agreement. “Then what do you want to do? Nikolai wants Roman no matter the cost, so perhaps we should think outside the box.”
I take a few seconds to deliberate on his suggestion. It awards me nothing but a surly attitude. “Have you ever considered just walking up and knocking on the front door?”
Over the game of men believing they’re in charge when they aren’t, I slide out of my 1966 Shelby GT350 and hotfoot it across the street. Eight, although quiet, quickly catches up with me. I’m not surprised with how long his strides are. We don’t just call him Eight because his name is August, and he was born in the eighth month of the year. It’s because his super long legs would have you believing he’s eight feet tall, and during drug-fueled benders, he usually has eight whores going at once.
I won’t mention the fact he also only has eight fingers, or that his cock may only be in the eight-inch category. He’s a little sensitive about those parts of the equation, so it’s best we keep those facts between us.
Approachability isn’t something gangbangers often use, but I give it a whirl. “What’s up, boys? Alexei got you chasing ambulances now. Did you miss the memo? You don’t need a prescription for marijuana anymore. You can get that shit at a shop.”
T, a low-ranked gangster from Alexei’s crew, spins around to face me. “What’s the bet that nasty shit is still better than the low-grade crack your men were pushing last week. My grannie couldn’t even get off on it.”
My teeth gleam in the early morning sunlight. “Lucky your girl didn’t face the same issues, eh? She was so up in my blow, she left my bed with it all over her face this morning.” I still can’t recall the whore’s name who woke me up by riding my cock for free, but I’ve seen her around T enough to know she was once one of his favorite girls before she upgraded the men she likes to get off on. “She’s so desperate to get out of the shit your crew is snowballing, she’d rather get around with my spawn on her face than lose her ‘whore’ title with the Popovs.”
My smile doubles when T fists my shirt. He’s such a hothead, I would have only needed to insult his shoes to have him fisting up for a fight. This way was more fun. What can I say? I’m an asshole who’s always ready for a war.
“What do you want, Trey?” he sneers in my face, his words as hot as the ash on the end of the joint dangling out of my mouth.
While pushing him off me, I give him a stern look, wordlessly warning him the next time he puts his hands on me, he’ll lose fingers.
Confident he’s got the message, I say, “Roman.”
When I sidestep him to enter the hospital, he gets up in my business. “Can’t let you do that. We have orders Roman is to stay here.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission, twat-face.”
I stab out my half-smoked joint into his chest then sidestep him for the second time. My jaw quivers when his getting up in my business occurs this time around with the muzzle of a gun being shoved into my ribs. “As I said, can’t let you do that. We have orders.”
“Orders for a war you don’t belong in. This is Popov turf. You have no sanction here,” I growl without the slightest quiver to my words. He may have his gun on me, but I’m not close to being dead.
T has bigger balls than I realized. “Says who? A British immigrant too weak to rule his own kingdom.” My jaw ticks when the men surrounding him laugh. I’m all for jokes. I love them as much as I do fucking, but I won’t tolerate being laughed at, and T and his fuck-face friends are two seconds from learning that the hard way—even more so when he snickers, “Go home, foreigner, your time here is done.”
I tighten my jaw but keep a cool and collective head—for the most part. “I’m asking you politely, T. Step back before I remove the walnuts from your sack and use them as anal beads the next time I fuck another one of your sisters in the ass.” That was my calm response. This is my menacing one. “Or perhaps you’d rather me give your mother a good once-over, so, for once, she can climb a pole