Rock Chick Renegade
Page 47

“I do it to you,” he muttered.
See? I knew he knew.
“Back off,” I repeated.
His hand went from the wall to curl around the side of my neck, his other arm went around my waist and he pulled me to him. “Get Indy to show you where the offices are. Meet us there after Brother’s.”
I nodded, deciding tardily to keep silent.
“We sleepin’ at your place or mine?”
I changed my mind about keeping silent. “I’m sleeping at my place,” I informed him.
“That works for me. I like your bed.”
I rolled my eyes. When they came back to him, he was grinning again.
What… ever.
The door opened and Indy came through, closed the door and took off her ear protectors.
“Sorry guys, I tried to give you time,” she said.
I slid away from Crowe. “That’s all right,” I told her. “We’re done.”
Indy turned to take off her goggles and put them and the ear protectors away. When she did with an arm around my waist Vance pulled my back to his front. He slid my gun in the back waistband of my cords and his mouth came to my ear.
“We’re far from done,” he said there.
Over my shoulder, I threw him a look.
He threw me a grin.
Again.
Whatever.
Chapter Twelve
Channeling My Head-Crackin’ Mamma Jamma
“I think we should have a theme.”
“A theme?”
“We’re not having a theme.”
“We’ve never had a theme. We should do something, like dress up like James Bond characters.”
“It’s tomorrow night. We don’t have time.”
“I am not dressing up like a James Bond character.”
We were sitting in the back room of My Brother’s Bar, a drinking establishment in lower, lower downtown that was decorated in “wood”, had no bottled beer, only beer on tap and had arguably the best bar menu in Denver, including buffalo burgers; hot, soft pretzels with jalapeño cream cheese; and fantastic onion rings.
We’d been there over an hour and had dinner (I got the ticky turkey, a hot, shaved turkey sandwich with jalapeño cream cheese and some delicious orange gunk on a fresh hoagie roll).
Most everyone was into their third or fourth beer. I was drinking diet cola. I wanted nothing to impair my judgment when I sat down with Darius.
The conversation was fast and furious and, as far as I could tell, no decisions had been made.
I was not participating. I’d never had a birthday party with more people than Nick and Auntie Reba in attendance. I didn’t feel I had anything to offer.
Our group consisted of all the girlie gang, including May, Tod and Stevie, and surprisingly Indy’s coffee guy, the humongous, hairy Tex.
Tex also didn’t participate in the party planning discussion.
Hank brought Roxie. Eddie brought Jet. Hank and Eddie didn’t sit with us but positioned themselves in the front room at the bar by the door. Jet said this was because they didn’t have a lot of insight into planning parties. I figured their presence at the bar at all was because I was there, they thought I was dangerous, I was with their women and they weren’t taking any chances. Thus they moved off to stand at the entrance and keep watch.
“Jules, who do you want us to invite?” Indy asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Just Nick, my uncle, and Zip, Heavy and Frank,” I answered, wondering if they decided on a theme how any of those men would take to that idea. Not very well, I guessed, and the thought of Heavy in a James Bond-esque costume made me smile.
I came back into the room and saw they were all staring at me.
“Zip the gun shop guy?” Jet asked.
“Yeah, he’s my friend,” I told her.
“Anyone else?” Indy cut in.
I shook my head.
She stared at me. “No one?” she went on.
I kept shaking my head.
“Friends form work?” Roxie prompted and I started to get uncomfortable.
“Let’s move on,” Tex boomed from beside me, saying his first words of the night (except, “Give me a Ralphie Burger and a Bud,” then, “What do you mean, you don’t have Budweiser? Fuck! This is America!”)
Everyone jumped at Tex’s boom, looked at each other and then they started a bewildering conversation about cashews.
This went on for awhile when Tex leaned into me. “You wanna blow this joint, go out, crack together some dealer heads?” he asked in a booming whisper.
The group had moved onto whether they should make a bowl of sangria, pitchers of margaritas or personally created mojitos, which was apparently a very important decision that took all their undivided attention, so they missed Tex’s boom.
I turned to him. “I don’t crack heads very often. I usually slash tires and throw smoke bombs,” I told him.
He stared at me.
I went on. “Sometimes I get creative with plastic wrap and once I doused a dealer’s Mercedes with canola oil. Inside and out.”
At this he grinned. “Bet that took a lot of oil,” he said, sounding impressed.
“Three gallon jugs,” I smiled.
He nodded his appreciation. “You ever want to get serious, I know where to get tear gas and grenades,” he told me.
It was my turn to stare not knowing if he was serious or trying to be funny. I decided he was trying to be funny.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nodded again and then turned to the group and boomed, “Sangria! Next topic!”
I got up and announced, “I’m getting a drink, anyone need anything?”
Lots of shaking heads and then they moved on to decorations. Yay or nay and if yay, what kind?
I wandered to the bar. When I got to the front room it was packed. The only space available at the bar was next to Eddie Chavez.
Damn.
Just my luck. I took a deep breath, slid in beside him and caught the bartender’s attention.
“What ‘cha need?” the bartender asked me.
“Diet,” I ordered.
He put ice in a glass and pulled out the soft drink gun. I felt rather than saw Hank and Eddie’s eyes on me.
I turned to them. “Hey,” I said.
Yep, they were both looking at me but neither responded to my greeting.
Whatever.
The bartender set the drink in front of me.
“How much?” I asked.
He grinned then winked. “That’s on the house,” he said.
Pu-lease.
I’d heard that before.
“How much?” I repeated, making my point that I was not interested.