Perversion (Perversion Trilogy #1)(18)

Gil adjusts his bandana. “We were taking turns with your fucking sister,” he snickers to Memo. “What’s the fucking truce say about that?”

Sandy’s head turns my way asking a silent question.

One I’m about to answer.

“You know, I learned something new about our little truce recently,” I begin, rounding the table with my pool stick in hand. “Something even Marco probably doesn’t know. But I’m going to do you boys a favor and share it with you so you can go back and school your fearless leader on the finer points of Lacking gang politics.”

“Oh yeah, Grim?” Memo steps up to me, rolling back his shoulders and sticking out his chest. I want to rip the little star tattoo off the corner of his eye and shove it up his fucking nose. “Educate us, then. What, exactly, is it that you learned about our little agreement?”

I look over Memo’s head to each of my brothers and jerk my chin.

“Go ahead, Grim,” Memo hisses. “Educate us.”

So, I do.

I break the pool stick over my knee, and smash the half in my right hand across Memo’s face then backhand him with the half in my left, sending him crashing into the tables behind him. There’s a scuffle behind me. I turn around just as Gil sails by me, joining his brother in the pile of hurt, courtesy of my brothers.

I lean over the two moaning and bleeding thugs and wink. “Bar fights don’t count.” I toss the broken pool stick on top of them.

Haze laughs. “Now that’s the kind of education that can’t be bought. You’re welcome.” He pours the rest of his beer over them and then drops the bottle itself. “Oops.”

“If I find out it was you or your boys who jacked our truck, I won’t be beating you with a pool stick. I’ll take my time shoving every inch of the broken ends down your fucking throats until your insides come out of your assholes,” I warn. “Are we fucking clear?”

Two garbled groans bring all the response I need.

I pull out a wad of cash from the pocket of my leather jacket, peeling off a several hundred-dollar bills. I toss them onto the bar. “For the trouble,” I tell Sheila.

Sheila smiles at me seductively, stuffing the bills into her bra. “Always great to see you, Grim. You guys have a good time?”

I push open the door.

“Always.”

We step out onto the concrete sidewalk. I tug a smoke free from the box. The lighter is out of my pocket, but the flame never gets a chance to reach its destination because we’re suddenly surrounded by a swarm of men in armored vests, blinding us with flashlights. The sound of guns being cocked echoes through the alley.

I don’t know who the fuck these guys are, but they aren't locals. I know all the locals. Most of them were either on the Los Muertos payroll or mine.

Or both.

“I swear, officers. They kicked their own asses,” Sandy laughs as the three of us are spun around and thrown up against the brick wall of the bar.

“We aren’t here about a bar fight,” a man says, stepping into my line of sight. He’s the only one of the dozen or so officers not wearing a protective helmet or a vest. He’s got a military-style haircut and beady eyes shining with amusement.

“A little to the left,” Haze says in his thick southern accent. “Now stroke up and down and don’t be afraid to get a little rough.” He grunts when the reply is a sharp kick to the back of his knees.

I glance over at the man who I assume is the one in charge. “Then, what the fuck do you want?” I hiss as another officer digs his knee firmly into my lower back, holding me still so he can fasten a familiar pair of steel bracelets around my wrists.

Fucking prick.

“You and I are going to have ourselves a little talk,” he explains.

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “And who the fuck might you be?”

He produces a badge and holds it up so I can read it.

Captain Marshall Lemming. Lacking County. Gang Task Force Division.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. I’m hauled off the wall and pushed into an awaiting van while my brothers are patted down.

“That’s right, Tristan Paine. Say your prayers,” Captain Lemming says, standing by the open door. “‘Cause you’re gonna need ‘em.” Slamming the doors shut, he slaps the top of the van. The driver takes off.

I silently recite the oath I took when I pledged myself to Bedlam.

My Life.

My Death.

My Loyalty.

My Honor.

For Bedlam.

For Brotherhood.

For Always.

I chuckle to myself. I don’t know what Agent Marshall Lemming of the Gang Task Force wants from me, but what he doesn’t know…is who the fuck he’s messing with.





Seven





Gabby and I run our biggest cons at night because that’s when the biggest scores are had.

Under the cover of darkness, I work best. I find comfort in the shadows. In being wrapped within the night like a warm wet blanket of nothingness. I can breathe easier. My chest feels lighter. I’m calm. Focused.

In the vast emptiness between sunrise and sunset, I become invincible. Resilient.

At night, I’m all instinct. I smell, feel, anticipate.

What I don’t do is overthink. Dwell.