The bar is packed tonight. A thick haze of smoke hangs in the air, along with the scent of whiskey and the ever-present musk of Bourbon Street.
The deep thrum of Fender’s guitar growls through the speakers, his voice rough as sandpaper as he belts out an old rock classic.
Like always, the crowd, especially the women, are eating it up with drinks raised, their bodies moving, and voices shouting along in drunken celebration.
I stand near the door, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room. Tonight, like most nights, I’m security. My presence alone is enough to keep most people in check, but there’s always some asshole looking to test his luck.
A couple of tourists stumble past me, one of them eyeing my cut with a mix of curiosity and caution.
It’s easy to spot the outsiders. Tourists move differently, always looking around like they expect the city to bite.
Locals walk with purpose. They know which streets to avoid and where to find the best damn authentic Louisiana cuisine.
The heat inside is pressing against me, so I look across the room, locking eyes with Catcher, who is helping with crowd control tonight, and give him a chin lift, letting him know I’m stepping out for a minute.
I step into the thick Louisiana air, lean against the brick wall, pull a cigarette from my pack, and light up.
The first drag hits my lungs and as I glance around, the street outside is alive with neon lights and revelers, some on unsteady legs, with drinks in hand.
I exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night.
Kiwi steps out, exhaling like he just walked off the battlefield. “The place is packed, and all the family is here tonight.” He rolls his shoulders. “Our women are inside raisin’ hell.” He takes a pull from his beer, then side-eyes me. “Except for London. She’s MIA.”
I take a long drag of my cigarette and flick the ash onto the pavement, keeping my face neutral, though my interest is piqued.
One thing about London is that she likes to have a good time and never misses a night out with the women.
But this is the third time she’s skipped out on them in the past few weeks.
I glance at Kiwi, and he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“Maybe she’s on a date with some suit and tie,” Kiwi quips, trying to get a rise out of me.
“Not her type,” I fire back, and Kiwi chuckles. Before he can continue to poke me, a tall woman with long blonde hair struts right up to me with a confident air that screams she’s used to getting what she wants.
“You got a name, big guy?” she purrs, running a red-painted nail down my tattooed arm.
Kiwi snorts, taking a sip of his beer as he watches.
I should be interested. Hell, a few months ago, I would have been.
I wouldn’t have hesitated in taking her to my bed, burying myself in her, and letting it be nothing more than a way to take the edge off.
But that was before London got under my goddamn skin.
No matter how many women I have in my bed, it’s London I want.
It’s her sharp tongue, her fucking fire, the way she looks at me like she’s daring me to make a move.
It’s a fucking distraction I don’t want but can’t shake.
And it’s pissing me off more than I care to admit.
The woman before me shifts, stepping close, waiting for an answer.
I take another drag and exhale. I gotta give it to her, she’s bold as fuck, but I’m not biting. “Not interested.”
She tilts her head, pouting. “You sure about that?” She presses her large fake tits against my abdomen. I’ve got easy pussy ripe for the taking, and my dick isn’t interested because everything about this woman is not what I crave.
I grin, slow and easy. “Pretty sure.”
She shrugs. “Your loss, big guy.” She takes the rejection and walks back to the group of women she was with.
Beside me, Kiwi damn near chokes on his drink, more for theatrics than anything. Luckily, he keeps his trap shut.
I push off the wall and head back inside. The loud bass slams into my chest as Fender starts another set, and the energy in the bar amplifies.
Then, I see him, a wiry, greasy-looking fucker in a leather jacket lingering around a back corner table, his hands moving in a way I’ve seen a thousand times before. A quick trade and a few bills are exchanged.
The son of a bitch is selling drugs.
Not on my watch.
My eyes follow the stupid son of a bitch as he slips away, disappearing into the bathroom.
I move with a purpose across the room. On my way, I pass the bar where Catcher is posted, and next to him is Nova, with his woman, Promise, tucked close to him. Catcher clocks me immediately but doesn’t speak.
“Got a situation,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. He nods once. I don’t wait for him to follow and keep heading toward the back of the bar.
Inside the bathroom, the stench of piss and cheap cologne punches me in the face. Over by the sinks, a couple of guys linger, talking shit about a Saints game.
“Out,” I bark, and they quickly exit.
The dealer is at the urinal, his back to me, pissing. I step up behind him, close enough to make him feel my presence.
“Fuck off trying to catch a look at my dick, you sick bastard,” he mutters while zipping up.
I grab the back of his head and slam it into the wall. He grunts, stumbling back.
“The fuck?” He scrambles to regain his balance.
“You’re sellin’ shit in the wrong bar, motherfucker.” My tone is low and dangerous.
The bastard’s lip curls as he sizes me up. “What the fuck you gonna do about it?”
I don’t answer. I let my fists do the talking. My first punch connects with his gut, folding him like a lawn chair. He wheezes, staggering back, but he quickly recovers, reaching into his jacket and flicking a knife open.
I smirk. The little fucker has some fight in him. I like that.
“I’m gonna teach you not even a big son of a bitch like you is untouchable,” he sneers, quickly lunging at me.
The tip of his blade nicks my forearm. The motherfucker is fast, I’ll give him that.
But I’m quicker. I grab his wrist and twist hard, and the blade clatters to the floor.
Unarming him isn’t enough for me. I apply more pressure until his bones snap.
His scream echoes through the bathroom as I continue to inflict pain, driving my fist into his ribs a few times, knocking the air from his lungs.
Then I reach into his jacket pocket, pulling out a bag of pills. Without a second thought, I toss them in the urinal, watching them dissolve in the filth.
“You stupid motherfucker,” the dealer spits, clutching his ribs, his voice thick with pain and rage. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
I grip him by the collar of his jacket and pull him toward the bathroom door, his boots sliding against the tile floor. Catcher is standing just outside as I step out.
“Need a hand?” he asks, raising an eyebrow while eyeing the dealer’s broken wrist.
I keep my grip firm and steady. “Under control, brother.” I push past him.
Heads turn as I shove past bodies and tables across the room, hauling the punk toward the door to throw his ass out.
Riggs stands near the entrance with Nova. He scans the guy, then narrows his eyes at me. “Explain.”
“Peddlin’ pills in the bar,” I reply, and Riggs’ expression hardens. He steps in close, towering over the dealer. “You got two choices, motherfucker. Disappear, or I make you disappear.” His voice is lethal.
After Riggs’ threat, I toss the bastard out onto the street.
He lands hard, and tourists step around him, knowing better than to get involved. He looks at me, chest heaving and eyes wild. “This ain’t over,” he grits.
I stand over him, my stare pressing him into the concrete. My voice is calm but deadly. “It’s over. You show your face again, they’ll either be draggin’ the river for you, or they’ll find your corpse floatin’ in the bayou.”
His eyes narrow at my threat, but he says nothing. Instead, he gets to his feet and disappears into the crowd.
I take out another cigarette, flick my lighter, and pull in a slow drag, exhaling a plume of smoke—just another night at Twisted Throttle. But as I watch the smoke curl, my jaw tightens. The drug problem in this city is getting worse, with dealers slithering in like snakes, poisoning our streets.
This is our city.
Our turf.
And I’ll be damned if we let it rot under our watch.