When he reset my nose, I nearly punched him. "Fuck!" I yelled. "That hurt like a sonofabitch."
"Sorry, man," Doc said, stepping away from me. "You could have gone to the hospital. You know, if you wanted to be a *." He grinned.
Pipes handed me a bottle of cheap whiskey, and I took a swig of it, grateful for the alcohol after the fight and getting worked over by Doc. I looked at Doc. "Be glad Pipes gave me this, or I would have beat your ass, too."
"Anytime, brother," Doc said, but there was no malice in his voice. And there shouldn't be, shit, with as small of a guy as Doc was. He sure as hell hadn't been an infantry guy in the military. He was on the short side, with a smaller frame. It would be no match between the both of us.
"Brother," I said. "I haven't heard that in a while."
"Shit, man," Skunk said. "You need to think about coming out of retirement. Come over to the clubhouse, bring the bike this time, and seriously, any repairs are on me."
I nodded. It felt good to be called brother. Shit, it felt good to kick someone's ass. I just didn't know about getting back on the bike. It felt like if I did that, I was right back in the club, and I didn't know about that shit. How the hell was I going to be a good father to MacKenzie if I was back in the club again? I needed to get her back from Puerto Rico, and getting wrapped up in a bunch of club bullshit wasn't going to be the way to do that. "Yeah, well, thanks man. I'll think it over."
All of the pain was setting in, and my body was sore. My face hurt. My head was throbbing, now that the adrenaline rush had subsided. I was tired too, dead tired, and all I wanted at that moment was to sleep.
I was going to look like a hell of a mess going to work tomorrow, which I was sure was going to raise some questions. By now, my work knew I wasn't exactly like all the other fucking hackers in the office, these pasty white tech geeks who sat under fluorescent lights and subsisted on a steady diet of caffeine and sugar. Those guys saw daylight on the way to their vehicles, if they even left work. I think most of them slept at the office.
I wasn’t one of them and they were fucking terrified of me. I saw the glances and raised eyebrows. It didn’t exactly help that my boss was a contact of Benicio’s, and when Benicio heavily suggested you to do something, you did it, whether you liked it or not. So, the boss was a little scared of me too.
Anyway, fuck it. This shit, the beat up nose and all the rest of it, would only add to my legendary status around the office. I liked the guys I worked with, but it was also kind of fun to fuck with them.
It couldn't have even been thirty minutes after I was done with the fight when Big Mike barged through the door. "Hey Hammer," he said. "Helluva fight, man. You and me should get together sometime. I'll go over some technique with you." He gave a nod to the guy standing beside him. "One of the high rollers here wants an audience."
And there he was, the fuckstain I'd just seen holding onto her arm.
Her.
The girl from the casino.
I found myself looking past him, looking for her. She wasn't there. Why the fuck did I feel disappointed all of a sudden?
"You," the man said, not moving from where he stood, wearing his designer jeans and a polo shirt. Christ, a polo shirt. He looked like he should be playing - whatever the hell rich people played - cricket or something. I glanced at the brothers, who stood there in the room, their hands crossed over their chests, unmoving. I thought I saw Skunk roll his eyes.
The man spoke again. "You cost me eighty grand."
I shrugged, felt the twinge of pain in my shoulder again. I didn't know who the fuck this guy thought he was, or what he wanted, walking in here like he owned the place. Christ, did he want me to fucking apologize or something? "That's what happens when you bet on the wrong guy."
A slow smile spread over his face, but there was no pleasantness in it. I knew this guy’s type, without even needing to think about it. Some rich guy, slumming it here by watching real men beat the living hell out of each other. I didn’t fucking like it, and I wasn’t in a desperate position here. At least not financially, I thought. Emotionally was a whole different ballgame. But I wasn’t dependent on this fighting shit to survive. So I wouldn’t be easily intimated.
Oh, hell, I wouldn’t be easily intimidated even if I were broke and fighting to survive. It wasn’t in my nature.
"Eighty grand isn’t exactly something to laugh about,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sure someone like you won’t exactly have to live on the street tomorrow because you lost a bet,” I said.
He ignored what I said.
“So you’re one of Benicio’s fighters.”
“Who’s asking?” I wanted the name of the guy who was with her.
“Aston Roberts.”