The first time Hayes brought me to the Jackknife Casino in Nashville, I was seventeen. Though too young to legally drink and smoke, he expected me to finish a glass of bourbon and smoke a cigar. I handled the former better than the later. At least, I didn’t puke like Cricket.
“Cigars are for twat flakes,” she told him after upchucking her body weight.
Hayes just shook his giant head and said, “Lightweight.”
Years later, Cricket still doesn’t smoke cigars, but she can put down a bottle of bourbon like a drunken pro. I’ve gotten the hang with both vices. These days, Cap is the one learning to drink and smoke cigars.
“Chug it,” I tell Cap while we sit with our father at a back booth in the casino’s private club. “Don’t let the booze win.”
Rather than take my advice, my brother instead sips the liquor.
“Pussy,” I taunt.
Shuddering from the cigar’s flavor, he frowns at me. “My foot’s bigger than your head.”
“Smells like it.”
“No,” Hayes interrupts, knowing how these insult-contests turn out. “Just shut the fuck up now before you give me a headache.”
“That’d be a big fucking ache for a big fucking head,” I say, and Cap smiles until he again tries the bourbon.
“We currently have the club to ourselves, so let’s talk a little business before people show up and I have to pretend to give a shit.”
I open my mouth to mock the idea of Hayes ever pretending for anyone, but he gives me a look that shuts me up. For now anyway.
“What’s the background on the bikers I pounded?” I ask rather than mock him.
“Their club is located in the shithole known as Georgia. Seems the fuckers were driving back from one of their grandmother’s funeral in Missouri, and they just happened to pull into a gas station in White Horse. They claimed Pickles started talking shit to them, and they were standing up for themselves. They were released pending charges, but I have no interest in dragging them back here and putting them up in a Tennessee prison.”
“Can’t let them think about revenge.”
“No, I worry they’ll want to pull a redneck move and think about hitting us back. Bikers aren’t the brightest bunch.”
“Too bad Poet’s not here, so he could give us a dirty look,” I mutter and wonder what Cricket is doing this very minute. I hope she steps on a LEGO. Returning the conversation at hand, I add, “I miss the fucker. He’d probably volunteer to go with me down to Georgia to kill a few bikers.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Hayes growls.
“Well, it’s not like you can. What about your knees?”
Hayes exhales roughly. “If you mention I’m getting old one more time, I will bust my bat over your ass.”
“I’d be more frightened if you hadn’t been making that threat for like a decade.”
“Sooner or later, I’ll get sick of saying the fucking words, and I’ll decide to do the fucking deed,” Hayes threatens in a rough voice any rabid bear would appreciate.
“That was pretty hot, man. No wonder Mom finds you so sexy.”
“Idiot.”
“Can we—?” Cap suggests before Hayes waves him off.
“You’re here to listen, not contribute.”
“I’m almost an adult.”
Hayes and I chuckle at the adorable angel from above. A frowning Cap gives us individual middle fingers.
“I want you both to listen. Eventually, I won’t be around to run shit.”
“Oh, Papa,” I whisper. “You’re not that old.”
“I’m talking about fucking retiring and leaving shit to you fuckwits.”
“Oh, good. I mean, you’re only like seventy, right?”
Hayes narrows his terrifyingly dark eyes, and I nearly take off running from the casino. Yeah, I might be skating a fine line between playful teasing and having my ass beat by a grumpy old man.
“Are you done?” Hayes growls, waiting to see if I can control my witty mouth.
“Yes, sir.”
Grinning, he leans back in the booth. “When I started my business, I had to bust asses myself. I eventually met Moot, and I expanded the number of asses I busted. As years went on, I made enough money to hire more men to bust more asses. That meant less ass busting for me, and that’s the dream, dipshits. No man should want to be middle-aged and still busting asses day in and day out. You are taking over an already built business, meaning you have no need to bust asses except in non-avoidable situations like with Pickles. Instead, you hire someone to bust the asses for you. That’s why you’re not driving down to Georgia and busting biker asses. You’re hiring someone to do it for you. As your mother likes to say, ‘Fucking duh.’”
“Which of our guys should I send?”
“Once again, shut the fuck up, boy,” Hayes says, puffing on his cigar. “You don’t want to send someone that could be linked back to you. We send one of our guys, and he fucks up, and they look at his address, and it’ll be really fucking obvious who sent him. No, you need someone from outside our circle. Wouldn’t hurt to get a professional too. That’s why I suggest you call some people I know in Houston to handle this club problem.”
“What people?”
“I met them before your mom worked for me. These people still do jobs for me from time to time. They’re pros too. If something gets fucked up, they won’t tie back to us either. I’ll give you the number when we’re back at the office, and you can make the call. I’ll sit in to make sure you don’t embarrass me.”
“Why do I suddenly feel like a little kid?” I ask, wondering why I’ve never heard of these Houston professionals.
Cap stops sipping his booze and mumbles, “Because you're fucking stupid.”
“Watch it, angel-bro, or I’ll have to snap one of your wings.”
“As if you could even reach it, Bugs.”
Hayes pounds on the table, scaring the shit out of us and the entire room. “As much as I enjoy you fighting like bitches, I want to make a point very clear. You are my heirs, and I don’t want you getting your hands dirty. That’s not why I worked so hard all my life. I want you to delegate the dirty shit to people with shittier parents. When your ego tells you to show up and do shit yourself, remember how you want to have wives and kids. If Candy showed up in my life when I was still cracking heads and busting asses on a daily basis, I don’t know if I could have let her close. You need to keep your women safe, and going on these dirty jobs doesn’t protect them.”
“What about Poet?” I ask as my mind wanders to Tatum who texted earlier to tell me Bianca Bella was teaching her to cook.
“Poet’s club is small, and his dad runs it. The boy can’t retire or sit on his ass in an office. He doesn’t have the luxuries you do.”
“Because his parents are shittier?” I ask, fighting laughter.
“Exactly,” Hayes says and then adds, “Don’t go telling the Earlham women I said that next time we’re in Tumbling Rock. The last thing I need is for Justice and her sisters to give me the riot act. Their mouths are more obnoxious than your sister’s.”
“No,” I say, and Cap shakes his head. “Cricket’s worse.”
“You wish.”
“No, she’s awful. We hate her,” I continue. “I think she might be the devil.”
“Your sister apologized for making a peach pie for Thanksgiving. Grow up already.”
“She knew no one wanted peach. We always want cherry and apple, but she made peach and pumpkin. I wish she hadn’t brought anything at all.”
“Spoiled cunt.”
“You’re not wrong. I blame my parents, though,” I sigh. “They really dropped the ball.”
Cap laughs until Hayes shoots him a look. My little brother isn’t ready to run shit yet. He’s got the size, but his balls remain too soft. Plus, he turns his back on bad women too easily. He’s lucky none of those bitches have shivved his trusting ass.
Until Cap’s ready to complete the heir triangle, Hayes won’t “retire.” He worries about Cricket’s big mouth getting her into trouble. I also suspect he doesn’t trust my big mouth all that much either. Despite his graying hair, Hayes isn’t ready to turn his back on the business. He might show up at the office less and travel more with Mom, but he’s sticking around until all three of his kids can maintain what he busted so many asses to create.