Chapter 27

"How are we feeling this morning?" I ask, keeping my voice cheerful and light as I enter Ty's room. It's Saturday, so I'm off from my work at the Alpha's mansion today. I draw back the daffodil-patterned curtains to let the sunlight stream into the room and across the bed.

Normally, a free Saturday would mean that I'd be looking forward to a day of takeout food and trash TV. Unfortunately, poor Ty is still in rough shape, and my evenings and weekends are devoted to his recovery for the foreseeable future.

Ty groans and flings a bare arm over his eyes. His bare chest gleams in the morning light, and I see one bare foot poking out from under the covers. Ty usually sleeps in the nude, he told me very seriously, but he's compromised for my sake by wearing boxers to bed while he's here.

I smile at the memory, shaking my head. The boys in Kent's gang are nothing like I'd expected them to be. I'd expected…well, I don't really know what I'd expected. Hard-bitten criminals, I guess. Surly, dark, dangerous men who lurked in shadows and spat on floors.

But the boys are nothing like that. They're sweet, funny, and kind. They look out for each other, and for me. They're always horsing around, teasing each other, teasing me. But they're also responsible, reliable, thoughtful. I've come to really like them all more than I ever could have anticipated.

That'll teach me to stereotype, I tell myself as I sort through the box of bandages and antiseptic resting on the cedarwood dresser across from Ty's bed. His wound is getting better, much better, but I still want to keep an eye on it. We can't afford any hospital visits, by which I mean we can't afford any questions that might follow.

"Come on, Ty, up up up!" I sing-song. He groans again and cracks one eye open to give me a bleary glare.

"Do you have any idea what time it is, Doc?" he croaks. "Or what day it is?"

"Yes, it's nine o'clock on a Saturday," I say. "But I don't think the regular crowd is shuffling in, at least not yet. Wrong time of day." I chuckle at my own bad joke.

Ty groans again. "Doc, you're killing me. No Billy Joel jokes before lunch, please. I'm a sick man. Give me a break."

I laugh as I help him sit up. "Okay, okay," I say, unwrapping his dressing and probing the wound with careful fingertips. "Getting shot gets you off the hook for my bad jokes, but only before lunch."

Ty rolls his eyes. "It's a deal."

I clean and re-dress his wound swiftly, and then I leave him to get dressed. Some of the boys are coming over at lunchtime; they said they have some news about Charles that they want us all to discuss.

Charles. Goddamn it, if he's the one who got Ty shot, I'll strangle him myself. As if I didn't already have enough reason to bring the man down, now he's going after people I care about.

Not that I believe Charles was the one who shot Ty. No way. Charles wouldn't be caught dead doing a drug deal on the street. He thinks of himself as above all that. He wouldn't take such a risk in being caught, for one thing, but he also just wouldn't out of the principle of it.

He thinks he's too good to do his own dirty work. He gets his lackeys to do it, his little minions who run around getting their hands filthy and bloody – metaphorically or otherwise – because Charles won't.

In some ways, that bothers me as much as the fact that Charles is clearly a rat in an Armani suit. He's a coward; he won't own any of his own shit. He schemes in his fancy office behind his bottle of Talisker and gives orders for someone he deems "less important" to do the actual job.

It's pathetic. If you're going to do something, I think you should do it. Own it. I can't believe I was ever fooled by this asshole in the first place. Live and learn, I guess.

Ty comes out of the bedroom, still rubbing his eyes as he wanders into the kitchen.

"Got any coffee, Doc?" he asks, yawning.

"I told you, I really don't think that you need to mix caffeine with those pain pills I have you on," I scold gently. "But if you're desperate, you can have one cup. And I do mean a cup, Ty, not a bowl. Don't think I didn't notice that last time."

Ty gives me a winning grin and raises his hands in surrender. I pass him the coffee pot and sit at the table, where we companionably share the newspaper and sip coffee until the boys start to arrive for lunch.

"There's no question about it," Torsten says, spearing another bite of lasagna. "It was Charles's fault that Ty got shot. My informant says that Charles gave the direct orders to 'shoot the baby with the dreadlocks,' because it would throw us into such a panic that his guy could seize the drugs and run."

"So this was all just about not wanting to pay?" I ask in disbelief. "Jesus, that's low – even for Charles."

"He's getting himself into some kind of trouble," Torsten says. "My informant thinks it's gambling debts, maybe. And I think he's trying to set up a rival gang, take us out of business. If he undercuts us enough, and if he screws up our strategy, he can start taking over some of our clients."

We all sit for a minute, digesting this.

"But this isn't right," Brady finally says, breaking the contemplative silence. "The Alpha's never done anything like this before. He's above board."

"Above board?" Kent asks with a snort. "He's been our biggest buyer for years."

"Well, yeah," Brady says. "But that's all he does – he lets his guys buy from us, and he looks the other way when our product shows up at his official parties or whatever. It ain't immoral, doing drugs, you know. Not that the Alpha ever partook, far as I know."

"I get what you mean," Jim chimes in. "Alpha's folks just buy from us, but they always pay on time and never haggle about the price. We've never had any trouble from them before. In fact, the Alpha folks are our biggest customers, like Kenny said – they keep us in business."

"And they're safe, which keeps us safe," Brady adds. "This is what I mean. Something funny is going on here – this ain't right. We never had any trouble from the Alpha's people before. Now suddenly we're getting shot at a routine drop off? Why?"

"Because of this Charles character," Torsten says, motioning for Dave to pass him the lasagna. "I'm telling you, that's what all the reports are saying. The Alpha has retired and isn't in good health – Nick, you know that. You're his doctor, for chrissake."

I nod.

"And now this Charles is angling for power," Torsten continues. "He's shoehorning himself in where he doesn't belong, and he's being sly about it. In fact, some of the more fringe members of the Alpha's pack have already started splitting away."

"What?" Kent sounds shocked.

"I'm not kidding," Tor says. "They said they're starting to feel unsafe, to the point that they'd leave their own pack and go rogue. I'm telling you guys, something isn't right in that house. And we have got to figure out what it is, before Charles destroys this entire gang."

As if on cue, everyone at the table turns to look expectantly at me.