Page 23 of O'Mega's Revenge
Mother fucker.
It got bigger.
“What?” I squinted at him, so I wouldn’t get shampoo in my eyes. There wasn’t much hair left on my head, but I doubled the amount of soap and kept scrubbing.
“Bet they took photos.”
“Jesus-mother-fucking Christ.” I stopped scrubbing and let the water run over me. It was getting clearer with each rinse. That was a good thing.
“Where the fuck were you?”
“Fucking my wife.”
I glared at him.
He shrugged and smiled happily. “I bet I get laid more than you or any of the brothers. Fifty bucks.”
I wasn’t taking that bet. Danielle and Sprout fucked like rabbits.
Instead, I cranked up my middle finger and asked, “Like looking at my junk?”
“Gah, fuck you.” He slammed out of the room bitching the entire way.
After two more shampoos and scrubbing with every product I could find in the medicine cabinet — FYI, rubbing alcohol. Burns like a mother fucker, but takes it off in one swipe, mostly — I tugged my jeans back on and threw my shirt in the trash. My vest got examined for residue, and I made small touch-ups with the alcohol before sliding it on. Then I went upstairs to find Sprout and a Henley I could borrow.
At the top of the steps, some of the last DHMC ran out the door when they saw me. Standing just outside was Missile. She held up a blue braid and laughed. Then she took off with her sisters leaving just Sprout, Danielle and his mom behind.
“Dude, grab me a Henley or some shit, bro?”
“Got ‘cha covered.” Sprout tossed me a navy-blue shirt. I traded vest for shirt and then put the vest back on. Danielle walked out mid-change, turned bright pink, and shielded her eyes.
She had so far to go before she was a biker chick. Despite that, I had to admire Sprout’s choice. A better woman, his mom excluded, you couldn’t find. Sweet, rich, cute, and nicely soft around the edges. If I weren’t gunning for a seat of power, she would have gotten a second look. But a woman like that would crumble under the pressure if paired with a man in power. Thank God Sprout didn’t have aspirations. They paired nicely. Sweet girl, slacker biker.
Ma, on the other hand pointed her spatula at me and laughed. If she were thirty years younger, or not Sprout’s ma, or … well, not the Jolly Giant’s widow, well? Yeah. Too many ifs for comfort.
On principle, I had to flash a middle-finger at her for a second. She returned the gesture times two. Not easy while flipping pancakes.
“Your hair looks like shit.”
That’s what Sprout led with. His mom hit me with the boomerang retort.
“Looks like you lost a weed whacker war.” She sipped her coffee and smirked.
“Did you help?” I asked, as politely as I could.
“Son, I know better.”
That was good.
But I was curious.
“Who did it? I know Missile was in on it.” Even without words, she’d held that braid like a scalp. Crowed over it. Hell, she would probably mount it on her damn bike as a trophy.
She scoffed. “Theyalldid it. Never seen such solidarity. Makes you boys look like pussies.”
“Gee, thanks, Ma.” Sprout made a face into his coffee.
I motioned to him to hand me a cup. He fixed it with the fancy shit Danielle liked.
