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“No problem, Lips.” Vicious laughed. Nothing was off limits when it came to giving one another hell. Vicious was all about joining in on some razzing. Especially since they’d all been in on his birthday surprise from Croon and Squatch.

“Hemlock, would you mind doing me a favor?” Vicious asked.

Hemlock knew this was going to be more razzing, but asked anyway. “Sure. What can I help with?” He watched Vicious reach under the bar, then he set an eight by ten photo on the bar. It was the picture Razor had taken of him with his lips swollen.

“Can I get your autograph? This is going up on our wall of shame.” Vicious laughed, handing over a pen to Hemlock.

Knowing the deal, Hemlock grabbed the pen. The wall of shame had at least four pictures of him on it already. What was one more? “I’m trying to get an even dozen on the wall,” he said with a smirk as he scribbled his name across the photo.

“You’re almost halfway.” Hemlock heard the Veep say as he picked up the photo.

“Thanks.”

Hemlock waited for someone else to comment, but Player and Joker had moved to the pool table. And Vicious was heading towards the office holding the photo. Picking through the bowl of Chex Mix on the bar, he waited for Truck to make another off handed comment.

When Vicious disappeared out of view, Truck looked back over at Player and Joker shooting pool. “Whatcha think? Can we take those two tonight?”

Hemlock scooped up a handful of Chex Mix from the bowl. Tossing a few into his mouth, he accessed the two brothers playing pool across the room. If they played a game of nine ball, he could make ‘em cry.

He chewed thoughtfully, watching the two brothers squabble over their shots, the occasional laugh breaking out between their disagreements.He popped a few more pieces of Chex Mix into his mouth, savoring the crunch. Hemlock had a way of making the game look easy, of getting into people’s heads without saying a word.

Hemlock wasn’t just a killer at nine ball—he was a tactician, a strategist. The way he moved the cue ball, how he set up the shot, how he read the angles, it was all instinct for him now.

But when he was a kid, it wasn’t about finesse or skill. It was about survival. Every ball he sank was a little victory, a small rebellion against a life that had handed him nothing but the lessons of failure. His old man was long gone, but the echoes of his voice—laced with whiskey and regret—still followed him around.

He learned how to play pool at the tender age of eleven. His father had given him a pool cue and taught him everything he knew about the game. Hemlock had learned quickly how to win after seeing his old man get his ass kicked for making bets his ass couldn’t pay. He could still see his father sitting in the corner of that smoke-filled pool hall drinking a six-pack of long necks making bets on a kid that could barely hold the stick over therail. But Hemlock had learned and became a killer at nine ball. “Don’t make any bets.”

Truck knew how Hemlock felt about being put on the spot and would never do that to him. “No worries.”

“As long as we’re clear, let’s go run that table.” It wasn’t that he didn’t gamble, but tonight wasn’t the night to do it. Hemlock slapped Truck on the back. Picking up the bowl of Chex Mix. Movement behind him had Hemlock looking back as Razor came in.

He was about to holler at the brother when he noticed the look on Razor’s face and decided not to. Instead, he turned around and headed to the bar to grab a beer. As he did so, he watched Razor walk towards his private room.Must have been a shitty day at the clinic.

“Come on Hemlock, Truck said you’re gonna teach us a lesson in nine ball.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he said off handed while staring in the direction Razor had disappeared to.

He really should talk to the brother about bringing him on full time and getting rid of the older doctor. The man was more of a headache than helpful.A discussion for another day,he thought as he set down the bowl. “Okay, who’s ready for an ass kicking?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.Like taking candy from a baby.

Chapter Four

Lottie watched the young woman enter the clinic. She looked upset and scared. When she turned her head, Lottie saw the bruising. “Can we help you?”

Charlie knew better than to come to the clinic. They’d want her to press charges on her attacker. She wouldn’t do it. The last thing she needed was Ashley and Crispen coming after her again.

She’d known better than to argue when they started in on her about the apartment. It wasn’t her problem they lived there. “I’m sorry. I’m fine,” Charlie mumbled and turned to leave.

“Wait.” Lottie gave the young woman a sympathetic look. “We won’t make you file a report, and we won’t call the cops.”

The only reason Charlie was considering staying was because her face hurt like hell. “Ok.”

Taking the clipboard from the receptionist she took a seat. Her knee bounced up and down at a steady rate due to being nervous. She tried remembering the address of the hotel but instead left the address blank. Twice she stopped filling out theform thinking about leaving. Regulating herself that she needed to be seen, she read over the form and jotted down her answers.

Once she’d filled out all her information, Charlie took it back to the little window. Glancing through the opening, she didn’t see anyone.

Turning around, she barely took two steps before someone asked if they could help her again. Looking back, she saw a different woman standing on the other side of the window. “Yes, the other receptionist helped me.”

The woman stared at Charlie with too much attitude. “I’m the only receptionist working tonight.”