Rebel punk, Oscar Bradley, discovers that his party friend, Max, is the prince of Kingsport's Irish Mob; fierce rivals of the biker gang that's served as Oscar's surrogate family. With Max quickly pulling him deeper into his luxurious but deadly wor...
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"He's with me," Max said in an almost bored tone as he tucked away his bill clip. "And he'll wear whatever he wants." Without another word, Max took a hold of Oscar's bicep and stepped past the bouncer. The other bouncer wordlessly held up the line going in to let Max and Oz through.
The inside of Club Max screamed money. There were three different areas inside the club, two giant dance floors and a bar occupied the first floor, while private VIP booths and a less private lounge occupied the second. The first floor was relatively simple, most of the seating and décor was polished chrome that not only reflected the lights, but was easy to keep clean. It was on the second floor where the true glam of the club was on full display. Deep purple velvet carpets, chairs and sofas with golden lion-footed stools and tables. The chandeliers glittered with gold and crystal, and the waitresses and go-go dancers were dressed in skimpy maid and butler outfits.
Suddenly, Oscar's apprehension had turned into a smug little smirk. With Max around, he was untouchable.
The thrill he got from sporting his biker jacket in the Royal's nightclub, was a brand of danger he hadn't yet indulged in, but was quickly acquiring a taste for. Personally, he'd never had any problems with the rival gang, he was just guilty by association, but that was enough to earn him dirty looks from every Royal they passed.
Max either didn't seem to notice the dirty looks or didn't care. He wore a relaxed grin on his lips as he made his way through the crowd and past the main dance floor, headed for the set of carpeted stairs, where another bouncer stood.
"Any booths open?" Max asked, and even though the Royal's nose crinkled at the sight of Oz, he nodded. "Great," Max said, pulling out his bill clip again and handing over some cash before leading Oz up the staircase. From the second floor, they had a great view of the majority of the club, but it was quieter up here. The intense thumping of the base was dulled to a satisfying, thrumming pulse, and Max honed in on the spot he apparently wanted—a somewhat private, moon-shaped, cushioned booth with low, warm gold lighting, hugging a sleek, lacquered table. "How's this?" he asked, turning to face Oz, looking quite pleased with his offering.
"It's a start," Oscar approved as he fell back onto the sofa.
Grinning, Max slid into the booth with him, and pulled a small, silver vintage cigarette case out of his front pocket, popping it open towards Oscar. "I figured it was time I brought the green for once," he said, just as a waiter got to their table. "I'll haaaave," Max bit his bottom lip and looked at Oscar for a second before looking back up, and making a popping sound with his lips. "A mojito. Oz, what do you want? Whiskey and Coke?"
Oscar paused in his admiration of the finely rolled blunt, and nodded "Yeah, Or—Wait!—I'll take a fireball!" he amended, as he pulled out his silver skull lighter.
The waiter was off to get their drinks as quick as he appeared, and as Oz lit up, Max relaxed into the seat, letting out a satisfied sigh as he closed his eyes for a second...only to open them as soon as he heard a familiar voice.
