Lazarus (The Henchmen MC 7)

"If I'm thinking of jumping..." I prompted when he didn't finish his thought.

"I'd let you drown," he said simply, shrugging, his voice nothing but sincere. "I'm no one's hero," he added, looking back at the water.

"And yet," I said, making his head turn back to me.

"And yet what?"

"And yet you're talking to me," I shrugged. "If you really didn't give a fuck if I jumped or not, you would have kept your mouth shut and let it happen."

"True enough," he agreed, looking across the water again, little bubbles popping up from some sea creature the water was too murky to make out. "Besides, if you were serious, you'd jump from the bridge," he added, nodding his head toward it. "You homeless?"

"Wasn't until I jumped on a train to Jersey," I admitted, finding it was somewhat refreshing to talk to someone. Outside of the people I saw twice a week at meetings, I don't think I ever talked to another person in at least a month.

To that, he just nodded, looking off at the line of expensive houses. I thought our conversation was over the silence stretched so long. But then he turned away from the railing, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a card that said simply: Ross Ward and an address.

"You reek of desperation," he said oddly, sounding somehow pleased by the prospect. "I can work with desperate. Oh," he said, having started to walk past me before turning back. "You need to talk to Shane Mallick. About a crash pad. You can probably find him at Chaz's."

"What's Chaz's?" I asked as he moved away again.

"Bar in town," he told me, not turning back, and disappearing inside a black, sleek, expensive as all hell car and peeling off.

A bar.

Of-fucking-course.

I knew I'd have to face them eventually. You couldn't insulate yourself from alcohol forever. That was part of recovery. That being said, it was soon. Way too soon.

On that thought I reached for my phone and did a quick search for Chaz's and walked in the direction, standing outside the building trying to decide if I could walk in.

It was right about then that fate stepped in.

"Mallick! Long fuckin' time," I heard called, turning to see a man in a biker jacket greeting a giant wall of muscle with dark hair and light eyes.

Mallick wasn't exactly a common last name.

I leaned against the bar until the men finished their conversation and the Mallick man walked toward me. "You wouldn't be Shane Mallick, would you?"

"Depends on who's asking and who sent you," he informed me with a smirk.

"Lazarus Alexander and Ross Ward said you were who I talk to about a crash pad."

At the mention of Ross, his brows drew together slightly, his gaze looking me up and down and seeming to find me lacking somehow. "You work for Ward?" he asked, tone skeptical.

I had no fucking idea what kind of business he ran, but if you could judge a man's business by the man himself- I'd have to put my money on him being less than above-board. I had no idea if he was someone I wanted to associate myself with.

"He just sent me in your direction," I hedged. "You have any openings?"

"Did Ross happen to tell you the kind of crash pads I offer?"

"Not exactly," I admitted, watching the man's grin go wicked.

"The term 'flophouse' ring a bell?"

I had thought he was exaggerating about the disrepair of the place. That was why I had shrugged it off, followed him inside the bar and to an office where the smell of booze wasn't so tempting, and filled out the forms, handed over my bank info, and took my keys.

He hadn't really been exaggerating.

Aside from an expensive fence blocking off the eyesore of a junkyard next door and a really state-of-the-art security door, the place was a genuine shithole. Why he even bothered to put a door like that on a building that could be knocked down by a gentle breeze was completely beyond me.

I walked in the back door to be greeted by the smell of dime store cigars, the smoke completely filling the common room which was packed with mismatched furniture, dust, and piles of newspapers.

"You the new 2D?" an older black man with white hair and knowing eyes asked.

"Lazarus Alexander," I agreed, offering my hand.

"Barney," he responded, shaking my hand. "The elevator doesn't work and it takes about fifteen minutes for the water to get hot," he informed me and I looked to the side where the elevator was crossed off with caution tape and about ten years of dirt making the steel doors look dull.

"Got it," I agreed, nodding. "Thanks for the heads-up," I added, moving off toward the staircase leading up to the second floor where I was met by another dirty hall.

My new crash pad was at the end of the hall, the numbers that should have been under the peephole completely missing which was fine by me. It wasn't like I'd have any company anyway.