by LC Lehesaho
As do I on some levels, and it gives me chills. There is something deeply wrong with me to feel like this toward him.
I walk to the counter to return my coffee cup, eyes on the floor, and deep in my own fucked-up thoughts when I hit something, hard. My cup goes airborne, my already cut lip spurts blood out again when my face slams into… a chiseled and hard chest.
"Oi bloody hell!" a smooth male voice bursts out, and I see hands in the air trying to catch the cup with wings. I taste the copper in my mouth, red is my new black for sure, and when I can really take a look at this opponent, which I hit with my face, I curse under my breath.
Because there is a significant bloodstain on the white T-shirt in front of me.
"You 'kay? Oi, fuck me, you're bleeding." The guy, with a very strong Aussie accent, curses sounding incredibly ridiculous. I lift my eyes from the red spot on his shirt to his face. Oh, this guy is clearly missing his surfboard. His golden blond hair is screaming surfing on the waves. The baby blue eyes are shocked as he takes in my bloody appearance.
"I'm good, thanks. Nice catch." I grab my coffee mug from his hand and give him an apologetic smile. "Sorry about your shirt." I try to yield to him, but he steps in my way, grabbing a tissue from his jeans pocket.
"Wait, you're really bleeding." He points out, planting one hand on my shoulder and lowers himself to my level. It's a lot because even the bloodstains from my lip ended up under his pecs. Before I can say anything, he starts to tap my lip with the tissue.
"What the fuck is going on?" A familiar grunt comes behind my back, and in a second, Tiger has slapped Aussie's hands off me with a fierce look. "Get your hands off her."
The surfer dude lifts his hands in the air as a surrender. "Sorry, mate, I just wanted to help. She's bleeding, don't rip your shirt off."
Tiger doesn't even look at me; his eyes are tightly glued to the guy. "Watch it, or I'll rip your head off, mate."
"Jeez, calm the fuck down." I step between them because Tiger looks like he might actually do just that. The surfer seems surprised by the hostility he's facing and takes a step back. Smart move. I snap my fingers in front of Tiger's face to get his attention. "Tiger, walk off. It was an accident."
His dark eyes slowly lower to me, taking in the cut that opened from the crash. I can almost see the steam coming out of his nostrils as he fumes with anger. That look never ends up being something good.
"I'm really sorry that I bumped into you," the surfer says behind me, and I give him a slight smile over my shoulder while gripping Tiger by his arm.
"Really, everything is fine. Again, sorry about the shirt," I mumble at him and drag Tiger out of the cafeteria. From the corner of my eye, I see Falcon's eyes on us.
And my sick and twisted sister is laughing. At least someone is having fun during all of this.
6
I button the black dress shirt all the way up and adjust the collar. It leaves half of the text memento mori visible, which was tattooed on my neck years ago at the same time as the tiger on my left side. We all have our animals tattooed in the same place, except Leo. His lion is on his back. I've gotten more tattoos since then, but those are the significant ones—the ones with meaning.
Taking a look in the mirror, I take note that I should get my hair cut. I'm not one of those guys who spend time in front of the mirror admiring themselves, so this little bit of overgrown look really doesn’t suit me.
I grab my gun and place it in the back of the waistband of my slacks and pull on a jacket to cover it. Phone, check. Wallet, check.
Until I'm at my door, then I remember the pack of cigarettes. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" I huff to myself while walking back to grab what I forgot. Seriously, I've been trying to leave for thirty minutes, but here I am, thinking about which one of the black dress shirts I should wear and should I choose Chucks or Vans with the suit.
I chose Vans, but not the point.
There is this tickle inside me like I'm crawling out of my own skin. Very unusual for me.
Finally, I manage to get myself in Puma's apartment and go straight to the guy's bathroom. Puma has all kinds of hair product shit because the guy is obsessed with his hair. Which is ridiculous because he wears a cap almost always. I once asked why the fuck he spends time to sleek his hair if he wears the cap anyway, and the explanation was that if he takes it off, he doesn't want his hair to look like he's been wearing a cap. Like what the actual fuck?
But now, I'm pleased that the guy is a little bit fucked-up in the head because I really need some help.
Holy mother of fuck.
I stare at all the bottles and jars on the shelf, not having the slightest clue what is what.
"Man, you look sick." Puma appears in the doorframe, buttoning his dress shirt—dress code. Otherwise, I'd never fucking ever wear a suit.
I give him a side-eye. "Well, asshole, so do you."
We both have the same skull paint on our faces, which I also painted on Bear and Wolf. Bear's idea about having a fun night, go fucking figure.
"I meant like good sick, you know?" He gives me a dubious look. "But most importantly, what are you doing here?"
I glance at the shelf. "Which one should I use?"
Puma raises an eyebrow. "What is this? Why are you doing your hair?"
"Fuck, forget about it," I growl and start to the door, but he grabs my shoulders and pushes me back to sit on the bathtub's edge.
"Let me." He takes the pink jar from the shelf, and I feel my balls wither. This was a huge mistake. Before I can say that I changed my mind, Puma sticks his hands in my hair and slicks it back. "This look suits you better than the super short cut, you know? Really brings out the cool color."
"I’m going to pretend that I didn't hear you say that."
"What? It does."
I glance up at him. "Are you a fucking hairdresser now? What bullshit have you been watching?"
"Fuck you, man. Even Jeremy Renner was a hairdresser and makeup artist before he became an actor, and the guy is fucking Hawkeye." He slaps me on the back of my head and moves to the side. "Take a look."
I get up and glance at the mirror. Okay, I must admit. It does actually look good. Nothing like me, though, but good. It's not too sleek, but enough so there are no strands poking my eye.
"Well…?" Puma wiggles his eyebrows at me through the mirror.
"Thanks, it's… good."
He slaps his palm to my shoulder. "Man, it's more than good. You look like a pussy magnet."
Snow's club on the other side of the Shangri-la is a filthy place. Just by looking at the people there, you know that every other person has some infectious disease, and you can probably get syphilis by just breathing the same air.
Wolf and Bear walk on the other side of Leo and Puma and me on the other. It's not the arrow position we're in rather than Leo's presence, which makes everyone move out of the way when we walk through the club's back entrance.
There are a couple of strip poles despite the fact that this isn't an actual strip club. I'm quite sure the women using the poles are the local hookers displaying their product. Snow's head of security notices us and cracks the black curtain behind him, clearly telling his boss that we're here. Leo didn't tell him that we were coming because he was sure that Snow would flee.
When Snow's muscular security guard opens the curtain for us, it's clear that he would have fled if he'd known about this. Even now, he looks around, like trying to find a way out—busted.
He has two bombshells on his lap, but both jump up like they were electrocuted when we come into Snow's private party room. The chicks skitter their way out, throwing a quick glance toward us, and the expressions on their faces tell us that they know exactly who we are. Only Snow and his four security guards stay where they are.
"Leo, nice to see you," Snow says, voice tight, and he straightens his spine on the couch. I can almost see the sweat breaking out on his forehead. "What brings you here?"
Leo steps in front of us,
and Puma and Bear close the gap between them. I cross my hands behind my back, so I can pull out my gun if the situation requires.
"You're aware that it's Purgatory's opening night?" Leo asks all casually.
"Yes, of course. I was planning to pay you a visit, but you got ahead of me." He nods, wiping his hands on his red dress shirt. The man is sweating bullets.
"That is how I usually roll. Tell me, Jacob, have you seen Wong lately?"
The veins in Snow's neck bulge so much that it looks like they could actually pop at any moment. "No, I haven't. I heard that after last night, no one is going to be seeing him anymore."
"Do you know why?" Leo's deep voice is calm and collected so far, but I can see by his tense shoulders that things aren't going to stay that way for very long.
"I don't know anything about his business'."
Snow should know better than that. Lying to Leo's face is the last thing you should do. And now, when his gaze drops to Leo's hands, which are opening his suit jacket, he fucking knows he made a fatal mistake.
Leo shrugs the jacket off, hands it to Bear, and starts to open the buttons on his wrists and rolls his sleeves.
"How long have I let you do your business in my city, Jacob?" he asks, and the tone of his voice could freeze even Hell.
"Umm…" Snow presses himself tighter to the couch, as if that could save his doomed ass. "Two years, I think."
"What did I tell you when we first met?"
Snow throws a look toward his guards, who don't make a move to help their boss. They know better. "Leo… we can talk about this—"
"Answer the question, Jacob." He slowly walks toward Snow, still adjusting his sleeves.
"I… you said that if I lie… I'm sorry, I made a mistake. Leo, please, let's talk about this…"
Leo stops right in front of Snow, and I know the guy is probably ready to shit his pants right now. "What deals did you make with Wong?"
"The coke shipment he arranged here, the one you killed him for, I… fuck… I paid him for it. It was supposed to be fifty-fifty."
"Well, Jacob, you know things don’t work like that here. I told you that, and I even reminded you of that rule a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember? You were in my office, drinking my coffee and sitting on my leather couch while I specifically told you that if you cross me, it will be the last thing you do. And what did you do, Jacob?"
Snow's hand goes between the couch cushions, and I know what he is doing. I take my gun out and let it rest by my side. Clearly, Leo saw what I saw because the second Snow pulls the gun out he throws himself to the floor. Leo is on his chest in the blink of an eye, and his fist collides with Snow's face with such force I'm sure the guy is out from the first hit.
But Leo is not a quitter, and I know when he loses his shit, he really loses his shit.
So, we stand there for a good while as he lets his anger out and turns Snow's face into a pile of red mash. His guards stay at the side, not saying a word, and not even one of them is putting their hands near their guns.
When Leo finishes and gets up, there is blood all over him. His face looks like a can of tomato sauce that exploded right in front of him.
Snow's first man steps closer and hands Leo a napkin. "There is a bathroom behind that door if you need to clean up before you go, sir."
He takes it and wipes his face, observing the guy. "It’s Leone, am I correct?"
"Yes, sir. Brandon Leone."
"Well, Brandon Leone, what do you think, can you do a better job than your boss did?"
The guy nods. "Yes, sir."
Leo slaps his palm to Leone's shoulder, making him flinch. "Great. I assume you can handle that?" He nods toward the corpse on the floor.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. We'll meet next week and go over some ground rules, so you know what to avoid. You seem like a nice guy, Brandon, so it'd be a shame for that to happen to you." He taps Leone's shoulder twice before leaving for the bathroom. After the door closes behind him, Leone turns to us, face pale.
"That was intense," he gasps.
"Things usually are intense around our father," Wolf states matter-of-factly. "Keep that in mind, and you'll do just fine."
7
"Oh, holy shit, Elena! You're a miracle worker," Falcon states and stares at us in the mirror. The makeup is unbelievable, and I agree with my sister completely. We could've never done something like this ourselves.
Because it's the opening night of Purgatory, there is a theme. In other words, masks on.
There's a line going through my face, leaving only my right eye and half cheek looking human, but the other side is painted to look like a skull. My lips are black, and they go all the way to my ears, and there are stitches all over it. The eye on the skull side is wearing a special contact lens, making my eye look almost entirely black. My face looks so awesome that I'd like to cry a little. Although it might be all the wine, we've also been drinking, but anyhow. It's a fucking masterpiece. Elena left the black, blue, and purple bruises on display on my throat because she said they belong with my costume now.
It's like a pretty necklace from Death himself.
She also curled my hair and placed a black shiny top hat tilted on my head. It goes well with my outfit; a black corset, which is actually some kind of bodysuit with a snap fastener at my crotch—handy. Though my ass looks like I'm a fucking bird because there is a ridiculous amount of lace puffed up, layer after layer. It reminds me of the hookers in western movies, but my over-the-knee boots with solid six-inch heels are straight from gothgirl69's closet.
There is this Day of the Dead, western slut, Blade’s bride meets Pinkie Pie going on with me.
I need way more to drink than just this wine, though it's kicking in pretty nicely already.
"You look fuckable." I turn to Falcon and take in her outfit.
She's an angel… kind of. There are big white fluffy wings on her back like in the Victoria's Secret show, but the upper part of her outfit is a leather collar on her neck and black duct tape going around her torso, which covers only her nipples. Thank fuck that her boobs are small. The lower part is fishnet stockings and a short leather skirt with Converse All Stars. "But you realize that taking off that duct tape is going to hurt like a motherfucker?"
"I'm counting on it." She winks and fluffs her black bob.
Elena claps her hands. "I have to go to get Eddie from my mother and get him to sleep. Have a fun night, girls!" She waves at us and leaves after we've thanked her for the thousandth time.
Falcon turns to me, a mischievous smile on her face. "Are you ready to own the night, sister?"
I lift my hand for a high-five. "We're going to slay it."
Purgatory is our first big project together.
We've designed it from corner to corner, all of us together. Well, not Dad—he gave us the reins, but he was the one who paid for it. I wanted the dance floor to be higher than the lounge area—I got it. You have to take three stairs up to get there, and there's railing going around it, so drunken pigs can't interrupt, at least without making an effort.
Falcon wanted to use black leather for the seats—she got it.
Puma wanted an inside smoking lounge with couches—he got it.
Bear wanted poles at the tables, so whenever some chick feels like shaking her moneymaker and wants to go all Britney-bitch, she can—and he got it.
Wolf wanted a high deck for us, so whenever he's there, he doesn't have to interact with people—he got it.
And Tiger? He wanted to paint the whole place, every inch of it. He got it, and he did. Tiger is such a fucking talented artist that it still amazes me. There are acts of sin painted on the walls, and they are all extremely specific. The picture of a woman on her knees and hands stretched behind her neck is so lifelike that I can imagine what her perky breasts feel like. Shit, she almost has better boobs than me, but just almost. The devil behind her is incredible, his wings spread wide across the wall.
I was here with Tiger w
hen he painted this place, but it still gives me chills to look at all of this. He is so gifted.
I trail my eyes over the crowd when we walk toward the deck. “The Dope Show” by Marilyn Manson is pounding through the air, and there are already a few chicks using those poles like pros. Everyone is dressed up for the theme, of course, because you can't get in without a proper outfit. The dressing up was Bear's idea; he loves to play games. Everything is a game for Bear, and hand on my heart, I love my brother, but I can say that he is one big motherfucker most of the time. He has his good moments, sure, but not too often.
"Nice place you got here, chicas."
A solid, tattooed guy steps in front of us from the crowd, and it takes me a second to realize who is behind the skull mask. I recognize the sacrifice text on his shaved head.
"Was that an actual compliment or are you trying to be sarcastic, Havoc?" I retort to him, and Emilio "Havoc" Cortez grins at me wide enough to flash his silver canine. Havoc is second-in-command of Pronto Muerte, the gang which leads the eastside of the Shangri-la. Obviously, Pronto Muerte is answering to our Dad because he runs the entire city.
Havoc folds his hands to his chest and leans a bit back, clicking his tongue while his eyes roam over Falcon and me. "Take it how you want, but carajo, if you two weren’t Hayeses, I would fuck you dead."
I let out an exaggerated sigh, but from the corner of my eye, I see that Falcon's eyes travel over Havoc's muscular body a little bit too intensely. He's wearing a white tank, and his tattoos, which probably cover every inch of his skin, are on display, and his jeans hug his thighs. I feel the urge to smack my sister on the back of her head.
"That would be a complete waste of two minutes of our lives, so even if we weren't Hayeses, we wouldn't bother," I tell him coldly, and nudge Falcon on her arm. "Let's go. Have a nice night, Havoc."
