Trying hard to add at least a semblance of humor into the mix, hoping to prevent a bloodbath, I correct his assessment. “Gulf. She likes the gulf over the ocean because the sand is whiter, the blues and greens are more vibrant, and the temperature is warmer.”
“Case in point,” Brodi scoffs.
I reach across the counter and squeeze his arm. “In due time, bro. Lace is about as uncomplicated as they come. All you gotta do is be quiet and let her speak. She has a Universe of sentiments to share with those who are willing to truly listen.”
Chaz finally unthreads his fingers from his hair, and his hands drop hard into fists against the tops of his thighs. “You fucked up, Bro. You basically spelled out that she is bound to Hell for Leather publicly. Do you have any idea what sort of target that puts on her? None of us will be able to hear her speak ever again when she disappears into a shallow grave somewhere.”
“Wait.” Brodi shoves a finger into his own chest. “You think it was me who aired our dirty laundry to the entire biker community? I am definitely to blame for all the other answers, but not that one. Hell no. I know better than to meddle in their fucking family business. I know better than to intentionally hurt Lace, too. The rest was just for shits and giggles, brother. You know that. To give her a change of scenery. Loosen her up a bit and let her have fun for once. Just as we planned.”
His gaze drops, focus honing in on the prepared blow. Brodi might be tempted to prematurely snort again, but he is just as obsessive-compulsive about timing each line as he is with how they are set up.
Brodi pulls out some nasal spray from his pocket, presses one nostril closed, positions the tip, and triggers the nozzle, flushing the side he last snorted through. A spread of about twenty minutes is his sweet spot, and the countdown has begun.
After clearing the trickle of solution from his throat, he wraps up his case. “Plus, I think sperm whales are endangered or some shit — a protected species — kinda like her. I thought the animal choice was funny, but I also gave it some serious consideration.”
“So, are you telling me that someone changed your answers then?” Chaz presses.
“Yeah, guess so. I honestly assumed it was you, Cash. When you took Lace to her stage walk pract—” Brodi locks up, and his eyes bug wide. I can practically see a reel of events that happened to him recently flick in his unfocused gaze.
“What? What is it?” I press.
Chaz leans forward, props his elbows on his thighs, and supports his chin with both fists. “Say something, Bro.”
Brodi clears his focus with several blinks and responds with an aggressive shake of his head.
Chaz and I both know what this is, but Chaz is having none of it. He launches to his feet. “Fuck the secrecy rules! If there is a problem with Lace, spit it out!”
My prepaid phone rings, and I feel that problem, whatever it might be, vibrate through me with each buzz. After digging the phone out of my pocket, I hold it up so they keep quiet.
“Bay,” I answer, as is customary.
“There a reason why the last job never got done?”
Our employer. My eyes flash to Brodi. I hold up a fist flat like we are about to fist bump. He meets me, then curves his hand palm up. Job is good. Done.
“My source says otherwise,” I respond, leaning back in the chair.
Two interesting things come to mind. The most significant of the two is the fact that we have never gotten a call back.
“I was there. On site,” he states. “I am always nearby. These jobs are as much my responsibility as yours. I make sure they get completed. Your men never even showed up.” His voice shakes with repressed anger. “The victim was killed. So was the assignment. Homicide and suicide.”
“What!?” I snap my fingers at Brodi, and he hands me his phone. I do a quick search using our resources for recent emergency calls and find one immediately. Domestic dispute. Fatal. I check the address, slide the phone back to Brodi, and tap at the screen.
Brodi loses all color in his face. “The fucking address on our paper was different.”
I nearly yell, but I manage to keep my cool. “That wasn—”
“I heard him.” The line goes quiet. I give our employer about thirty seconds before speaking up regardless. Just as I open my mouth, he continues, “We need to meet again.”
Right. What a fucking mess. “Who, when, and where?”
“Everyone. Immediately. Usual spot. Bring the paper.” He hangs up.
I shove my phone into my pocket. “Club meeting. Now. The place that has the best service in town.” I stress the word serve in service so as not to be mistaken by another type of “service” but, rather, understood as where we usually get served our jobs.
Chaz zips up his suit, swipes his gaiter off the coffee table, slips it over his head, stalks to Brodi, digs out a straw from a drawer, and snorts the smallest of the two remaining lines.
I text the group as a whole.
:Me: Bikes need to be serviced, stat. Usual place. After-hour discount. Deal only available if we bring the coupon and show up as a group. Damn field-trip rules.
Brodi checks the time, adjusts from one foot to the other, positions his straw into his opposite nostril, snorts the last line, and immediately checks the message. “Vee should still have the coupon,” he explains.
I carefully get off the stool and start making my way toward my gear. “Well, Vee better figure whatever-the-fuck out and get there with it. Stat.”