The night hadn’t started craptastically, but it had gone there with a skip in its step in no time flat. Two hours into his shift, a drunk group of college boys with too much of their daddies’ money decided that they wanted to crash The Club. Zeke had been sent to support Luis, their bouncer. Smart move, considering the escalation punctuated by a beer bottle thrown at Luis.
He’d ducked, but the glass shattering against the brick wall sent shrapnel spinning out. Zeke, who’d been dealing with a different prick, caught a chunk of it with his forehead, in addition to getting splashed by the brew. Once the blood started flowing, two of the kids jumped in the car and took off. The other three tried to get into the building by force.
Zeke enjoyed putting them down. Due to Mr. Mak’s reputation, it was necessary to do that quickly, quietly, and with the least amount of fuss possible. There was no need to involve the police once the young men were lying comfortably on the ground; Preston simply called their fathers and the problem resolved itself.
The cut he’d gotten, not so much. The bar towel one of the waitresses brought to him kept him from dripping while he disappeared back to the Suits’ building. Once he was safely out of sight of the patrons, a concerned Beebee had descended on him. It had taken too much of his time and energy to convince her that he didn’t need to go to the hospital. Okay, so he may have threatened to tell Mr. Mak he was quitting if she didn’t leave him alone, but how could he explain to her that this little injury was hell and gone from the torture he’d endured as a POW?
She backed off once she realized his threat was serious. She still called Mr. Mak, but it was determined that Zeke wouldn’t have to go to the hospital unless he couldn’t handle the injury himself. It only took five minutes for him to close the cut with butterfly bandages and superglue. The cluster came from the cut’s placement. Right above his left eyebrow, slicing back toward his hairline. It must have been too much to ask that it could be hidden by his hair. At least three days away from work to see if it healed up. Once he didn’t look like he’d been in a barroom brawl, he’d be back in the rotation.
“Irish? You in here?”
Preston coming down from his celestial throne? The world must be ending.
“Showering,” Zeke called back. He shut off the water and grabbed a towel, drying off before wrapping it around his waist and emerging into the locker room. Preston waited for him, leaning against a locker.
“Boss said you’re getting time off. How bad is it?” he asked, gesturing at Zeke’s head.
“Nothing serious, but in a fecking awful place.”
Preston gave a low whistle when Zeke turned his head to show him. “Damn. No way to hide that. Sorry about the little shits.”
Zeke shrugged. “Part of the job, right?”
Preston’s smile came with a nice edge. “Let’s just say they’re unlikely to cause any problems in the future.”
A grin tugged at the corners of Zeke's mouth and he turned to get dressed. “Daddy not to happy?”
Silence. Then he realized why. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Preston was staring at his back. Zeke straightened and turned back, crossing his arms over his chest and hoping his boss didn’t ask any questions. “Sir?”
To his credit, Preston pulled his shit together faster than most people blindsided by the sight. “When there’s the possibility your membership will be revoked because Junior acted like an ass? Safe to say Daddy’s making some mea culpa to Mr. Mak. You’re heading home, right?”
“Yeah. Don’t know what I’ll do with my spare time, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
His boss nodded slowly. Too slowly. Something was running through his mind.
“Anything else you wanted to say, sir?”
“Rewatched the footage before I came down here.”
No response was the safe response now.
“Awfully good at your job, Irish.”
“Yessir.”
“Even wonder if it’s getting too easy?”
Every damn day. “Your point, sir?”
“Would hate to see you take a giant fucking step back.”
He got the message. Preston didn’t spook easily, so he must have seen something on that video that bothered him. Worse, Zeke didn’t know what it could have been. He’d been too wrapped up in the moment, in the chilling calm that always came for him.
&nbs
p; There was little he could say other than, “Understood, sir.”
Preston straightened. “Take care of yourself, Irish.”