Reprise

by C. D. Breadner

  The room had grown terribly quiet, and the murmuring of the crowd was impossibly low for the size of the crowd. But all she could hear was the absence of sound from the body on the floor.

  When he stirred at first she thought she’d imagined it. Then his head moved from where she held it and he coughed, just the slightest bit. “Oh, thank fuck,” she whispered, smacking at Matt to let up on his chest.

  “Hal? Hal, you back with us?”

  When the recognition flooded into his eyes it was like the lights coming on. He was just there. “Fuck. What happened?”

  Mal settled on her ass, breathing in relief. “Thank God.”

  “What happened?” He repeated, voice rough and raspy.

  “You tell us, man. You collapsed. Your heart stopped.” Matt dropped to the opposite side, pulling up one eyelid.

  “Shit,” Hal muttered, covering his face with both hands, still splayed on his back.

  “What happened?” Mal asked quietly, moving closer. “Before you came out again. Can you remember?”

  Hal dropped both hands, head turning her way. “Gail. Fucking Gail gave me something to help pick me up, she said. I was pissed, starting to come down again. She had these little orange pills—”

  “Shit man,” Matt muttered, pushing his hair out of his face. “Sunshine? You shouldn’t do that shit. It’s strong.”

  “What is it?” Mal asked, this name completely foreign to her.

  “It’s Oxy, but it’s, like, homemade.” Matt shook his head. “We should get him to a hospital.”

  “No,” Hal sputtered on a cough, sitting up. When he did there was a smattering of applause. “No hospitals.”

  “There’s an ambulance coming, man.”

  Mal put a hand on Hal’s shoulder. “Your heart stopped, you idiot. You have to go in and make sure everything’s okay.”

  “No insurance,” Hal reminded her, shaking off her touch and getting to his feet. “Remember? Starving musician.”

  “We’ll try to cover it.” That was V, hanging back but watching intently. “It’s too important, man.”

  Hal was stubborn, and Mal and Matt stood as he was shaking his head. “I don’t want to fuck with the tour.”

  “Idiot,” Matt cut in, roughly shaking his shoulder. “Go to emergency. Let them hook you up to that EKG or whatever. See what’s going on. If it’s nothing, good. But if there’s something else wrong that this shit complicated even more, you gotta know. Like... yesterday.”

  “Hal, please,” Mal added quietly. “This is scary shit. You were out. Matt said it; your heart stopped. What happens if it does it again and we’re not here?”

  He was being railroaded, he knew it, and Mal couldn’t care less if it bothered him. More than protecting his wounded ego, he needed to get this taken care of.

  When the sirens grew close enough to be heard he sighed, pushing his hair back from his face with both hands. “FUCK!” he shouted, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll go in, let them take a look at me.”

  “It’s probably nothing—” V began but Hal cut him off with a hand wave.

  Mal moved closer to Matt. “Where’s Gail?” she whispered, not wanting Hal to hear.

  Matt frowned. “No idea. Backstage?”

  Mal turned on her heel and stalked to the door off the small stage, down the two portable wooden steps and into the stink of musty furniture and days’ old beer. The room was empty. She strode to the far door that opened into the small parking lot that was just for unloading deliveries and equipment.

  As the door swung open and the hit the wall with a loud bang Gail turned, cigarette in hand, her eyes red rimmed. She’d been crying? Oh, fuck this crazy twat.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” Mal spat.

  “What?”

  “Don’t give me that shit. He’s drunk and high so you give him fucking Oxy?”

  “I didn’t give him shit—” she stopped as Mal knock the cigarette from her hand. “What the fuck?”

  “You are so fucking fired. You’re dangerous and insane and I don’t want you anywhere near us.”

  “Fuck you!” The reply was brilliant. Exactly what she’d expected. “Listen, Mom, it might be okay in your mind that you’re fucking my boyfriend—”

  “Boyfriend,” Mal reiterated. “Sure. Boyfriend. Let’s go with that. Pretty sure you’re only interested when he can get you something you want. So what’s he getting right now? Cardiac arrest? That’s a shitty deal.”

  “I know you have to spread for younger guys because that’s all that there is out there—after all, everyone your own age is likely married. But you’re actually the bitch in this case, Mallory.”

  Mal shook her head. “Fucking a guy is one thing. Almost killing him is an entirely different thing.”

  Gail poked her in the chest with one boney finger. “If you think for one minute you can get me fired you’re out of your mind.”

  “What did you think would happen if you gave him that shit?” Mal asked.

  “I didn’t give him anything!”

  “Fucking liar. What were you trying to accomplish? You wanted to hurt him. It couldn’t be any more obvious.”

  Gail laughed. “He deserved it.”

  Mal’s mouth dropped open. “You are a fucking piece of work. You’re walking home.”

  “Whatever. I’m not going anywhere. You’re the only one that’s redundant in this group.”

  “Get your shit and get out, Gail.”

  They both turned in surprise, but Matt held his gaze on Gail. “Matt, listen—”

  “No.” Mal had never heard this kind of resolve from Matt before. “You just admitted you gave him what he deserved. You wanted to hurt him. You can’t be around us anymore. You have to go.”

  “Go get Hal.” The bitch was starting to sound worried.

  “No. He’s in an ambulance, headed to the emergency room. Because of you. So get your shit and go.”

  Gail’s eyes couldn’t get any bigger. Then she turned on Mal. “You bitch. This is your fault, you ugly old whore. If you weren’t fucking him—”

  “That’s why you did it?” Mal actually had to laugh. “You are as fucking crazy as I always thought you were.”

  In a tiny blur of dark hair, pale skin and bared teeth Gail launched herself at Mal, hands up. One caught Mal’s cheek, at least three nails raking her skin. it stung, but mostly she was so shocked as her head spun the other way she could only gasp.

  Another hit to her chest, both hands pushing at her. It knocked the breath out of her and she went back on both feet, but caught herself in time. Just in time for Gail to tackle her to the concrete.

  Somehow she didn’t crack her head. Must have a strong neck or something. But now the crazy little psycho was raining down tiny and pathetically weak punches on her chest. Mal’s arms had come up to protect her face by instinct, and she used both hands to push the girl away. It worked. The nut only weighed about ninety-five pounds.

  Mal scrambled to her feet, and Gail tumbled the rest of the way to the ground but sprung back up like those boxing clowns that kids play with. Matt was on her, arm around her waist, holding her back.

  Never having been in a fight before, Mal took no notice of any kind of conflict decorum and cracked a slap across that bitch’s face that knocked her mouth around to her ear.

  “Jesus! Mal!” Now someone was holding her back, and she knew it was V but she fought his hold anyway.

  “You better fucking pray he’s okay!” she screeched, knowing that the despair in her voice made it sound like she was stiff competition in the crazy bitch category but she honestly didn’t care. Her blood was racing too fast, pounding her pulse in her ears, making her entire body taught like a piano wire. “If this has hurt him—”

  “Fuck him!” Gail wailed back, tears rolling down her face. “I love him. And this is what he does to me! Fuck him!”

  V pulled her farther from the door, and her heels scrambled on the concrete. Matt yanked Gail back into the building, still wa
iling and crying.

  “Mal, get it under control. Come on. This isn’t helping anything.”

  She felt her own vigor fade, and now her body ran cold. Her chest felt tight, she couldn’t get breath. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, closing her eyes. V’s hold loosened but didn’t let up.

  “Come on Mal—”

  “No. It’s all fucked. The band is fucked. We’re done.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “It’s important that we remember the Sheriff has a real fucking hard on for us. We can’t be as casual about the pot trade as we used to be.” Jayce met Tiny’s eyes across the room, and Tiny had to nod. “Anyone not wanting to take the risk, it’s okay to change your mind. But this is where you do it. If you don’t want to take the job, this is the time to speak up.”

  The room was quiet except for shifting asses as the assembled men in the room looked to each other, then settled in their vinyl-coated stacking stools again, facing forward for the rest of Jayce’s pitch.

  “I’m going to give you the background, but only some of it. We’ve always sold weed in Markham. Not long ago a group decided that our dealers were a way to attack us. Again, this is your second chance to walk away. Because those guys beat up our dealers. Including a pint-sized woman. The group here, I admit, is a bit uglier and less-vulnerable looking.”

  There were low chuckles around the room, and Tiny evaluated the ten men that Jayce had picked to be the new face of marijuana trade in Markham. They had all been hang-arounds at the clubhouse for a few years, but none had designs on going full patch. Still, they were all tough-looking bastards that had hard jobs. They did concrete or drove truck, two were mechanics that had worked at the Grainger garage. They all had criminal records for anything from DUI to assault to robbery. Not necessarily violent crimes, but they’d been inside long enough to look mean and rough.

  After the attacks on their dealers the pot trade had dropped off, but the Red Rebels had obligations to the Bastard Banshees to keep the pot moving. It had started effecting the bottom line and they weren’t happy. So to step it up, Jayce had decided that if their dealers had hard hands it might ease up any conflict. Also, it kept the recreational users away. The kind of people whose loved ones might find out about the pot and turn all the info over to the cops.

  Also, they wanted the meth and Sunshine kept out of Markham. In a crumbling town like this people needed their vices. Prostitution gave most of the club the itch, and harder drugs were a slippery slope towards turning a town into an entire ghetto. Pot was a happy drug, an easy drug, and even if it was still illegal it wasn’t seen as “that bad.”

  They needed to hold up their end of their bargain with the Banshees. They were a huge club with national reach, and they had men held at the same federal penitentiary that Jayce’s father was serving his time in. This drug deal was keeping Mad Dog McClune safe inside Kern Valley State Prison while his life sentence ticked along.

  “We’ll vary pick-ups and drop offs. The schedule will change week to week, and there will be weeks when you guys aren’t holding or selling, just to keep things random. The take every week will be split up evenly between everyone so on your off weeks you’re still getting paid.” Jayce motioned Spaz forward. “Spaz here is in charge of tech for the club and he’s the communication hub. We’ll switch out phones and he’s the one keeping track of who has which phone. Don’t get excited, they’re just flip phones so you can’t watch your porn on them.”

  More chuckles.

  “But it’ll all be done in text. Words to a minimum. Nothing to incriminate. Just times. Addresses. And if your position or information or phone is compromised we’ll come up with a safe word. The safe word goes out to the whole group and everyone gets rid of their phones immediately and meets to get new gear and talk about what got fucked up. Obviously, our goal is to never get to that point. Basically, we need you guys to run this for us. We’ve got the law watching us too closely. You guys can do this while we hold their attention.”

  The spiel went on with more details and Spaz handed out the phones then showed how they should be used. Tiny surveyed the group and had to approve. They were into it, attentive, and not goofing around. Jayce had selected well.

  “So that’s it everyone. You’re all in this now. The first shipment is coming in today, and we’ll be distributing to you tomorrow. If you get an address and time tomorrow by ten am, you’re on the first shift. If you don’t get that text, you’re on the off week. Again, everyone gets paid no matter what. Now go on, get out of here, and if we need you you’ll hear from us.”

  As he finished up his speech they group got to their feet, the legs of their chairs screeching on the floor. The mumble of conversations also rose, cut by the squeal of the main doors opening.

  This was the main room, and it was open to anyone to walk in, but people usually didn’t. This group was adept at looking like the gathering was no big deal to be there, but when it was Doctor Tracey Webber walking in mid-afternoon in hip-hugging jeans, a low-cut shirt under a flannel and her dark hair hanging over her shoulder in a braid they tended to forget the standard operating procedure.

  Everyone froze, staring. Jayce shared a look with his VP and Tank shrugged, then they looked to Tiny for an answer.

  He had a clue what she was doing there. The last four days she’d been texting and calling him relentlessly, wanting him to check in, run tests, know what was up with his lungs.

  He knew what was up. When he got out of the shower he’d hack up blood. After he fucked one of the club girls he hacked up blood. He couldn’t even finish a cigarette these days without a coughing fit.

  He was even taking afternoon naps now, of all fucking things.

  A trip to the doctor couldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know; his time was running out. She wanted him to either try an aggressive chemo course or arrange for end of life care.

  None of his brothers knew yet. He’d be bedridden before he’d tell them.

  At least, that was the plan. It looked like the Doc was here to fuck his shit up. Her jaw was set and her eyes blazed. And as she stalked towards him her fists were clenched at the ends of her swinging arms.

  “Hey, hey, there Doc.” Knuckles got to her first, stepping in her path. She stopped short, eyes still on Tiny as he approached Knuckles from behind. “Anything I can help you with? You want a drink?”

  “I don’t want a drink,” she was replying as Tiny reached them, hand on Knuckles’ arm. “I need to see him.”

  Knuckles turned to Tiny, a confused frown on his face. “This old fart? What the hell for?”

  “It’s private,” Tiny mumbled, taking Webber’s arm tightly in his grip and pulling her with him back to the front doors of the clubhouse. Out in the early December sunshine he squinted, glanced around the lot, then pulled her towards three benches that were arranged under the building’s overhang, not far from the overhead door that opened to The Stall. When he was sure they couldn’t be overheard, he finally turned to her. She was pissed, and that anger stretched her posture up to its full five-foot-eight extension, not counting that upraised chin.

  “You have to call me back when I call,” she hissed, poking his chest to emphasize each word. “You are sick. I am a doctor. You have to call me back.”

  “I don’t have to do shit,” he growled, putting one hand to her neck and backing her up against the building’s aluminum siding. “I don’t give a shit what your medical complex is telling you. I am going to keep doing what I’m doing until I drop. Get it?”

  Her hands were on his wrist and pulling, but he knew he wasn’t choking her. His hand just held her in place, he wasn’t squeezing. “But you need treatment. You’ll die—”

  “We all do,” he pointed out. “And we should all get to say how it happens. You said it yourself Doc; no surgery. Chemo would just prolong being sick. Not that anxious to go out on my back, leaking out of holes and crying for morphine.”

  “But—”

  “Not but
s, Doc. That’s my call. I don’t want the guys to know. And that’s my call, too.”

  Her eyes watered and he had a moment of guilt. What the fuck was he doing? He pulled his hand free, but she kept hers wrapped around his wrist. He looked down at them as she stepped closer. “You’re not scared,” she whispered, seemingly oblivious to how her chest brushed against him.

  He was far from oblivious.

  “No Doc, I’m not. That’s the direction we’re heading from the moment we’re born.” Now he looked up at her eyes, and they were intent in a different way. One of her elegant hands came up to settle at the centre of his chest. “Doc?”

  “Most people beg and plead, bargain.”

  “And do they get their way?”

  She shook her head, wetting her lips with her pretty little tongue. Shit.

  “That’s why I won’t beg. I make my own terms. Waste of time. I like my life. I like what I have. I’ve cleared my bucket list.”

  She looked completely stunned by him, and he had no idea why.

  “So what do you want?” he growled, stepping back. She came with him.

  “Doc—”

  “Shut up,” she whispered, coming even closer. She smelled nice and clean. Just had a shower in the last few hours, he’d guess. “You’re dying and you don’t give a shit.”

  Tiny frowned. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He barely had the last word out and she was up on her toes, arms around his neck, pressing her little mouth to his with surprising ferocity. His default setting was to wrap his arms around her narrow back reel her in even tighter and return the kiss by forcing his tongue into her mouth. She tasted a bit like mint, maybe leftover from her toothpaste. She whimpered, moving her hips downward to rub against his instant erection.

  Jesus.

  He ended that kiss but didn’t let her go. Instead, he stared down at her upturned face, eyes at half mast, as she panted as though they’d already been fucking. “You really don’t care about anything.”

  That wasn’t true. He cared about the club, and about his blood family. On some level he still cared for Mallory, that was why he was protecting her by being a complete prick. He cared about what mattered.