I needed more of my drink now. Sipping, I stared at the paintings on the wall behind my desk—wild swirls of ink in black and gold. I needed to make some calls, and talk to my brother, Reath. He kept his finger on the pulse of the local gangs, and he would know this Easy-C.
Lifting my glass, I turned to the window. The last of the customers were leaving. Soon, I could get out of here and find my bed.
But first, I had a few whiskies to try, and an interesting woman to try them with.
Suddenly, the door to my office burst open. There were only four people in the world who would dare barge in without knocking.
Sure enough, it was two of my four brothers.
Colton had an arm around Reath, helping him inside. Reath’s gray shirt sleeve was soaked with blood.
“What trouble did you find?” I asked.
“I was minding my own fucking business,” Reath muttered.
I snorted. Reath never minded his own business. He was a former CIA…something. He’d been black ops, and that was shit he never talked about.
I was glad when he’d gotten out. We all were. Now, he ran his own small security company—Phoenix Security Services. He did security for all our businesses, and a few select customers. He was damn good at it. He also kept the local players from interfering with Fury businesses.
Reath dropped heavily into a chair.
“Don’t get blood on my furniture,” I said.
“It’s leather,” Colton said. “It’ll clean.”
With a sigh, I set my glass down, then went over and opened the cabinet. I pulled out a huge first aid kit.
“Shirt off,” I ordered.
Reath slipped off his ruined gray shirt, exposing brown skin stretched over hard muscles. Black ink covered Reath’s back—the intricate image of a rising phoenix. Colt and Reath couldn’t look more different. Colt was six-foot-three and packed with lean muscle. He had a neat beard, a near-permanent scowl, and tattoos on his forearms.
He was a bounty hunter. A good one. Years spent in foster homes and on the street had made him good at sneaking around, and tracking things—namely people—down.
Reath was a few inches shorter than Colt—same height as me—but more muscular. He didn’t know who his biological parents were, but he had some African American ancestry. He had brown skin, black hair he kept cut ruthlessly short, and a face that always caught women’s attention. We’d teased him for being so pretty his entire life.
He also had this easy, liquid way of moving that made him seem relaxed. He wasn’t. He could move faster and fight dirtier than anyone I knew.
Right now, he also had a knife gash on his muscled bicep.
“It doesn’t look too deep.” I pulled out an antiseptic wipe and started cleaning it.
Reath grunted.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was checking out a few leads. I got jumped by a junkie with a knife who wanted my wallet.”
The junkie had picked the wrong guy.
“Is he still breathing?” I pulled out the glue.
“Yes,” Reath muttered unhappily.
“Through his broken jaw,” Colt added as he poured himself a drink.
I glued up the cut. Reath’s dark skin had a collection of scars—knife wounds, a couple of puckered gunshot scars, old burns.
I blew out a breath. We’d all worked out our demons in our own way, and Reath had done it working for Uncle Sam. At least he wasn’t flying around the world to God-knew-where, to take on the bad guys anymore.
