Greetings from Sugartown (19 page)

Except for tonight.

Tonight he seems almost wired. He’s jumpy as fuck. The way he used to be before we’d be sent out on a club run. And though I’ve only seen him shooting back beers, his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. He’s twitchy, making me think that guns aren’t the only illegal shit he’s bringing into my house.

Kick tosses back the remainder of his beer and yells to Ana in the kitchen, “Hey Belle, get your sweet arse in here. I wanna propose a toast.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “What the fuck are we supposed to be toasting?”

“She said yes, didn’t she?” He smiles like the Cheshire cat.

“Actually, I said yes. She asked me, remember?”

“So she did.” He smiles, but it doesn’t come close to being genuine.

“I’m kinda in the middle of something here, guys. If I don’t get these in the oven they’ll be ruined,” Ana sings from the kitchen. Kick jumps up and flies in there like he’s fucking Superman.
How the hell does he think he’s going to be able to help?
I get up and amble in too, wondering why she doesn’t just ask me for a hand if she needs it.

He removes a sheet of biscuits from the oven and replaces it with another from the bench. I grab one of the golden brown, scorching hot cookies and shovel it in my mouth, burning off all my tastebuds in the process. “Ow … fuck! Hot.”

“Stop eating those,” Ana says, and goes back to rolling out more dough. There are at least sixty biscuits on the bench already.

“You baking for the whole town, babe?”

“They’re for Sammy’s rugby league. The mums are hosting a bake sale to raise funds for new uniforms. I have to ice one hundred of these before the morning. But I was thinking we could start branching out a bit more with the diner. I mean, we’re doing a better trade than ever, but surely everyone’s sick of pie by now?”

I come up behind her, wrapping my hands around her tiny waist, and whispering in her ear, “I could eat your pie all day.”

“Yes, well, right now my pie is feeling less like being eaten and more like she wants to bite your face off, because you’re crowding her workstation, and that makes her bring the premenstrual rain of rage.” I back away as if I’ve been burned, and reach for another footy-shaped biscuit. “I swear to God, Cade, if you touch another one of those I will break your pretty face.”

I snatch my hand away and slink over to the other side of the room, where I’m safe from Bakezilla. Pulling a beer from the fridge, I readjust Mr Happy, who has decided that being chewed to death by an angry, rabid vagina isn’t such a bad way to go.
Huh. I can kinda see the appeal
.

“What can we do?” Kick asks.
He’s such a fucking suck up.

“You can roll out this dough while I start in on another batch?”

“You got it, lady.”

“Thank you, Daniel.” Ana sends a pointed look my way. Yeah, I’m kinda shit at this husband thing already, and we’re not even married yet. I swig back a sip of beer and cringe at the way it glides over my filmy tastebuds, the flavour completely gone.
Fucking awesome fiancée’s baking
.

Once Kick’s done being my future wife’s bitch, and the next batch is in the oven, he grabs Ana’s hand and leads her to the table. He shoves her down in an empty seat beside me. “Sit,” he says and wanders off, returning with a bottle of Blue from the liquor cabinet and two glasses. He pours two decent-sized drinks and slides them towards us, and then he rummages around in the fridge for another beer. “I want to propose a toast to my closest friends.”

I place my hand palm up on the table in front of Ana. She laces her fingers with mine and squeezes. The rock I spent a small fortune on digs into my skin. I grip back, a little harder.

“Ana, I’ve seen the ways you’ve changed Moose, here. He’s a different man from the one I used to know. For one, he was never this much of a pussy.” He winks. I watch him closely and sip my whiskey. I can’t taste a fucking thing, but I relish the smoothness as it glides down my throat anyway. “And I know he’s a lazy arsehole, and let’s face it, he’s got a pretty ugly mug on him, but if you can love him in spite of all those things, I’m happy for you both, and I hope it lasts.”

“Thanks, Daniel,” Ana says, and clinks her glass with his beer, and then she taps it against mine. I swallow the rest of my whiskey all at once, and slam the glass down on the table.

“You hope it lasts? What the hell kinda toast is that?”

“I
mean
I hope she doesn’t get tired of your sorry arse. But on the off chance that she ever does, Ana, baby, when you’re ready to play with the big boys—and I do mean big—” He gives her a crooked grin that makes me want to rearrange his face. “—you know where to find me.”

Ana laughs like that’s the most endearing shit anyone’s ever said to her. She sips her drink and winces as it burns its way down.
Jesus, who turns their nose up at a two-hundred dollar bottle of whiskey?
She’s been spoiled with that crappy lolly-water she drinks.

“You are so looking to get your arse kicked, pencil dick.”

“Dude we’ve been over this. You couldn’t kick my arse.” He swallows a mouthful of beer and sets the bottle back on the table. His eyes are cold, impassive, reminding me of the way he looked staring into the flames of Scott’s burning body. “Maybe back then, but not now.”

“Well, as nice as this pathetic display of boyish machismo is, if you’re going to mud wrestle for the title of The Most Extreme Penis, can you do it outside? I have cookies to ice.” Ana stands and stumbles a little. I shoot up out of my chair, and place my hands on her shoulders to steady her.

“You okay?”

She blinks furiously, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, I guess I just stood up too quick.” She pecks me on the cheek, glides over to the bench, and prompts, “Though, another drink might get these cookies decorated a little faster.”

I refill our glasses, noticing that Kick is awfully quiet as he studies us. “Say one more thing about me being pussy whipped and I’ll scalp that emo head of yours,” I warn. I’m only half-kidding. “Your roots are showing, by the way.”

He throws his hands up to ward me off and goes back to skinning his beer bottle, pulling the label from the glass in one even piece. I sit down in the chair opposite him and toss back another shot of whiskey. I must have burned the fuck outta my tongue, because it’s starting to feel a little thick in my mouth.

Ana throws down the piping bag she’s holding, and turns abruptly. “My hands are shaky as hell. You know what? I couldn’t be bothered doing this crap now.” Kick and I both laugh at her. “I’m serious. I’ve spent all damn day on these fucking cookies, and I am exhausted. I’m done.”

“Okay. Does that mean we can eat them now?”

“No. I’ll just take them the way they are. The bake sale mums can suck it.”

She grabs the whiskey off the table and walks towards the lounge room, turning to face us when she realises we aren’t following. “Are you guys coming?”

“Yep.” I jump out of my chair and wrap my arms around her waist, shuffling us through the archway to the lounge room.

“Let’s get drunk.”

“Kinda thought you were already there, babe,” I say and earn myself a smack to the chest.
Why do I always go after the violent ones?

“I am not nearly drunk enough,” Ana says, sliding out of my grip. She walks over to the iPod dock and hits play. “Big Empty” by the Stone Temple Pilots comes blasting out, and she sways her fuckable body in time with the slow, carnal melody. I flop down in the armchair, torn between wanting Ana to come sit on me, and wanting to watch her as she gyrates around our lounge room.

“Come dance with me,” Ana beckons, softly, seductively, ignoring Kick, who’s sitting in the armchair playing with his phone.

“I don’t dance, baby girl. You know that.”

She pouts. “Boo, you suck, Cade.”

I shrug, feeling the weight of the day settle on me now that I’m sitting down comfortably, and no longer in the hard-backed chair under the fluorescent kitchen lights.

Ana stretches her hands out to Kick. “Daniel, come dance with me.”

He looks up from his phone, his expression wary. “Uh, thanks, but I have no desire to get my head kicked in by your boy, here.”

“He’s not going to kick your head in,” she complains.

“Yes, he is,” I murmur, but I can’t even be arsed to finish the threat, much less follow through with it. “Who the fuck are you texting, man? You don’t know anyone in Sugartown but Kristine. And if she’s buying into your bullshit again, I’m gonna go over there and kick her arse.”

“Leave him alone. I think it’s sweet,” Ana scolds, slurring her words, and setting down the drink she’s been dancing with. The songs shifts to something even slower, one of those love songs that isn’t really a love song at all. Some lilting, whiny voice wails about seeing his lover marry another man. ‘
Cause he’s
not
a stalker
. Ana immediately slows her pace and beckons to me. “Now get over here, and dance with me. I love this song.”

I just smile and shake my head, sinking further down into the couch. I’d really rather watch than stumble all over her and crush her pretty little feet with my two cinder blocks.

“Fine, then. Daniel will have to be your replacement,” Ana teases, extending her arms out to Kick again, who tosses his phone on the coffee table and allows her to pull him onto her makeshift dance floor. She tugs him into an embrace. He looks awkward as fuck as he holds her, as if he’s afraid to get too close.
Smart man
.

One song leads into the next, and they sway back and forth in one another’s arms. Ana nuzzles into Kick’s chest. Her eyes are closed and a sleepy smile curls her lip. Jealousy twists my gut, unfurling its rancour up my gullet. It’s acid in my mouth.

“Daniel,” Ana slurs. “Is the room spinning?”

I realise she’s right—this queasiness in my gut isn’t just about seeing her dancing with another man. The room is spinning, and spots start revolving before my eyes. I try focusing in on the bottle of Blue, but it’s fuzzy. Everything is blurred around the edges, drained of colour and too bright all at once.

Ana whimpers. My gaze slides back to them, but even that hurts my head. The room’s no longer spinning, it’s swinging from the fucking chandeliers.

Ana slumps against Kick, her feet barely even touching the ground. She’s like a ragdoll. My heart lurches. My breath rasps its way out through clenched teeth. I try sitting up, but my limbs are heavy. Kick presses a kiss to Ana’s hair. She doesn’t move. She’s out cold.

I stagger to my feet only to fall down, half on the couch, half on our hardwood floor. I place my hands on the ground to keep from pitching forward, helpless to do much more than watch as Kick shifts his hands beneath Ana’s armpits and drags her over to the couch beside me. Laying her face down on the soft cushions, he tilts her head to the side, gently, almost reverently.

“What the fuck did you do?” I yell. I shift back to the couch, clumsy but determined to check on Ana. My head is pounding. My breath hitches as I feel her throat for a pulse. It’s faint, but there. Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived.

“Rohypnol. She’s fine.” Kick says.
Fuck!
That mother fucker drugged us. He’s gonna die, a slow, horrible death, and I’m gonna be the one pulling the trigger.
He pulls a piece from the back of his pants, and aims it right between my eyes. The low, guttural roar of bikes coming up the drive forces my heart into my throat. Headlights wash over the room. Kick pushes the barrel against my head.

“You fucking set us up!” Rage ignites, a fuse through my bloodstream. Adrenalin courses through me, my body’s attempt to dull the edge of the drugs pumping in my veins. I can barely stand, but I gotta get her out of here. I have to get Ana safe, then they can do whatever the hell they want with me. I glare up at Kick through my fury.

“I’m sorry, brother. I had no choice. They have my dad.”

“You’re dead. You hear me?” I whisper, against the sound of our front door being kicked in. Several bikers come stalking through the doorway—I can’t see how many because Kick moves closer, crowding out the space beyond him. “I’m gonna put a bullet between your eyes the way I should have four years ago.”

A deep, depraved laugh fills the room. “’Fraid not, Moosey,” the President of the Angels says. He grabs my hair and pulls me to my feet, but my legs won’t hold out, and he kicks me to the ground, presses his boot to the back of my neck. “Been looking for you a long time, kid. For a while there we thought Kick wasn’t gonna give you up.” He pushes his boot up and off my neck, and my spine cracks all the way from my shoulder blades up to my skull in protest. I attempt to scramble to my feet, but Prez kicks me in the junk and I drop to the floor, groaning as my balls try to disappear inside my body.

“Stay,” he warns. I raise my head as he walks away, and I take in the bikers crowding my lounge room. Seven, all with their guns pointed squarely at my head. Prez pats Kick on the shoulder. “Smart boy.”

“Where’s my old man?” Kick asks as he shirks off the man’s hold. Prez glares, but doesn’t say anything. He turns and nods to a biker I don’t recognise, who disappears from the room. Prez walks forward, stepping over me and sitting heavily down on the couch beside Ana’s sleeping form. He lifts the bottle of Johnnie Walker from the table, sniffing it before sucking back a hearty gulp.
That’s right, fucker, drink it down. I’m gonna put a bullet in your face by the end of the night too.
He gasps and smacks his chest as he swallows, then he slams the bottle on the table and leans back. Vaguely, I wonder why Kick didn’t stop him. Prez must be wondering the same thing, because he studies Kick long and hard, and then smirks. “Roofies?”

That’s why I didn’t know; I couldn’t taste it. The cookies burnt my tastebuds. Ana wouldn’t have known because she doesn’t like whiskey anyway, not really.

Kick nods, and Prez shakes his head. “Ah, Kick, you always were Ethan’s little bitch, weren’t you?”

“Does it look like I’m his bitch, Prez?” he challenges, his gun still aimed at my head. “I gave you what you wanted. Now give me my old man.”

“You boys held so much promise. I blame your old men for fucking you up and turning you both into pussies.” Prez brushes the hair back from Ana’s face with the butt of his gun, and rests the other hand on her arse. “And speaking of pussy …”