Page 41 of Silent Damage

I start giggling like an idiot. “My bad. I’m a little drunk…”

“A little?” She drums her fingers over the dark wood of the bar, matching the wood paneling on the walls. Water stains cover most of the ceiling, and the white wall behind the pool table has turned a sickly yellow.

Yep. I’m back in the Patch.

I try to say her name again, but I know I’m too drunk to pronounce it correctly. “How ‘bout Angie?” I suggest. “I’ve always thought that name was hot.”

Hopefully this is landing…

She smirks and says, “I’ll allow it, but only because you’re cute.”

I crack up, then rest my body on Angie and pull her into my embrace. “How ‘bout one more, babe?”

She waves her hand in front of her face. “Your breath alone could make someone drunk. I’m a bartender too, hot stuff. I know when someone needs to be cut off, and you’re long past that point.”

“Psha! I don’t need to be cut off. I need another drink. Bartender! My good man! Another round for Angie and me.”

The bartender, a heavy-set dude with a long beard wearing sunglasses for some bizarre reason, struts over. “I think you should take a hike, pal.”

I close one eye to get a good look at him. “ A hike? I’m a paying customer!”

“She’s a paying customer. You’re her gigolo for the evening.”

“Gigolo?” I ask. The word feels funny in my mouth, so I say it again, slower. “Gigolooooooooooo. What’s that?”

Angie leans in and whispers, “It’s a male prostitute, hon.”

I think about that. “Why do they get a special name and women don’t?” I ask.

Angie looks at me for a moment, then cracks up. “You make me laugh, sugar.”

Not sure why being called a dude prostitute is making me feel smug, but it is. “You think I could be a gigolo?” I ask her with my chest puffed out.

“Gigolos usually know how to hold their liquor,” she replies while wiping away some beer from my chin.

I pat my stomach. “I’m holding it. I’m holding it right here.” I lift my shirt to flash my abs. “See? Got it all stored here.”

Angie notices the stomach—it’s a trademark feature of mine. Not sure where I got washboard abs from, considering I eat nothing but garbage, and Doug looks like the Michelin Man, but whatever.

“Maybe you could be a gigolo,” she croons with a sexy little grin.

“Yeahhhhh, I could. Get paid to have sex? Come on, Angie, be my pimp! What else am I going to do in this piece of shit town?”

Angie shakes her head and says, “I deal with enough assholes at my real job, but I’m sure I know a guy or two in the HellCats who wouldn’t mind a roll in the sack if you’re selling.”

That word rings an alarm in my head. “You know the HellCats?”

“Work for them, babe.”I perk up, excitement blazing within me. “Are they looking for new recruits?”

She gives me a once-over. The flirtation drains from her face, and, for the first time all night, she looks completely sober.

“You don’t want to mess around with a group like that,” she warns.

“Yeah, I do! They run the show, and that’s what I want. Respect. I’m a fighter—I know I've got what it takes,” I say, pounding my chest.

Angie rolls her eyes. “They’re killers, honey. There’s a difference.”

I wave my hand and say, “Nahhhh, I’m tough.”