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Joey runs his eyes over the heads in the smoky bar. He only knows one or two here this early in the night, and gets a nod and a smirk from them. They’ll be wanting to do business later on.
For now, he slips onto a stool at the bar, ordering a vodka tonic and continuing his lookout.
It’s when he sees them.
Oh, crap. Just what he needs. He spots Shawn first, leaning with one arm on a table up the other end of the joint. Shawn hasn’t seen Joey yet, but he’s facing vaguely his way, face and grizzled beard lit in dark amber from the few bulbs lighting the place. Looks like he’s nursing something equally dark, a whiskey or something just as pretentious, to make him look more like the godfather he fancies himself as.
Joey bites his tongue, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. He’s had to deal with Shawn and his guys a lot more than he’d like to lately.
Speaking of, his eyes dart to the person keeping Shawn company at the table. They’re facing away, and even though they have a thick head of curls, it doesn’t take Joey long to clock that it’s Corey. He’s dyed his waves darker again, and they tuck under the collar of his jacket.
As Joey watches, Corey lifts a beer bottle to his lips. Definitely him. Tattoos peek out of his sleeves and fat rings sit on his fingers.
That’s when Shawn shifts. Or, his eyes do. They fix on Joey.
Joey doesn’t move, fixed in place. Just glares tacitly back as his heart thumps slowly in his ears.
Another patron squeezes past, jostling Joey a little at the steadily crowding bar. He blinks. Tears his gaze sharply away to fix on the bartop.
Sipping more of his drink, he refuses to look around, even if he’s paranoid that Shawn’s still looking – that maybe he’s coming over, that he’s here for a reason and can’t just leave Joey alone to do quiet business for a night.
But they don’t come over, so he guesses they aren’t here to bother him. They’ve got their own shit to do, after all. Good. He doesn’t wanna see it anyway.
He’s nearly through with his glass when he gets a nudge from someone sliding onto the seat beside him. They order a Sprite, no ice. Whether they’ll drink it or not, he doesn’t really care. The order lets him know what they want – non-alcoholic because he never encourages his clients to mix, even though they probably all are. Plausible deniability, or something.
They’re served the drink, and Joey slides off his chair to head to the bathrooms. Just inside the door, he slips the baggie into their pocket and they tuck a few notes into his hand.
It must have reached the right part of the night, because he gets a steady stream going after that. A few texts from newbies, who he meets round the back while pretending to have a smoke next to the bins. A few regulars in the busiest corners.
He doesn’t recognise the next guy that sidles up to him, but he makes it clear what he wants. Must have heard of Joey from a friend; Joey prides himself on his word-of-mouth reach. Come to think of it, maybe that reputation could do with being a little worse. The only place it’s got him is onto Slipknot’s fucking radar.
Whatever. Joey nods to the guy and drifts towards the corner of the bar, through the throng mingling around him under the thrumming bass.
He’s not in a hurry. No one needs to pay him attention, learn his patterns. He doesn’t check to see if the guy’s following. They always do.
What he doesn’t expect is for the guy to be right behind him the moment he reaches the edge of the room. If this guy’s gonna become a recurring customer, Joey’s gonna have to have a word with him about subtlety.
For now, Joey just quirks a brow and leans casually against the wall. He slings his hands in his pockets.
The guy seems cagey as he waits for Joey to fish out the goods. He glances behind him nervously, angling his body to block Joey off from the crowd.
“Chill, dude,” Joey says. “First time?”
“No,” the man says, all too quickly.
Joey almost laughs. Manages to curb it to a smirk.
“Whatever. Maybe try not acting like you’re waiting to get caught, ‘s all.”
The guy only steps closer. Joey narrows his eyes. This guy is quite a bit bigger than him, his shoulders obscuring half the bar.
“I know what I’m doing,” he says.
Joey has to raise his face to look him in the eyes. He’s not laughing anymore. Keeps his face guarded. He isn’t gonna be dealing with this guy again; he’s learned to trust his instincts on that.
For now, best close this out without anything going sideways.
“You know how much this is gonna be?”
The man shuffles closer. Joey isn’t leaning so casually anymore; he’s forced to straighten, back planted firmly against the wall.
“Why don’t you back the fuck off?”
“I know how much I want it to be,” the man says.
Joey opens his mouth, but the curses stick at the back of his throat. The man presses a hand to his waist.
With a shudder, he tries to shove the hand off, but the other guy is stronger. His fist snaps around Joey’s wrist, holding him still, squeezing enough for the threat to be felt. Joey’s breathing fast. It catches when the fucker crowds in even closer, pressing his arm back against the wall in a position that leaves him open, the fronts of their shirts almost brushing. Even in the buzzing room, he can feel the heat of the bigger man’s body crawling over him, stifling.
His murderous glare is interrupted by a pressure at his thigh. His face is hot as he tracks his eyes downwards, finding the man’s other hand hovering there.
Invisible to the rest of the room, he trails the point of a knife up to Joey’s stomach.
Still squeezing Joey’s wrist, he lifts it, pulling Joey’s hand towards his pockets. As he does, he moves a leg forwards, knee pressing against the inside of Joey’s thigh, too close, too sensitive.
Joey’s frozen. He’s hardly breathing. He didn’t come to this place to make a scene; that’s the fastest way to get busted. He definitely didn’t come here to get shanked, either. He fucking hates the way he stays there, locked in his body behind the man shielding him, feeling every shudder of his heart while nothing but static supplies itself in his blank mind.
In a desperate hope, he casts his eyes behind the guy’s shoulders, to what little of this place he can see. The crowd is lost in the dim lighting, nothing but a shifting group of backs of people’s heads. The bar is stacked full, and the bartender isn’t at the end Joey can see, anyway.
He can see the tables.
It’s just like before, the way his eyes fall on Shawn. The way he wants to glare, but this time he’s looking like the better option.
Shawn’s already looking back at him. His eyes are in shadow, but Joey’s sure, even though he doesn’t know how.
One look, and Shawn’s already out of his chair.
Joey gasps as the man holding him in the corner pushes his hand roughly into Joey’s stomach. The knife bites closer to his skin.
“Put your hand in your pocket. Give it to me.”
Swallowing hard, Joey does. He pretends to flex his fingers in the pocket, all while picking nothing up. Clenches his teeth as the man trails his knee higher up, turning his hand with the knife, as if he’s imagining the best way to carve him up.
There’s a small jolt as someone pushes into the man. Joey hisses as the point of the blade nicks his skin. Damn. He liked this shirt.
The man doesn’t react. Not until Corey presses the barrel of his gun into the small of his back.
“Tone it down there, man.”
Shawn saunters out from behind him, stationing himself at Joey’s side, blocking off the remainder of the view. He folds his arms.
“Put the knife down.”
Eyes wide and livid, the man looks slowly between Shawn and Corey, at his shoulder, but retracts the blade back into his sleeve.
Joey finally takes a breath. The body is still suffocatingly close, but he’s already almost falling against the wall in relief.
Shawn shoots a hand out, thick fingers circling the wrist of the hand doing the same to Joey.
“Good,” he says, terrifyingly calm, and rips the man’s grip away.
The guy tries to back up a step, away from Shawn, but Corey digs the butt of his gun harder into him, freezing him in place. The exact way he’d just caught Joey.
Shawn eyes him levelly for a long, disconcerting moment. Lets his eyes roam down, and up, making the guy wait until he’s satisfied. Joey’s heart hammers. This is exactly the opposite of what he wanted. He has a feeling how things are gonna end for this guy. Has a feeling what Shawn will want that to mean. He doesn’t want a fucking offering, doesn’t need to get deeper in this by having them fucking kill for him.
He guesses leaving this place with that man is something he wants even less.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Shawn finally says.
He doesn’t release his grip. The guy has to pull his arm back himself. He’s shouldering his way into the crowd in seconds.
Corey’s gun is already nowhere to be seen.
“Good job we were here, eh, Joe?” Corey practically beams, slapping him on the shoulder.
He pushes Joey over to the table they were occupying, and Joey lets them. Just keeps his mouth closed, breathing determinedly through his nose.
“Sorry you had to deal with someone like that,” Shawn says gruffly as he retakes his seat. “Happen a lot?”
“Not usually,” Joey says flatly. He makes a mental note to bring his own weapon next time. “The odd creep. Thought I’d grown out of that stage.”
“Well, you’ve done a good enough job weeding your clientele until now,” Shawn grants. “Can’t keep track of them all.”
And I don’t want your help. Joey hears the silent offer.
“He’s not making it onto the list.”
Corey snorts at his side. Shawn just tilts his head, leans back against the table. He toys with his glass, but it’s already empty, misshapen ice cube melting in the bottom.
“Can I get you a drink?”