Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

I get my chance to ask Jada when she brings over our drinks. She passes a whiskey on the rocks to Callum, a vodka cranberry to me.

“Hey!” she says, “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know!” I grin up at her. “It’s been crazy.”

“So I heard,” Jada says, casting a significant glance in Callum’s direction. Jada has dyed-black hair, a multitude of piercings, and plum-colored lips. Her father used to work for mine, until he was sent to prison for unrelated mischief. Specifically, he tried to scam the state lottery. It was going great until he accidentally won twice in a row, which kinda tipped them off.

“Did you see the show?” Jada asks me.

“Yes! Francie’s the best.” I lean a little closer, keeping my voice low so it’s covered by the music. “Is it true she’s dating that Polish gangster?”

“I don’t know, “ Jada says, picking up an empty glass from the table next to ours, and setting it down on her tray. She’s not meeting my eyes anymore.

“Come on,” I coax her. “I know you two are tight.”

“They might be,” she says noncommittally.

“Does he come in here to see her?” I ask.

“No,” Jada says. “Not that I’ve seen.”

She obviously doesn’t like this line of questioning. But I don’t want to drop it just yet.

Callum reaches under the table, smoothly pressing a folded bill into Jada’s palm.

“Where does she live?” he says.

Jada hesitates. She sneaks a glance down at her palm to see the denomination.

“The yellow building on Cherry Street,” she says at last. “Third-floor walk-up. He goes there Tuesday nights. That’s when she’s off work.”

“There you go,” I mutter to Callum after Jada leaves. “If he doesn’t make contact after we fuck up his casino, then we’ll get him on Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” Callum agrees. “It’s still early—text your brothers and see if they need us over at the casino.”

I’m about to do so when Jada brings us another round of drinks.

“On me,” she says, friendlier now that I’ve stopped grilling her. “Don’t be a stranger so long next time.”

She slides a fresh vodka cranberry toward me.

I didn’t really want a second, but if it’s free . . .

“Thanks,” I say, raising it in a cheers motion.

“Roxy Rotten’s up next,” Jada says. “You want to stay for that one.”

As I raise the straw to my lips, I see a strange sheen on the surface on my drink. I set it down again, looking at the cocktail. Maybe it’s just the red light on my red drink. But the surface looks a little oily. Like the glass wasn’t washed well enough.

“What?” Callum says.

I’m not sure I should drink it.

I’m about to tell Callum to check his own drink, but he’s already slugged it back in a gulp.

The lights lower again, and the DJ introduces Roxy Rotten. Roxy performs her striptease in zombie makeup, under black lights that give the illusion that she loses several limbs over the course of her routine. Then, finally, her head seems to fall off. The lights go up again and Roxy stands center-stage, miraculously whole again, and displaying her lovely green-painted figure to the crowd.

“Should we go?” I say to Callum.