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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Max didn't recognize the number that had called while he was on the phone with Rufino, which reminded him that he also hadn't checked the missed call he'd had while throwing his fit in the waffle house. He'd been so focused on everything else. All he'd cared about was that it hadn't been Oz or his sister.
Checking now, revealed that both calls had been from the same number... His gut twisted, and the smell of the coffee in front of him wasn't helping. What if it was from a homicide detective? A coroner? He wasn't ready to hear any bad news, but called the number back anyway...
"Hello, Mrs. Russell's office," a distinctly feminine voice answered.
Max's disappointment was immediate, and he glared at the cup of coffee in front of him. "Hi. I received two calls from this number within the last hour and a half or so," he said, glancing at his watch. "Maybe two..." It was clear by the way he trailed off that he expected an explanation.
"Oh! Mr. Bradley was trying to get a hold of you, he's been taken to the trauma center at St. Peter's hospital."
Oscar was alive?! Of course he was fucking alive!
Oscar was alive!!
Max shoved and scrambled to get out of the cramped little booth so quickly that he nearly knocked Rory on his ass.
"Marcus?! What the hell?"
James was looking at Max like he'd sprouted a second head.
"I just-I need to take this!" Max sputtered. "I'll be right back," he added before holding the phone to his ear again. "You said St. Peter's? When? How was he?"
"He was conscious but... he'd lost a lot of blood," Mrs. Russell explained, trying her best to sound hopeful while still being realistic about Oscar's condition.
"Right... Okay. Thanks," without a second thought, Max hung up and Googled the number for St. Peters. "Jesus Christ, Oz..." he muttered to himself.
Every second that it rang felt like a fucking eternity, but after a very tense few minutes pacing in the restaurant's vestibule—no sign of Dina yet—and being transferred a couple of times, Max was finally told by a nurse that they were putting Oscar on the phone. Max didn't know if he should be ecstatic or terrified of the fact that Oz was currently awake.
"...Oz?"
"Heeey, Max!" Oscar's tired tone and slight slur made two things very clear, one he was alive and two he was probably medicated to another plan of existence. "Max-Max-Max, I told em you'd call! Hold on-" there was a slight rustling before a muffled "Y'all are fucked now!" was declared.
"Mr. Bradley, lay down!" a nurse snapped.
Oscar brought the phone back up. "I told em I was good to go, but no one in this fuck'n place listens..."
"I'll have someone pick you up, and you can recover and rest at home, okay?" Max said sniffling, before adding, "I promise." His face turned red as his voice cracked. "Sorry I missed your calls earlier..." Another sniffle. Still no Rufino yet, and a quick look back into the cafe over his shoulder confirmed that his dad and the guys were still at the booth. Just to be safe, he turned his back towards them and wiped away a few tears before cupping the receiver. "I love you..."
