Death’s Deal (Broken Bows, Hade’s Army MC #1)

Chapter 3

R iding to Humble, holding that heavy folder tightly in my cut, I carry with me our future. It will be either our demise or our redemption. Or...at least mine.

Striding in, the subdued music is dull and not its usual bombastic tone. It’s early in the day and the clientele is not as boisterous, nor are they looking to be seen. At eleven in the morning, most of them are hiding from their Bosses, jobs they hate, and wives who nag. Sure, they want the tits and glitz of a high-end strip joint, but they’re not in for the flashy outfits and loud tunes like they are when they’re here to entertain clientele of their own. Right now, they’re only here to forget why they left their homes in the first place.

Humble Gentleman’s Club is the prestigious establishment in the heart of Anaheim’s financial district. We are discreet in an area of town that requires it. It’s three floors of lick, suck, fuck, and occasionally, legal dancing. After all, we’re a motorcycle club running a strip bar, not nuns holding mass.

As I wandered directly to the bar, taking a seat beside Curse, the two of us watched the surroundings without saying a word to one another. Conversations will come about when needed, but first thing’s first, I need a goddamn drink.

Garnering the attention of the bartender, Vivian, a woman who’s nothing special behind the bar, but who can make what’s needed when it’s required, she struts over. “Make me something fucking stiff, V.”

Wiggling her cherry-red eyebrows, she rolls her eyes a touch. I don’t usually drink in the daytime, so for me to ask, she knows it’s already been a hard day.

Piping up, at six foot nine, nearly three hundred pounds, Curse is a daunting man. Unusually tall for a Korean man, and as thick as a hundred-year-old oak, he is someone I turn to for legal advice. After all, his parents had him finish his legal degree before he could “fuck off to waste his life” with the MC. “What mayhem should I expect from you today, Boss?”

Noticing he didn’t turn my way as he asked this absently, I can tell his concentration is fully zoned in on the drink in his hand. With one of Obi’s wildly made concoctions on the bar before him, it sends a pang of guilt through my soul. The aqua-blue tinge with floating tapioca balls is his half-finished cup of Blue Balls. Shoving the little gummy bear textured masses around his glass, he sucks them through a wide-mouthed straw to chew on.

“Here, Death,” V states as she places my drink before me. A twisted gremlin nipple, I’d know that anywhere. The white liquor cream coats the sides of the martini glass, while pale pink ribbons of raspberry float throughout. What makes it what it is sits proudly in the middle, laying softly. A bright-red gummy tit we specifically have made just for this drink. It’s full of orange and mango liquor, and when you poke it with the straw it changes the drink to taste like a crisp green apple.

Even the thought of puncturing the gummy boob sends a painful stab of guilt washing over me. I do though, as a nod to the woman she was.

As a girl straight out of college, out of work, out of options, and looking for a place to work short term, Oubliette became integral to this club’s success. A chemist by trade, she turned Humble into the hottest place in Anaheim. Her drinks made the men smile, the girls tipsy, and the bar a ton of cash. V makes the same drinks, but the on the fly creations Obi would toss at you on a whim are gone.

It used to be Obi and J who ran the bar and V was the backup girl. The two were as thick as thieves and as dangerous as career pickpockets. Losing Obi has left a large hole in many of us.

Blowing out a heavy breath of stress, Curse shoulder bumps me. “Fuck, man. Are you going to make me guess why you’re stressed out or what?”

“What tells you I’m stressed?”

“Oh. I don’t know. It’s 10:00 a.m. and you’re drinking.”

Slapping the folder on the counter between us, I tap it. “Open that.”

Using his good elbow, carefully not bumping his busted arm, Curse slides the paperwork out. Reading it quietly to himself, the heavy stress of those simple words coat his soul. Setting the paperwork back down, taking a large tug of his drink, he absently munches on tapioca pearls. “You’re being made to do this?”

“Yeah.”

Leaning on the bar, pinching the bridge of my nose, and looking toward the flashing ceiling lights, I await Curse’s input.

“That family is your fucking nemesis.”

Curse has been with me, shit; since we were waiting for our balls to drop. He didn’t hit jail with me, but that didn’t mean we hadn’t got into enough trouble to deserve it. His mother and father owned the Korean five-and-dime across from Hades. Once a skinny punk who was worried about getting straight A’s, he, Des, and I had caused ample amounts of destruction as we grew up. His casted arm is just a new scar to add to the already damaged road map of his body.

Stuffing the paperwork back in the file, it heavily rests like an unwanted drunken asshole between us. “It’s not like I can avoid it.”

“Why now? What shit has that fucking family gotten into that they need someone like you?” I know what Curse is asking. Why not some security company or some other club? Why involve me at all?

“No idea. I hate that it can’t be avoided. I’ll have to go there.”

Without being asked, V has set a fresh drink in front of Curse. He motions with a nod, toys with the lemon slice stuck at the end of his bright green straw, and slides over his nearly empty glass. As it nearly falls over the edge, he reaches out with his bad arm to grab it before it crashes to the floor.

“Fuck!” Wincing, the expletive that accompanies his expression can be heard over the sound of the booming music. It catches the attention of half the club as he tries to regain his composure.

Weakness is not something Curse likes to portray to others. It’s been nearly a year since the attack on the repair shop that left his wife, brother, and six-year-old-son dead, leaving Curse in the hospital fighting for his life for a month straight.

“Still bothering you?” I ask. I hate seeing him in pain, and it’s taken a lot longer than he thought it would to repair. His arm was shattered at the joint, just below his shoulder. They installed a titanium replacement, but it worries me. He should’ve been back to normal by now.

“Yeah. Aches like a son of a bitch, and it feels like something needs to pop all the time.” He rolls his head around, before shrugging the shoulder. “I just wish it would release. I want to get back on my bike.”

Knowing how I’d feel if I couldn’t ride, his frustration must be through the roof. “Go see the doctor again, man. Maybe there’s something more they can do.”

“You done being my mom?” he chirps snidely.

Not taking it personally, I joke, “If your mom would take my calls, I’d tell her to give you shit. She hasn’t talked to me since the tenth grade.”

Smirking, Curse quips back, “She’s just not that into you, Death. You need to give in. Not all moms want to fuck you.”

I smile. “Enough of them do.”

This causes him to laugh, the sound of it is better than his griping.

As I’m taking a sip of my drink, letting the happiness of the moment wash over me, my name is called out by Piper, as she rounds the corner from storage. “Hey, Death.” Holding two bottles of vodka, the always frail-looking, half-starved Piper steps to the bar. With tight, jet-black curls that frame her face and a constantly frightened gaze, Piper smiles.

“Pipes. How are we today?”

“Were a bit short on some of the special products, and we could use a supply run on booze. I could make a list if you’ve got time to go over it.” She’s the old lady of Cap, the Pres of the SoCal Soulless. After our cartel war ended, Cap asked if I’d employ her here to give her an outlet. I thought for sure she wouldn’t last a day, but she’s as tough as nails and, thankfully, the club’s nearly naked attire doesn’t bother her at all.

The bar was Obi and J’s job. Run the bar, keep the stock up, and deal with this bullshit I don’t have time for. With J out of commission, I’m fucking pulled thin.

“Sure. Give me a bit, Pipes. I’ll just finish this with Curse.”

She wipes her hand on a bar towel. “Okay.” She stares at me as if there’s something else.

“Anything else?” I ask rhetorically.

Seeming unnerved, Piper stands her ground, with her dark, still sunken and sullen eyes trained on the bar instead of looking at me. “Yes. But it can wait.”

I can’t handle more “it can wait” problems right now, so her, “can wait” better be while I’m open to hearing it.

She may give off the vibe of a scared rabbit, but Piper’s hardcore. She killed a man who was about to harm her cousin, she rescued Cap, and killed the cunt cartel leader, Queen, in cold blood. That was all while she was attempting to escape Mexico. Don’t get me started on what she did once she returned to the U.S.

I wouldn’t cross her.

Changing my answer, “Ya know what, Piper. Whatever it is, bring it to my office in twenty.”

Seemingly content with my answer, she smiles. Turning on a heel, she walks off, back to the storage area.

Rubbing a hand across my short-cut hair, feeling I’m due for a trim, I pull at the back of my neck. “Curse man, I don’t know that I can take much more shit. I’m getting closer and closer to walking off the edge of the Five Bridge.”

“How about a round of head? You look like you need to release a bit of that tension resting in those shoulders,” Curse clips off with a smile.

“You offering?”

“I don’t have the lips for it,” he retorts with a grin.

“Then how about you keep your mind on your own cock. I don’t think you need to worry about mine,” I snap harsher than I intend it. The stress is getting to me.

Rising off the chair with his blue drink in hand, he smiles. “Don’t mind if I do.” Striding away, straight to Testy Ball Sucking Betsy, I know he is going to do just that.

Raising my drink, taking a deep mouthful, and setting it back on the bar, I head off toward the stairs. With the subpoena paperwork in hand, I tell V, “I’ll be in my office.”