“Don’t ask,” Manson says, pausing to peel the drenched dress from his body. He looks down at his tighty-whitey underwear like he’s considering losing those too, but he decides against it and struts through the party like he knows he’s the hottest thing there, even with his hair plastered down and blood trickling from his nose. Plenty of people must agree, because a chorus of cheers and whistles follows him through the crowd. He preens and poses and blows kisses in response. I have to give the guy credit—he’s got balls to walk through a party of fully-clothed people in his underwear with that kind of confidence.
We’re almost to the front door when it bursts open, and a half dozen rough-looking men crowd in. In an instant, I see theguns in a couple of their hands, and I dive at Mercy, dragging her down. From the corner of my eye, I see the flash of Heath’s hand dip into his boot, his switchblade already flipping open as he whips it out.
“This is for the Crossbones,” one of them bellows.
Three shots ring out, deafening even amid the noise of the partygoers and the music from outside. Screams and shrieks ring out, and chaos ensues. People trip over us, step on us. I grab Mercy and drag her under me, protecting her body with mine.
“We have to get out of here,” Angel says, dragging me up. “We’re on their turf. They won’t leave until we’re gone or dead.”
“Where’s Heath?” I ask, searching for him among the stampeding chaos. I don’t see him, but it’s just like him to get caught up in the havoc, to do something crazy like join in. But then someone knocks into my legs, and I look down and see him sitting on the floor, hunched over, being trampled and kicked around by the people trying to flee.
I reach down and grab him under the arm, dragging him up. That’s when I see his face has gone white as a sheet, and his hand that was clutching his chest comes away slick with blood. He looks at me, his bright eyes shiny with bewilderment and disbelief.
“Those fuckers shot me,” he says. “Saint—”
He never finishes his sentence. His words cut off abruptly, and he collapses into my arms.
thirteen
The Angel
“Oh my god, this is my fault,” Mercy groans, dropping her head into her hands and rocking back and forth in Saint’s chair.
“Yeah,” he snaps. “It fucking is. If he dies…”
“He’s not going to die,” Dr. Swift says calmly from where he’s bent over Saint’s bed, extracting the bullet from our friend. “He’s going to be just fine.”
Since hospitals are required to report gunshot wounds to the police, our families tend to avoid them. My dad doesn’t entirely trust Dr. Swift, who answers house calls to anyone in town, no matter which side of any argument or war they land on, but the wound was a little beyond Hemingway’s capabilities, so here we are. At least Dr. Swift is neutral, and he’s discreet, so pretty much everyone calls him if they want to avoid law enforcement. Of course, our family has some connections at the police station too, but it’s harder to deal with shit once reports have been made, and we can’t always count on our guys on the force to answer the call and bury it before cops with other agendas get wind of it.
“Is this really all you have?” Manson asks, emerging from the bathroom in a pair of Saint’s jeans, which are ridiculously baggy, and a flannel, which is even more oversized on the guy’s thin frame. “I feel like a lumberjack.”
“Then sit in your piss-stained panties all night,” Saint growls at him.
“Okay, first of all, those were briefs, and second, that was not piss,” Manson says, huffing with indignation. “Also, I don’tknow what that string is on your bathroom counter, but you might want to get rid of it. It’s a health hazard.”
“That’s my hair tie,” Saint thunders, rising from his chair.
“Bro, let’s all calm down and take a breath,” I say. “I think we’ve all had enough conflict for tonight.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t touch that thing if you paid me,” Manson says, making a face. “It looks like a leprosy outbreak waiting to happen.”
Saint sinks back in his chair, scowling, but his gaze cuts to Mercy. She’s too busy stewing in her own guilt to notice. But I know why he’s looking at her—it’s the same friendship bracelet we all made as kids at Bible camp. We all have them, even if Saint’s the only one who wears his openly like that. Mine is tucked away with the necklace with our initials on the back in the same drawer where I keep my Bible, my crucifix and rosary, and my Glock.
I should have had that tonight. We left in a hurry, but that’s no excuse. We knew we’d be dealing with the Sinceros, and there’s no one who fights dirtier than a Disciple.
“Want to tell us what you were doing at a Sincero party, little mama?” I ask Mercy.
“I just wanted to find out some answers,” she says despondently, not lifting her head from her hands.
“And did you?”
“Yes,” she says. “But it got Heath shot.”
“At least it wasn’t for nothing,” Heath mumbles from the bed.
“You’re awake,” Saint says, jumping up and rushing to the bed. “Don’t you ever pass out on me again, you dumb fuck.”
“Sorry,” Heath says, grinning weakly. “Did you get my knife?”
