isn’t he?”
Pup dampened his lips, hesitating.
Behind him, Colin heard the distinctive clip of female footfalls, followed by the unmistakable honey smoothness of a female voice.
“Candy’s thought he runs the show his whole life, wherever he was,” she said, moving around him. He didn’t want to swivel his head and be too obvious in looking at her, so he waited, letting her move through his peripheral vision as she stepped behind the bar and came into full view. “He’s a bossy dick,” she continued, “but lovable enough to get away with it.”
She was tall, all legs, and crowned with a thick mane of blonde hair. She had one of those narrow, heart-shaped faces that emphasized the lips and eyes. Her makeup was light, tasteful. A small silver pendant of some sort hung from a simple chain around her neck, and his eyes traveled down from there, taking in the way she filled out her simple scoop-neck t-shirt. Fantastic tits, little waist, hips made for hands.
“Puppy, are you telling stories again?” she asked, pulling a mug down from the overhead rack. They had hard cider on tap, and she drew one, took a healthy sip.
His eyes lingered on her lips as they touched the glass, her throat as she swallowed.
It had been a while, he realized suddenly. He was six-four and built like a brick shit-house, so the ladies looked his way, even though he was a prospect. But he’d been kept too busy to indulge much with the club girls in NOLA, always stepping, fetching, mopping and enduring everyone’s hazing.
Desire teased at his stomach now, watching this woman drink. He liked ‘em tall…and blonde…and stacked.
Shit, between the food and now the groupie selection, he might never want to go back to Louisiana.
“No,” Pup answered her, drawing himself up tall on his stool. “I’m just trying to make our new prospect feel welcome.”
“Hmm.” She set her glass down on the bar, blue eyes narrow and unconvinced. “And how’s that going?”
“Good,” Colin said, drawing her gaze. He gave her his best smile, the one that landed him invitations into countless bedrooms. “Even better, now that you’re here.”
She stared at him, and not in a good way.
“I’m Colin,” he offered.
She gave him a quick, tight smile. “And I’m not interested.” Her heels were loud as gunshots on the hardwood when she plucked up her glass and stalked off.
Pup laughed. “You know that song? ‘Shot Down in Flames’?”
“No.” Colin stuffed more cornbread in his mouth and muttered around it. “Never heard it.”