Chapter 39: Deacon “Rage” Hollingsworth

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Deacon “Rage” Hollingsworth

H alf an hour until I close tonight and Ethan Shaw’s stupid ass still isn’t down here. Where the fuck is he? He said this was important. I don’t have to question what the fuck is wrong with him. I know what’s wrong with him. We all have our vices. Ethan should be more private about his weaknesses. It’s not healthy to have all your business out there. That degenerate probably stopped somewhere to buy scratch cards and is losing his fucking head over the Chiefs game right now.

I have an important appointment when I’m done here. My weekly. I can’t miss it, especially not after spending two weeks on the road. I’m pent up. I open the text message chat I have with Ethan. No response to my last seven text messages. The last time he replied to me at all was for completely selfish reasons.

He always texts me his “winning parlay suggestions” and right now that suggestion is going down the toilet. The Bills are down by 7 – and they don’t look like they’re going to climb back up considering half their roster has some type of injury. That one Tyler Bass kick had everybody too damn cocky. Ethan is a fucking idiot. There’s a reason that the betting app tells you that you get to win a million dollars if that parlay hits.

It’s not gonna fucking happen.

He had better get his ass over here soon. I don’t want Oske to charge me for lateness or some other bullshit fee. She had major problems over how I handled the last one, like I didn’t make myself entirely clear exactly what I needed. The liquor I had tonight already passed through me. I need something intense – an upper after another boring ass night running this barely concealed casino front.

I hear arguing outside my office door, so I slam the football highlights on my laptop shut and open the door to shut them up and hopefully, find Ethan hunched over at the bar. That dumbass and his brother Owen start bar fights pretty much everywhere they go.

No Ethan, it’s just Seneca and Moses having the same stupid ass arguments they keep having ever since Oske got her the job. She insists I “owe her” and that she can’t have Seneca working for her up at the Fire Spot because of the type of clientele.

Once he sniffs me out, Moses launches straight into his complaints about Seneca.“Boss, she’s doing Zyns on the job. Women don’t need to be doing that shit. It disgusts the customers.”

Moses is a traditional man. Possibly some type of Hispanic, but I don’t give a shit about color as long as you don’t steal and you don’t overdose in the saloon bathroom. Seneca is the opposite of traditional – and she has the unhinged feral attitude all the Indian girls around here have. She might be a mix of Indian and something else, but she has those cheekbones and those eyes…

“It’s my body, my choice,” Seneca snaps at him, glaring like she wants to stick a needle in his voodoo doll. People who work nightshift are all fucking crazy. If they don’t start off crazy, not seeing the sun gets them there pretty quickly. Moses puffs out his chest. He’s one of those bouncers that does a great job because he’s five-foot-five and desperate to prove himself. Dad had him patched-in years ago, but he didn't pay club dues, so Harlan Shaw kicked him out. He might be an alcoholic, but he’s a loyal one – and that matters.

“It’s not your body,” Moses says. “It’s the body of whoever pays for it.”

Seneca gives me a pleading expression like she expects me to intervene. These people are in their thirties. I’m pretty sure they both have kids, although I’m not sure how often either of them see their kids considering the job here. Once she realizes that I won’t chime in to defend her, Seneca yells at Moses, “I’m not a slut!”

“You’re a hooker.”

Seneca’s face changes color and her body language changes like she’s actually considering whooping this man’s ass. Definitely time for me to intervene.

“Hey. Enough,” I chime in, not bothering to conceal my exasperation. “Shut down the slot machines. Get the grandmas out of here. Ethan Shaw is coming tonight.”

“We can’t actually shut down the slot machines,” Seneca says sassily. “Vickie says you’re causing problems with the internal… thingy.”

Sometimes I wish I had Vickie here instead of the ditzy chicks that Oske doesn’t have the patience to employ at Indian establishments. Then again, I sometimes get suspicious that Seneca plays dumb and she’s more of a spy for Oske. Unlike Moses, I have no desire to stand here arguing with her.

“Whatever. I don’t care what you do. Get those women out of here before Ethan comes and I lose him for the night because of a near-miss on those machines.”

“I need your help,” She says to Moses imperiously. “I’ll be the brains, you can be the muscles or whatever.”

I don’t want to risk leaving them alone. They’re like grown cats fighting in a fucking alley, especially this late into the night. Seneca and Moses walk away, yapping at each other as they head to the employee breakroom. I walk around the bar and like a bloodhound for trouble, Ethan Shaw walks through the saloon style doors to our establishment.

He looks almost straight out of a Western movie – but a little too solid around the shoulders to not be from a time period with access to protein shakes. I want to make a light joke, but one look at him and my stomach sinks. There’s something wrong. We all grew up together, we know each other like brothers. Some of us are closer than others and even if I have always been closer to Owen than Ethan, they have always sort of come as a pair. The only ones to clean up each other’s messes.

He drags a bar stool out and I know exactly what I need to do.

I pull out another shot glass. Ethan sits at the bar and slips his head into his hands before he says anything. It must have been a long ride all the way up here and judging by the look on his face, there is some serious shit on his mind. I pour him a shot. It’s the good stuff. Hollingsworth Whiskey. Ethan drains the shot within seconds. I pour him another. He takes his second shot as I take my first.

He grips the glass. I can tell he’s about to speak, but I almost don’t want him to say anything. The club has had enough bad news in the past couple years. Please let it not be another murder.

“Mom has cancer,” he says.

Shit. It’s something worse. Something dark and unexpected. Something that could destroy the Shaws and let’s be honest – all of us. We love Aunt Deb. She’s been a rock for our families for years. She always fit in with the biker lifestyle. She’s tough. Too tough for this news to be real. But I know it is. Ethan wouldn’t make light of this type of shit.

I slide the bottle across the bar to him. Ethan grasps it. He doesn’t look at me. He can’t. There’s a part of me that really gets it. He was her first boy. I can’t imagine what that meant to a woman like her. He takes a sip and I wait for him to continue. Nothing I can do but wait, because… there are too many questions. Too many thoughts. We’ve lost too many people in this club.

We can’t afford to lose another.

“What do you need?” I ask when Ethan stays silent too long.

“She doesn’t want Wyatt to know until she tries… the treatment.”

He doesn’t want to say any of the ugly words associated with cancer. Our dads lost one of their best friends to cancer. Lots of guys in the army got exposed to crazy shit over in Afghanistan. His death was brutal. Slow. And worst of all, painful. It didn’t seem right to see a soldier in that condition. I can’t imagine seeing someone I love going through that. Even if Ethan is a degenerate, I don’t want to see anyone in my family suffering.

“Okay. Wyatt doesn’t have to know.”

“And… I need $50,000.”

If anyone but a member of the Shaw family in our club asked me for $50,000, I would give them the cash without hesitation. But I once watched Ethan Shaw stay up all night with bloodshot eyes because he put $500 on a Taiwanese pig racing livestream, betting on a tanned pig named “Donald Trump”. The stupid ass pig lost, by the way. So he wasted his whole night. And I did lose a little respect for him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he adds.

“I don’t mind helping pay for the treatment.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t try to double it.”

Ethan grunts, which isn’t exactly promising, but as long as I take the steps to cover my own ass, there’s nothing I can do to stop this man from gambling if that’s what he wants to do. I hope for my aunt’s sake – and for the sake of Ethan’s life – he doesn’t. If he did something as stupid as that – Wyatt would find out.

“I’m heading to Boston,” Ethan says. “My mostly true cover story is that I’m going there to work on a business deal with Darragh Murray. Open a new club out in Dorchester…”

“But really?”

“Mom wants to be at Mass General. I have no wife. No kids. Might as well go with her.”

“Out in Boston with the mob? Are you sure about that?”

Ethan is fierce. Determined. It’s that bull-headedness that works against him when it comes to card tables or any other game of chance. He believes that he can control the outcome of his life. Even when he’s facing this – something totally out of control. When he speaks, I want to believe him. Who wouldn’t?

“It’s my mother,” Ethan says. “I’ll do whatever I can to save her.”

I suppose I get it. I would do the same for my mother if I were in his shoes.

“I’ll wire you the money tomorrow. But… We can’t fuck around tonight. I have business.”

He twirls his shot glass impatiently. Under regular circumstances, I would have a drink with him, but I paid big money for the shit going down tonight. I’m testing something new.

“What type of business? It’s 3 a.m.” Ethan asks. I can tell he doesn’t really care. He just wants a place to drink. Fine. I can give him that.

“3 a.m. business.”

Since I’m only at this club on the weekends, I keep my condo empty Monday through Thursday and then Friday night… I do something special to make up for all my hard work throughout the week. Like I said, every man has his vices. I like to do something for myself so fucking sweet that it makes coming all the way out here to run this underground gambling ring worth my time.

Ethan doesn’t question it. I was right. He’s more worried about drinking, and most likely whatever he bet on tonight.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ve got this football game to worry about.”

Yeah. The Bills are down by fourteen now which means that “sure thing” parlay from his earlier text messages is definitely out of the question. Fourth down. Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. It’s not looking good for Buffalo.

“Hey. You can stay if you lock up after Seneca and Moses.”

“Those two over there who clearly wanna fuck?” Ethan grunts, emptying more of the whiskey down his throat. Yeah, he’s staying. Perfect.

“Those two.”

“I’ll stay. Go enjoy your business. Wear a condom.”

I laugh and pat him on the back. A hang in there pat that hopefully means we don’t have to talk about anything warm and fuzzy.

“See ya around, Bear.”