Vice (Tortured Heroes Book 1) by Jayne Blue Page B

turning point. I felt that in my bones. I had the right staff. The right mix of patrons: newcomers and regulars. And now, I had the right draw with the band. I squeezed my fists and pressed them against my thighs, otherwise I felt like I might just lift into the air with the excitement of it all. Taking a step back also gave me a chance to look for weak links.
    Georgia was on her game, but Leslie and Marie were just a tad slow with the drink orders. In Leslie’s case, I could see why. She spent a good amount of time flirting with some of the customers. Marie seemed star-struck by the band. These were fixable problems. I nodded and made a mental note to deal with it in the morning. Georgia could take point with that. Leslie was sensitive and if I came at her, she might shut down no matter how soft an approach I took. Again, fixable problems.
    I got caught up in it, I’ll admit that. I saw stars and dollar signs that night and maybe I should have been looking even closer at the patrons instead of my staff. Maybe I would have seen the potential disaster before it became one. It was nice to think that, anyway. That I could have controlled it.
    It came in a rush. Screams and a rush of people pouring from the back room where the band just finished up. A guy. Not one of the regulars. Young. Early twenties. Kinky black curls drooping over his eyes and three-day-old dark stubble, like a short version of Russell Brand. Two of his friends carried him across the floor. He stayed on his feet for two or three steps, then his legs turned to rubber and he crashed to the floor in a heap and went rigid.
    And just like that, my best night ever started to slip through my fingers.

Chapter Eight
    J ase
    The night was fucked the minute I caught a glimpse of the lead singer of Devin’s new band. Thank God he wasn’t looking my way when we passed each other in the darkened hallway, me heading for the kitchen. Him, carrying his guitar, head down, headed for the stage.
    Justin something. He was from fucking Lincolnshire. He’d headlined at my brother’s club a few months back. Colt and the Great Wolves MC had signed his fucking paychecks. He’d seen me maybe once or twice but only in uniform. Tonight, the misplaced context and his singular focus on where he was headed probably saved me from getting made that night. Still, it was too close a call. I decided to keep my head down and my ass firmly planted in front of the dishwasher until their set was over and Justin Whatever-his-name-was got the hell out of The Dive Bar . It was disloyal of me to Devin, I suppose, but I silently prayed the band sucked and she’d never ask them back.
    That was almost fuck-tastrophe number one. Number two came a little later when I heard screaming coming from the bar. I couldn’t help it. Running toward danger is ingrained in me.
    I got to the main floor and saw Kinney jump the bar and head toward a huddle of people. Maybe a dozen gawkers that surrounded the core of the commotion. The band was still playing so most of the patrons didn’t witness what I saw. Devin did though. She stood slack-jawed against the wall as one of her customers slumped between two others, his face purple, pupils big as dinner plates.
    “Shit.” Kinney and I said it together and we got to the guy at the same time.
    “Don’t make a scene, man,” Kinney said, both to the purple guy's two friends and me.
    “Kinney!” one of them said. I’ll call him Shaggy. He had shaggy brown hair that hung past his shoulders. The other one, well, I can’t even think of a name for him. He wore a blond man bun, had wide pale blue eyes, and wore steel-tipped alligator-skinned boots. He was scared shitless. “What the hell was that shit?”
    Kinney pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. I knew that look. If Kinney had superpowers, he would have crushed Shaggy’s skull with just a stare. “Shut your fucking mouth,” Kinney said through his tight lips. He shot me a look and I gave him a quick nod to