Lazarus (The Henchmen MC 7)

It would be too easy to call him a slut. It was deeper than that. True, many women were all too willing to fall into his bed and he was young and single and no one with a sound mind would begrudge him that. But he genuinely just liked being around the fairer sex. Reeve claimed it was always that way. Where most guys in middle and high school tripped over interactions with girls, Cyrus had just effortlessly gotten on with them, charmed them, maybe broken a few hearts though I had no doubt it was wholly unintentional. I didn't think Cyrus ever wanted to hurt anyone- just wanted to enjoy a large percentage of the female population... for short periods of time.

Besides, he wore his non-commitment on his sleeve. Every woman who met him knew he was up for a good time and nothing else. If they went into it wanting more, that was on them, not him.

"How the fuck did you get undressed without at least getting half that blood off?" I asked as he walked over to the bar and poured himself whiskey.

"Undressed," he scoffed, shaking his head. "All I needed was my cock out and her ass up. Where's that piece you had at Hex?" he asked suddenly, making me stiffen.

"That piece would be named Bethany and she's in my room sleeping."

"Sleeping," he repeated, face looking very much like he didn't even understand the concept.

"Yes, sleeping," I agreed, handing Edison the bottle of vodka he was walking over for.

"Please tell me you fucked her until she was unconscious or something and that you didn't come home from a fucking fight and go to sleep."

I snorted at that. "Maybe if someone hadn't shown up and interrupted..."

"Fuck man, wasn't being a cockblock. Just came to hang out. Go back and fuck your girl. I'll wait. I have say... this much whiskey to keep me company," he said, taking the bottle and completely filling his glass.

And that, in a nutshell, was Pagan.

Really, I hadn't spent enough time with him outside of Hex to know if there were deeper levels, but if there were, they weren't ones he showed people easily. Pagan was all blood and sweat and whiskey and fucking and fighting and whatever pursuit of dangerous or crazy he thought would be the most fun at any given time. And, being that way, he had no real order to his life. That was why he worked so well at Hex. He could fight once or twice a week and have more than enough cash to blow on jumping out of planes or from bridges or buying some new ATV he was only going to crash into a tree or ditch within an hour.

Live fast, try not to die.

That would be his motto.

But if he died doing something nuts, he would be happy to go out like that.

"Think this effectively killed the mood, man," I said, shaking my head.

"The fuck?" he asked, moving past me toward the hall.

"What are you doing?"

"Sounds like you need some pointers on warming up the oven," he said, pointing at the doors as he passed them like I was ever going to tell him which room was mine. "I am happy to school you," he added, seeming to pick up on something about me when he got to my door, making him pause, smile wicked.

"Pagan, all due respect, I'm going to need you to fuck off," I said with a small smile, knowing that while he would absolutely storm in my room and claim to Bethany that I needed lessons on how to please her, he was also as equally happy to walk away and go hang in the common room.

"Fine. Your loss," he shrugged, slapping a hand on my shoulder. "Did you hear about Slate?" he asked as we moved to stand beside the bar again.

"What about him?"

"Had to be rushed in for implants," he said, shrugging off the fact that that meant he had knocked several of his teeth out in the fight. It was, for all intents and purposes, just part of the gig. Teeth got knocked out and swallowed constantly. "No one had any idea until he shook off the knockout. Poor fuck," he added, shaking his head.

Pagan himself had four implants in his back teeth so he knew Slate would be out of commission until the posts healed. Luckily for us, Ross made bank and Ross believed in taking care of his fighters. So the five to fifteen grand the implants would cost would be covered by him. Occupational hazard and since we didn't officially work for him because he didn't officially run a fighting ring, we couldn't get health insurance.

Ross Ward, asshole persona aside, was a decent person. Or maybe it was just true to say he was willing to invest in the care and upkeep of the people who made him the largest sums of money. If you were a pussy who went to the hospital for some bruised ribs after your first fight- he cut you off. But for old timers like me and Slate and Pagan- he went above and beyond.