Walking into the club this morning, it’s trashed. Half-naked women are asleep on the bar and beer bottles litter the floor, along with smashed chips and red plastic cups. Bobby walks out from the hallway shirtless, his blue jeans unbuttoned. His hair is a fucking mess and I can’t even tell if his eyes are open. He sniffs and runs his hands through his hair.
“You missed a crazy party last night, man,” Bobby says, kicking trash out of his walkway. After he dropped Zane off yesterday, he headed back to the club to party. I knew it would be crazy, with bitches throwing themselves at anyone, so I stayed home. I don’t need that drama in my life. Dani may seem innocent and fragile, but once she gets angry she turns a shade of dark only I can understand.
My foot bumps into a green tennis ball lying on the floor. My eyes narrow as I look down at the lime-green ball. I bend down to pick it up, confused at what the hell it’s doing in here.
“Dude, don’t touch that,” Bobby laughs. I quickly stop and look at him dumbfounded.
“You don’t want to know,” he chuckles. He’s right; I don’t want to know. I’ve seen what some of these girls can do with a beer bottle let alone a tennis ball.
“I think I’m going to get a tattoo today, see if Tarin can do this idea I have for my arm,” Bobby remarks, leaning against the wall. “Wanna go with me? Get your tattoo of Zane touched up?” I look down at ‘Zane’ inked into the crook of my forearm, the letters tearing into my flesh revealing the sun and clouds. Tarin does all of our tattoos, club colors and all.
“Yeah, sure,” I respond, heading toward the door. Staying around here and helping pick up trash is not in my plans today.
Pulling up to the parlor, I notice yellow tape and cop cars parked out front and an ambulance parked at the front door, its lights flashing but no siren. There are news vans parked up and down the street and people standing around everywhere watching. We drive closer and park next to one of the cop cars.
“What the hell went down here?” Bobby questions, taking his helmet off. I look around, curious myself.
“Let’s go find out,” I suggest, climbing off my bike. We don’t even have to ask people to move; they nearly throw themselves out of our way as we head toward the tattoo parlor.
“Stop right there, sir,” a cop says, holding his hand out. His head is bald except gray curls on the side, his mustache a darker gray and curling on the ends.
“What happened?” Bobby asks the officer.
“Are you family?” the cop responds, tilting his head to the side, crossing his arms, and widening his stance.
“Kinda’; we’re close,” Bobby explains. The policeman looks behind him at the open parlor door and then back at us.
“Valentine’s Day Massacre got em’,” the cop whispers, shaking his head back and forth. “I have never seen anything so grotesque in my life,” he continues. My eyes narrow and my mouth parts in disbelief.
Another police officer runs out of the parlor, his hand over his mouth. When he makes it a foot out the front door, he throws up all over the sidewalk.
“What the fuck, man?” Bobby yells, stepping back.
“You guys seriously have no idea who is doing this?” I ask, trying to look into the parlor.
“I can’t discuss that with you. Now if you’ll please step behind the yellow tape.” The cop points to the tape, dismissing us. My narrowed eyes turn into ones of anger before walking back to my bike, Bobby following me.
“This shit is getting serious,” Bobby clips. I turn around to look at him.
“Think it’s coincidence the last two murders were people the club was associated with?” I question. Bobby’s head whips toward me, his eyes furrowing with thought.
“Damn, I didn’t even think about that. I don’t know, it could be by chance, but it’s something to bring to Bull’s attention,” he adds.
Arriving at the club, it’s spotless; you can’t even tell there was a party here last night. Hawk is sitting at the bar reading a paper. He is fucking old, and his temper proves it. I look around, not seeing anyone else, probably all too hung over to crawl out of bed.
“Where is Bull?” I ask, stepping behind the bar and grabbing a beer.
“Dunno. He left late last night, haven’t seen or heard from him,” Hawk mumbles, running his hand through his black and white hair.
I nod. Bull leaves for a couple days then comes back. He doesn’t tell us where he is, and I don’t ask.
“Those murders around the town, think it could be club-related?” I ask Hawk. He smacks his lips and looks up at the TV which is going on about the recent murder.
“Fuck if I know,” Hawk admits.
“Weren’t there some other murders before Neller and Tarin?” Bobby asks, grabbing a beer for himself.
Hawk rubs his face. “Hmm, one was some hot-shot lawyer, I think his name was Sawyer,” Hawk replies, still rubbing his face. Bobby’s face goes pale as he stares at Hawk.
“What?” I question, the hairs on my neck standing from the look on Bobby’s face.
“Sawyer is one of the lawyers Bull pays under the table,” he informs. That’s another victim we’re associated with.