Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“I just need a drink,” Quinn mutters.
The bartender returns with a tray of whiskey shots, and the bar boos at her, more than at us.
“Sorry,” I apologize to her, and she shrugs sheepishly.
Donnelly puts a wad of cash on her tray for a tip.
“Thanks. I’ll leave this here.” She sets the tray on a pub table and then tucks the cash in her back pocket.
I grab a drink. “Take a shot, Oliveira.” I hand Quinn the glass.
He downs the whiskey shot, and then Thatcher, the last of Omega and my new roommate, joins us. I can’t say we’ve been friendly. We’ve spoken one time since the tour ended. He asked if I saw Ophelia, Jane’s white cat, who went missing for an hour in our townhouse.
I said no.
He said nothing in reply.
And that was the end of that shit.
“Who’s playing?” Thatcher asks, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows.
Oscar points his stick at me. “Redford is supposed to break.”
I pop my gum. “No, I’m out.” I pass my cue stick to Thatcher. “You go ahead.” I’m not handing him an olive branch. This is me just not wanting to play pool.
Thatcher senses this, and he doesn’t say thanks.
I down a shot, whiskey burning the back of my throat. And I sidle next to Oscar. About to place a bet on the pool game.
But the bearded dipshit with leathery skin and an eagle bicep tattoo stands off his stool. He must be in his early thirties, not much older than us, and four more men flank him. All look about three-hundred pounds.
Donnelly often says he’s “a buck seventy-five” and the rest of us are lean and muscular like UFC fighters and boxers. Not heavyweight entertainment wrestlers. Shit, the only one who comes close is Thatcher. But even entering a fight underweight, we could easily knock all of them out.
We’re not intimidated. To be honest, their bravado actually has the opposite effect.
“Go back to L.A., you dumbfucks, and get outta our city!” That though—that’s getting annoying.
The six of us face them, and the “get outta our city” holler grates on more than just Donnelly. I’d like to punch one out. Collectively, we’ve spent more time in Philly than most people at that fucking bar.
For us, it’s home.
For Donnelly and Thatcher and Quinn, it’s all they’ve ever known. There was no college. No other place.
It’s been Philly.
Always Philly.
Some people connect to a specific town like it’s a person, a tangible part of them that they can’t remove, and I’ve seen that in Donnelly’s eyes.
“Say I’m from L.A. one more time!” Donnelly threatens. Since our fame originated in L.A., that’s what some uninformed dipshits believe.
Thatcher starts yelling at the heavyset fucker on the end. He’s that irritated, and being off-duty is making him chuck the rulebook out the window.
Oscar whispers to me, “South Philly guys are going to get us kicked out.”
“No shit,” I whisper. “You better add your little brother in that.”
Quinn curses loudly, edging into an asshole’s face, but Akara fists his shirt and draws him backwards.
We’re all trained to deescalate situations, but it’s easier doing our jobs when the insults aren’t directed at us.
Oscar shakes his head and hunches over the table with his stick, lining up while this conflict is brewing. “SFO haters know the bare minimum. We’re famous bodyguards. We’re hot. That’s about it. Everything else they invent to fuel their hate.”
“True.” I lean on the pool table, half-sitting.
He breaks and the balls scatter the green felt. Suddenly, he straightens up, more alert as the most vocal, bearded fucker approaches me.
I don’t shift.
This guy nods to me, about my height. “You think you’re hot shit?”
I chew my gum. “I know I’m hot shit.” I can feel Oscar’s harsh glare drilling into this guy from behind me, the rest of Omega minutes away from a real fight, too.
The bearded dipshit takes one step towards me.
My jaw hardens. “Don’t get in my face,” I warn.
“Farrow, Oscar!” Akara calls out. He’s wrangled our two South Philly guys, plus Quinn, into a booth and the other hecklers loiter back at the bar. Impressive. And one reason why I’m not the Omega lead.
Before the dipshit can hook me into a fight, I back up and take the long route to the booth with Oscar. We slip in the cracked leather seat, and Akara stays standing at the end.
“I’m not gonna miss that about the tour,” Donnelly says to Quinn. I catch them mid-conversation, and he picks through a bowl of half-eaten nuts.
“What?” I ask for the topic.
He pushes the bowl aside. “Laundry.”
I chew my gum into a smile. “You can’t miss something you never did.”
Donnelly laughs.
“That was the worst,” Oscar tells me. “If I never have to see another laundromat or hotel laundry bill again, I’ll die a happy man.”
The bartender squeezes through and leaves us six bottles of beer. “On the house for not starting anything with those guys over there,” she says. “Manager thanks you.”