The talk of family annoys me, reminds me . . .

  I say, “So who’re we meeting with?”

  “Some small-time gang,” Shotgun says. “Small-time, but worth taking seriously. They’ve got some lethal motherfuckers working with them, if my source ain’t screwing me around. Let me call the guy and we’ll rearrange. We’ve stood them up.”

  I bristle, but say nothing. “We’ve” stood them up, like I was the one putting a woman before business. Shotgun arranges for two of their men to come by the clubhouse.

  “I need to make a call,” he says when he’s done. He nods at the door.

  “Boss.”

  I leave the office and return to the bar, sitting at Adams’ table. Roger Smith has joined him, a man a lot of the boys call Beast since he’s about seven feet tall and vicious in a fight. We drink in near-silence for a while and then two scrawny, meth-head-looking men walk into the bar. A few minutes later, me and Shotgun and the meth-heads are in Shotgun’s office, talking business.

  “My name is Daniel One, and this is Daniel Two.”

  “Don’t use any of that codeword bullshit with us,” I say. “What’re your names?”

  The man calling himself Daniel One shifts from foot to foot, and then says, “I’m Philip and this is Liam.”

  Philip is a bald man with a tattoo of a dragon on the crown of his head, the wings spreading down past his ears. He wears a grimy shirt that was once checkered and stinks of beer. Liam is a short, dirty-haired rat-looking man with whiskers like pubic hair and watery eyes. After about ten seconds I can tell these aren’t the lethal men Shotgun thinks they are, but he seems oblivious to it, waving at them to sit down, and even shaking their hands.

  I swallow my feelings and sit down next to him. It ain’t my place to question Shotgun. That’s never been my place.

  “What’s your proposal?” Shotgun says, but he doesn’t look at Philip or Liam. He doesn’t even look at me. He looks at the wall, and I can tell he’s not thinking about these guys or what they have to say. He’s thinking about his wedding. It’s been this way for weeks. I wish they’d hurry the damn thing up so that he’d focus on his work again.

  “The Crooked Demons have a shipment of meth coming in the day after tomorrow,” Philip says, stroking his dragon’s wing. “We’re going to steal it. We’d like to hire somebody for protection. We don’t want anything going wrong, you know?”

  “Nothing going wrong,” Liam agrees, twitching nervously.

  “Something’s wrong with you already.” I nod at Liam. “Why do you want that meth, to use yourself?”

  Philip ignores me, talking to Shotgun. “We can pay one and a half times the standard rate.”

  “Twice the standard rate,” Shotgun mutters. “And maybe we can talk. The Crooked Demons aren’t anything to joke about.”

  “Who’s joking?” Philip says. “Twice it is, then.”

  “Okay, we have a deal.”

  “Wait a sec,” I say. I try and keep my voice respectful. Shotgun is in charge. I can’t ever forget that. “We need more details before we shake on it.”

  “Come on,” Philip says, appealing to Shotgun.

  “The fuck you looking at me like that for?” Shotgun growls, some of his old bite coming back into him. “My VP says he needs some information.”

  I get it all out of him. They’re going to hit the warehouse in the window between the initial delivery and the meth being moved, and they need protection because some of their guys aren’t very experienced. They’ll pay upfront, too, which makes Shotgun’s eyes go as wide as saucers. I guess a man who’s got a wedding to pay for likes hearing things like that. It’s even enough to make him ignore the short notice. They’re going to hit it in under two hours.

  “I’ll pick one of the guys to lead the protection gang,” Shotgun says. “Maybe Beast.”

  He really isn’t here at all, I reflect. Beast is a terrible choice to lead a job like this. “I’ll lead it,” I say. “Make sure it’s done right.”

  Shotgun nods. “All right. Be careful, and if there are any Crooked Demons, don’t hesitate.”

  I return to the bar once the details are sorted out, sitting in a corner alone and nursing a bottle of whisky. There was a time when Shotgun would’ve led it himself, and not that long ago. What—a year, less? Before he met his fiancée. A man can’t talk shit about another man’s woman. That’s just not how it works. But I also can’t close my eyes to reality.

  As I get drunk, I get a feeling in my belly, a feeling that something terrible is going to happen.

  Chapter Three

  Simone

  Cecilia’s fingers tap her phone keyboard at lightning speed. She’s always been able to text like that, ever since we got one of those big block phones for our tenth birthdays, the ones with Snake on them, and she mastered the chunky texting by the end of the day while I was still tinkering with the settings. Mom and Dad might think Cecilia is stupid, but they’re wrong. As long as it suits her wants, she’s an expert at anything.

  I take us to a mall on the outskirts of the city, the flashing lights of Vegas nothing but a dream this early in the morning. It’s spring and the sun is unflinching, the sky clear and blue. I blast the AC during the whole trip.

  “His name isn’t Shotgun,” she says. “Not his real name, anyway. Mom and Dad are so stupid sometimes. His name is Sam, Sam McGee, but of course you know that. It’s just—they’re so annoying about the whole thing. It’s like I’ve dragged a corpse into the living room or something. It’s like I’ve spit in their faces.”

  “To them, you have.” She shoots me a look. I shrug. “It’s the truth. You know what they’re like.”

  “Just because Grandad was some big important man, they think they’re big important people. It’s pathetic.”

  “Dad runs a business, too,” I say, feeling defensive. I always get defensive when they argue. The worst part is I get defensive for everybody, so I end up intercepting more insults than any one person can handle.

  Cecilia makes a snorting noise as we sit at a red light. “With money Grandad gave him.”

  “You were going to pay for your wedding with money Dad gave you. I went to college with money Mom and Dad gave me. If you start keeping track of who gives who money in a family, you’ll never be done. Even poor families give each other money. It’s called being family.”

  “So I should feel blessed because I was born into a family most people hate?”

  “People only hate us if we flaunt it. The last time I checked, we’ve never done that.”

  “But Mom and Dad do!” Cecilia snaps. “With Mom’s pearl necklaces and her earrings and her theater shows and all the rest of it! I mean . . . did you see them, earlier? Who goes to a theater show at eleven in the morning? It’s sad.”

  “They’re watching a rehearsal. Dad knows the director’s father’s brother . . . or something.”

  “See? Sad!”

  I bite my lip, not knowing what to say. I just want to go back to my apartment and zone out, read a novel, watch a documentary, take a long bath. But I know Cecilia. If I go home now, she’ll just get angrier and angrier about Mom and Dad and do something stupid. She might even go to the courthouse and disown them as parents. When Cecilia and anger are involved, anything is possible.

  “Are you excited to get your dress?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say dryly. “You know how much I love getting dressed up.”

  She thumps me in the arm. “Well, you’re going to have to love it. For me. I won’t take no for an answer. Do you remember prom night?”

  I pull into the mall’s parking lot. “I remember prom night,” I say.

  I walked into my bedroom to find Cecilia leaning over my long pink dress with some haircutting scissors in her hand, hacking away at the knees. “You don’t want to look like an old lady, do you?” she asked me. “Come on, let’s have some fun!” In the end I had to wear one of Mom’s dresses, held together with clips. Everything was going fine until the clips came loose on a fast song, and my date—a boy I hardly knew at all, really—fell away from me laughing.

  “I was Balloon Girl for the rest of the night,” I remind Cecilia as we climb from the car.

  “Oh yeah,” she says, nodding slowly. “I remember now. For some reason I always think that story has a happy ending.”

  “That’s because it does for you,” I say. “You went home with Richard Whatever His Name Was and lost your virginity on an old couch. Hooray for you.”

  “How dare you!” Cecilia snaps, causing several people to turn and face us. “It was a futon.” She marches at the automatic doors.

  “Excuse me,” I say, catching up with her. “Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

  She says nothing, taking out her phone and texting, forcing me to guide her out of the way of pillars and people because she won’t look up. “Shotgun is annoyed,” she says. “But he says he’ll pay. I suggested that we should just elope. We’re in Vegas, so why not? I said it as a joke to Mom and Dad, but seriously, why not?”

  “That’s not funny,” I say. I sit us down on a bench opposite Cecilia’s favorite clothes store.

  “Who said I’m joking?” She drops her phone into her pocket. “I’m dead serious, Mona. I don’t see why I should force Shotgun to do the whole dog and pony show if those stuffy idiots won’t even show up.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t insult them,” I say. “It makes me angry at you, and I’ve never enjoyed being angry at you.”

  “How is it my fault? I never asked them to smell their own farts, did I?”

  “They’ll come to the wedding,” I say. “I know they will. You talk about Grandad. Well, remember how much Grandad loved his family. He passed that down to Dad. I know he did. Dad won’t miss it.”

  “Mom will,” Cecilia says.

  “Maybe,” I agree. “Yeah, maybe Mom will.”

  “Oh, by the way.” Cecilia stands up. “At two o’clock we’re meeting Shotgun and the best man for lunch.” She disappears into the store, where the smiling, suited attendant welcomes her in.

  I chase after her. “Hey! What do you mean, we’re having lunch? I didn’t agree to that.”

  “Isn’t this just lovely?” Cecilia lifts up a dress I would never choose on my own, hot pink and cut at what seems like the panties.

  “You didn’t tell me about lunch,” I say.

  “Or this.” She picks up another dress, this one somehow shorter.

  “Ceci!” I grab her wrist.

  “Wow,” she says. “You haven’t called me Ceci since we were seventeen. I thought you were too high and mighty for that now.”

  “For God’s sake . . .”

  “You sound like Mom when you say that.”

  “You didn’t tell me about lunch. When I agreed to be your maid of honor, it was under the condition that I wouldn’t have to meet with the bikers, or go to the clubhouse, or anything like that. That was my one condition.”

  “What do you want me to do?” she says. “I’m having lunch with Shotgun, and he’s bringing his best man. Do you want me to fuck both of them?” She raises her voice, not caring when the cashier and the attendant look over, while pretending not to look over. “I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you, me bending over and taking one in the ass and one in the—”

  “Okay!” I interrupt, even though I know what she’s doing. “Fine, I’ll come.”

  “Anyway, you don’t need to be weird about it. Look. Let me show you something. The Seven Sinners did a bit of a joke last year, a topless calendar. They gave the money to a homeless children’s charity.” She shows me her phone.

  The man’s hair is short, spiky, black. His eyes are so dark, they look as black as his hair. His features are sharp, the sort of features that make me wonder what his face looks like in different expressions. Right now he is staring blankly, and yet there is something in his face, a hint of a roguish smile. But the thing I notice most is that he’s shirtless, and his body is incredible. His chest is huge, his pectoral muscles bulging, his abs are a sheet of ridged muscle, and his arms are a series of massive round muscles. He looks like he could lift me up with one hand and think nothing of it. I even think about what it’d be like, having this man lift me up. The scar across his chest intrigues me, a pale line from nipple to nipple.

  “You’re blushing,” Cecilia says. “Like, hard. Blushing really, really hard.”

  “I’m not.” I turn away. Why is my heart hammering in my chest? I pick up a dress more my style. It’s long, cutting below the knee, and cutting high at the neck.

  “Are you a nun?” Cecilia says, snatching it away from me. “Is that it, Mona? Have you become a nun at some point without telling me? Because that’s the only reason you’d pick that.” She leans in, whispering, “By the way, Rocco’s not the marrying type. From what I’ve heard he’s a real scoundrel, the screw-them-and-leave-them type, so if you do decide to follow your urges, just keep that in mind. It wouldn’t be seemly for a nun to have a one-night stand with a biker now, would it?”

  “I hate you,” I say, fleeing to the other side of the rack. “I really, really hate you.”

  “For pointing out how ugly this dress is?” She tilts her head at me. People have said that when Cecilia tilts her head like that, she looks like me, but I don’t see it. I just see Cecilia being Cecilia.

  “Why do you we have to wait until two o’clock for lunch?” I ask. Before she can accuse me of being eager, I quickly add, “If we’re doing this, I’d rather just get it over with.”

  Cecilia shrugs. “Work,” she says. “Shotgun’s a very important man. He’s the leader of his club, remember. He has a lot of responsibilities. He can’t just go to lunch whenever he wants. He has too much to do.”

  Chapter Four

  Rocco

  Shotgun leans back in his chair, sitting at his desk, as he waves me off. He doesn’t seem to want to come with me. He doesn’t make any move to stand up and follow. I think of the old days, when he wouldn’t be caught dead letting somebody else lead a protection gang. But that was before he was a starry-eyed teenager in love and unable to think about anything else. That was before his mind got all bent out of shape by a woman.

  Liam and Philip lead us to the warehouse in their pickup truck, us being me, Beast, Jerry, and Poker Face—a scarred enforcer whose features hardly move when he talks. I once saw him kill a man while staring blandly at the wall. We ride into the city, following the truck, stopping about a quarter-mile from the warehouse district. I climb from the bike and approach Jerry.

  “Watch the bikes,” I tell him.

  “Aw, come on!” He’s short, reedy, with a small mouth and a high-pitched Irish accent. “I need some experience too, Rocco. I can’t just—”

  “I said stay with the bikes. That’s the second time I’ve told you.” He goes silent, stepping back. I lean forward, whispering so only he can hear. “If somebody steals or breaks these fuckers, what’re we going to do if we need to make a quick escape? This is an important job. Do it well. And don’t forget your place. You’re still just a pledge.”

  I turn to the group behind me. Liam and Philip stand at the front of it, looking strange next to Beast and Poker Face. “I hope you have a plan,” I say to Philip.

  “You better,” Poker Face says, and he could be talking about anything. And yet there’s a menacing air around him; there always is a menacing air around him.

  “They will.” Beast smiles broadly down at them. “They wouldn’t lead us out here without a plan. That’d be very silly, and these aren’t very silly men. Are they?” He talks to me, but he stares at Philip’s tattooed dragon.

  Philip swallows. “No,” he says. “The rest of our men are getting into position. The delivery should be here soon, and then we’ll hit it, and then we’ll leave. Simple.”

  “Simple,” I mutter. “And how many robberies you been a part of?”

  Philip hesitates, and then says, “Twenty or so.”

  “Stealing your momma’s watch to get more drugs don’t count,” Beast says.

  “You better—”

  “He better what?” Poker Face says quietly.

  “Nothing.” Philip bows his head. “This is my first large robbery, okay? But I’ve had lots of experience with smaller jobs.”

  “Well, my advice to you is be ready for anything.”

  “I always am,” Philip says.

  “All right.”

  I turn away, light a cigarette, and then toss it without taking a drag. I’m not in the mood to smoke. I stare at the highway, a few meters from our cluster of bikes and Philip’s car. The warehouse is across a stretch of concrete, covered in broken glass and graffiti and the remnants of a homeless man’s tent. I watch the cars go by with my hands in the pockets of my leather, thinking about Shotgun. Then my cell buzzes in my pocket. A text from the man himself, telling me that after the job I need to meet him at the mall. Lunch, apparently. I almost crush the phone in my hand. Lunch, lunch . . . and here I’m about to go on a job. A man doesn’t need lunch after a job. He needs a whisky and a woman.