Yep, that was Mace, maximum physical contact.
Effing hel .
I didn’t move. I needed a battle plan to get out of bed that didn’t include me turning around and kneeing him in a place which would make it difficult for him to sire children. I was pissed at him but not enough to forget that the world would be a poorer place without Mini-Maces roaming it one day.
For your information, the day before had been hectic, even though we didn’t leave the house.
First, a lady named Shirleen showed up. She was black, had beautiful skin a shade darker than mocha and the wildest afro I’d ever seen. She kept shouting “oowee” and yel ing at different Rock Chicks, for some reason mad as al hel that no one had cal ed her to be a part of the action.
Then a guy named Tex arrived. He was enormous, had blond hair just turning to gray and a thick russet beard. He was louder than Shirleen and even angrier that no one cal ed when bul ets were flying. He kept booming “Jesus Jones” and, for some bizarre reason, he referred to Jet as
“Loopy Loo”.
Then Duke showed. I knew Duke; he worked for Indy at the used bookstore-slash-coffee house she owned cal ed Fortnum’s. I hadn’t been there in ages. Tex apparently worked there now too, by al accounts (and there were many of them), he was the best barista in the Rocky Mountains.
Duke was a Harley guy, long gray hair in a braid, thick gray beard, always wearing a black leather vest over a Harley shirt and a rol ed, red bandana around his forehead.
He was gruff with a velvet and stone Sam El iott voice but he was a good guy. He walked in, counted heads, muttered, “Shee-it, we’re al f**ked,” and walked out again, not to return.
Then a big black man strol ed in. He scanned the room and his eyes hit me. Then he looked at Shirleen and stated,
“You owe me fifty bucks. I told you it would be the Hawaiian.”
My eyes went to Ava.
“They had a bet to see which Hot Bunch Boy would get picked off next by a Rock Chick,” Ava explained.
A bet?
These people bet on this shit?
Effing hel .
“His name is Mace, you jackass,” Shirleen shot back.
“I try not to learn their names. If I know their names, means I know them and if I know them, I gotta go to their funerals when they get themselves blown to shit,” Smithie returned.
I stopped breathing.
“That’s Smithie,” Jet whispered to me. “He seems tough but he’s actual y a very caring person.”
Right.
“Smithie! A little sensitivity, if you don’t mind,” Roxie warned, her gaze sliding to me.
Smithie’s eyes came back to me. “Yeah, heard you got shot. Flesh wound. Big deal. These bitches seen worse.” Oh my God! Were these people insane?
“Stop cal ing us bitches!” Al y snapped.
“Crazy white bitches, the lot of you. ‘Cept you.” He nodded at Shirleen. “You’re a crazy black bitch. Fuck,” Smithie finished then walked out before Shirleen could lose her mind like she looked like she was about to do.
“He was just here to see if we were al right,” Indy assured me.
I was beginning to think the whole bunch of them were beyond insane, they were certifiable.
Then Annette showed. She was Roxie’s best friend, just moved to Denver from Chicago and about to open her new head shop cal ed “Head West”. She already had one in Chicago, now re-christened “Head East”.
“Yo bitches!” she shouted when she arrived.