“I don’t have this many friends.”
“Lucky you,” he says with an edge as he scans the crowd. He dodges my next question by exiting the car and pulls my door open, lifting me to stand with him as I survey the party. Sean meets us at his car, his eyes going straight to my lips, satisfaction brimming in them when he sees they’ve been left untouched.
“Have fun?” He asks, pulling me into his side.
“We didn’t,” I can’t meet his eyes, “we didn’t…do—”
He shakes his head and tips my chin. “That’s not what I was asking.” He drapes an arm around my shoulder and looks over to Dominic. “They’re here. Waiting on you.”
Dominic dips his chin, his eyes darting to mine before he takes off.
I immediately look over to Sean as he walks us into the crowd. The scene playing out before us looks like one straight out of From Dusk till Dawn, an old Quentin Tarantino flick, and I half expect fire breathers and half-naked girls dancing on poles to pop up at any moment before the fangs come out. “Are you going to tell me what this is?”
“It’s a party.”
“I can see that.”
He chuckles at the arrival of my mean mug. “Then why are you asking?”
“Back home we don’t call parties a meetup.”
“This isn’t the Atlanta suburbs.”
“No shit.” I look around to see bottles and joints being passed around like free-flowing water before noticing the out-of-state plates on some of the cars. “And not everyone lives here.”
He nods. “Good eye.”
“Sean, come on, give me something.”
He gestures in the direction of an El Camino where two mammoth men sit on the tailgate scanning the party, their faces void of any animation. Clearly brothers, their features similar. “See those two?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Matteo and Andre, The Spanish Lullaby. Behind them is their crew. They’re from Miami.”
“They drove here from Miami?”
“Yeah.”
“For a party?”
He nods.
“Why are they called The Spanish Lullaby?”
He eyes me. “Use your imagination.”
“That isn’t scary at all.”
“I’ve got you, Pup.”
And I believe him. Sean’s face turns to stone as he dips his chin at the Miami crew when they zero in on us. The lift of their chins barely perceptible.
“And that group over there,” he points to a truck where one of the guys lands a backflip off the hood of a pickup before downing some Jack Daniels. “That fool is Marcus, and the guy next to him is Andrew. That’s Tallahassee, the rest of Florida, and they’re fucking shysters. So, stay a foot or six away at all times, if you want to keep your valuables.”
He takes his time walking me around the party, or meetup, or whatever the hell it is, and it doesn’t take long to notice the sl
ew of raven tattoos marking the arms of everyone in attendance. Some of the girls have a tattoo as well, dainty wings inked on their shoulder blades. A few of them are wearing halters, no doubt to show them off. And it’s then I know those wings are a symbol of possession.