Write Your Own Song

Chapter 15

Jerry let out a low whistle when he stepped into the fitting room of the bridal salon. Angel turned around and grinned, running his fingers down the lapel of the sharp, black jacket.

"Nice, huh?" he asked and Jerry nodded.

"Not bad," Jerry said appreciatively as he sat on the frilly, padded bench that was up against the flowered wall and stretched his legs out in front of him. Angel looked at the full length mirror in front of him and fought the urge to pose. He had to admit, he looked good. Sofi decided to let the guys have their choice of suits and he chose well, if he did say so himself.

An older woman was kneeling at Angel's feet, tugging on his pant leg, a pin cushion attached to her wrist and a length of yellow measuring tape draped over her shoulders.

"Stop moving, sir, or you're going to get --"

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Stuck."

Jerry leaned his head back and laughed. Angel glanced over his shoulder.

"Keep laughin'. You're next," he said with a grimace.

"I'm telling ya - Bobby and Jack hightailed it outta here to avoid all this wedding crap."

"Sofi's already bugging me about Cracker Jack and wants to know when he's comin' back," Angel sighed. "Now she's asking me all these questions about colors and shit. How the hell do I know if canary goes with fuchsia? I don't even know what the fuck fuchsia is. I'm tempted to drive her to Chicago and drop her at Bobby's doorstep."

The lady on the floor suddenly made a sound that sounded like a muffled laugh and Angel looked down at her. "Does fuchsia go with canary?" He felt so silly asking it. Her answer was a sharp tug on his pant leg as she mumbled something around the pins in her mouth. He wasn't sure, but it sounded like, "Idiots."

"Would serve Bobby right, leavin' us here to figure this shit out," Jerry said with a sigh as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and his head hanging low.

Angel studied his brother, the torturer with the stick pins momentarily forgotten.

"What did you find out?"

Jerry shrugged.

"Is it bad?" Angel asked steadily.

"Well, it ain't good, that's for damn sure."

"We need to call Bobby?"

"Yeah, we need to call Bobby."

XxXxXxXxX

"So Sweet isn't full of shit?" Bobby asked, cradling the phone on his shoulder as he opened the fridge and tried not to groan at the sorry state of his food options. His apartment above the club was never well stocked to begin with, but this was pathetic.

"Looks that way, Bobby." Jerry sounded tired and Bobby felt a twinge of guilt. It was his idea to drag Jack to Chicago while leaving Jerry and Angel behind to sort out the mess in Detroit. He couldn't help it, those pictures scared him and if anything happened to Jack, he didn't think he could live through that again. Running wasn't his style, but he had to let his instincts guide him on this one.

"Evan asked around some and he said there's been some fresh blood movin' in, guys from New York, fillin' in where Sweet's goons left off. Looks like he isn't taking any chances with the locals this time. Something's brewing, Bobby, and it don't look good." Jerry paused and Bobby heard him draw in a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh. "Just when I've started to get my project off the ground again. It's like we're cursed or something."

Grabbing a beer since it was the only thing in the refrigerator that hadn't expired or turned green, Bobby slammed the door shut and padded over to the couch, slumping into the overstuffed seat.