The bar's packed. The music is loud, the beer is warm, and the place fucking stinks. It's a dive, just the way Johnny Gat likes it.
'Man down! Yo, man down!'
Raucous laughter meets the cry which only hours ago would have shot ice into the gathered Saints' veins.
There's no danger here. Andre has gone ass over tit on his way back from the john. His fallen drink pours out over the sticky, glass-covered floor.
'Suicide drills!' yells another Saint, this one's called Craig. He's ex-military. The beer cannot go to waste. He grabs the shirts of the two nearest him in and they make their way over to the spreading puddle with varying levels of enthusiasm.
Andre groans and gets up on his hands and knees.
'Suicide drills!' Craig grins and drops into a push up position, showing no concern for the tiny shards of glass which bite into his palms. The other two Saints follow suit, and Andre straightens his legs, grumbling all the while.
From his place near the counter, Johnny watches as the guys lower themselves down to lick the beer from the floor. It's Eli who has his attention, the one with bright purple hair. The newbie breaks out the reps without breaking a sweat. He looks like he could keep going for hours, and Johnny's mind wastes no time in going there.
It's at that moment when Eli chooses to look up and catches him watching. An infuriating smirk spreads across the newbie's face. This time when he lowers himself down, he does it real slow, and holds Johnny's eye as he languidly licks the beer and fuck knows what else from the warped wooden floorboards.
None of them are worried about getting sick. Getting sick is for mortals. They survived wave after wave of VK assaults on the Church earlier that day, with only two minor casualties. The pumped-up Saints feel invincible, bulletproof.
The hand on Johnny's lower back tightens its grip. Neatly manicured nails dig into his skin.
'Johnny?' Omar flicks several long dreadlocks over one shoulder when Johnny manages to drag his gaze away.
'Huh?' Johnny grunts, mind still elsewhere.
'Were you even listening?'
'Sure.'
'Then what did I just say?'
'Uh…' Fuck. 'You're gonna do something with your hair?'
The scowl that meets his suggestion is strong enough to curdle milk. Johnny shrugs. 'Shit, man. Don't give me that look. You're hardly in disguise right now, are ya?'
The supposedly dead R&B star continues to glower at his boyfriend before sighing. 'I know you're worried about me. But sometimes I wish you would just listen to me…'
'Uh huh.' Johnny tunes out while Omar speaks. His bottle is nearly empty.
'Oh, for fuck's sake,' Omar mutters, staring over Johnny's shoulder. 'Can't he keep his clothes on for more than five minutes?'
Johnny doesn't even have to turn around. He can guess who it is.
Behind him, Eli has removed his black t-shirt and is showing off the new ink which covers most of his back. It's a religious thing-a giant cross with the words 'Forgive Me For My Sins' written on a scroll underneath. Apparently it's an ironic piece. Johnny doesn't get it, but he'll admit it looks good.
He doesn't have to turn around, but he does so anyway.
Eli again picks his moment to glance over his shoulder and catches Johnny's eye with another one of those shit-eating smirks.
Omar purses his lips. 'He keeps looking at you.'
'Lots of people look at me.'
'Yeah, but he looks at you.'
'Ugh. Are we really gonna go over this again? He's a fucking douchebag and I wouldn't-'
The first shots are hard to hear over the noise of chatter and music inside the bar. The screaming which follows, however, cuts through the atmosphere like a knife.
Pistols and revolvers appear in almost every other hand. The Saints might have been celebrating, but c'mon, this is Stilwater.
'Get down,' Johnny hisses, scanning the crowd for a target. Omar is already crouching behind the corner of the counter.
'LC, LC!' comes a shout, and a grim smile tugs at Johnny's mouth when the room erupts in gunfire. He can kill Vice Kings all day long and it's nothing but business. Los Carnales… well, that's personal.
Shirtless, Eli is standing shoulder to shoulder with Troy and another Saint near the door of the bar. Johnny follows when they head outside, chasing their assailants.
In hindsight it will be blindingly obvious, the truth about Troy. Johnny will kick himself for not spotting it sooner. Whenever shit got serious, Troy's shooting style changed. The pistol was clamped in both hands, legs planted widely apart. Professional looking. Like a damn cop.
But the past is a foreign country, as they say. And right now Johnny is concentrating too hard on bagging and tagging an LC to think much of it.
Besides, Eli and a bunch of the other new recruits have adopted Troy's style after finding out it helps their aim no end, so it doesn't stand out the way it will later in Johnny's memories.
Of course, it's an ambush. Red cars pull up in the street outside and their occupants open fire. Purple dive for cover.
Eli grabs a Los Carnales member and uses them as a human shield while barking orders. Troy counters with orders of his own, glaring at the bold British upstart.
Bullets fly and someone throws a molotov.
The fight, which lasts mere minutes but feels like a war waged for hours, is suddenly over when the red cars drive away, tyres squealing.
It feels like an anticlimax.
'Fucking pussies!' Johnny yells at the departing vehicles.
'Man down!' The cry comes from his left.
This time there's no laughter. Johnny and the others hurry over to their fallen comrade. Craig is choking on his own blood, lips and chin slick and black in the dim street light. He's dead but just hasn't realised as much yet.
Johnny looks up and for the third time Eli meets his gaze. There's no smirk this time, but pain, and hate, plain for anyone to see and finally Johnny does see it. Sees what will make Eli into the leader he will become. The swaggering prick cares.
Then Johnny blinks and Eli turns away. The newbie starts to gather up the others and check for any more injuries.
Troy lights a cigarette. 'Let's move. Cops'll be here soon.'
And somewhere, in the future, Johnny kicks himself again.