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Vegas slides onto the stool effortlessly and staples his fingers together, expression pinched in annoyance. Without saying a word, Porsche places a large wine glass in front of him and fills it half way. He garnishes it with a freeze-dried orange slice and a couple of semi-frozen blackberries. Vegas picks up and swirls it for a moment before taking a sip.
”Do you want to explain this?” He asks while gesturing to his own face.
Porsche grins. “Bar fight. Apparently—according to Jom—I pissed off some group because I allegedly ‘snubbed’ one of the guys and ‘messed’ with one of their girls? I don’t know. I talked to plenty of people last night. Went to check on Yok. They took advantage of that.” He starts cleaning a couple of freshly washed shot glasses with a hand towel he pulls out of the drawer behind him.
“Names?”
”And do all the work for you?” Porsche grins. “I actually don’t know. I think they were Italian? They cursed at me in a fancy language. Definitely foreigners. It may please you to know that I got seven out of the eleven guys.”
Vegas holds up one finger. “You have a limp.” Second finger. “Your lip is busted.” Third finger. “Basically a busted eye.” He downs his wine in three bug gulps. “And it looks like one of them tried to strangle you?”
”You don’t like my necklace?”
”For fuck’s sake, Porsche. I expect the footage in my email before the night is over.”
Porsche gives him a two-finger salute. “Yes, Khun Vegas.”
Vegas rolls his eyes. “Another,” he motions to the glass. “Full.”
”Okie dokie.”
Porsche smiles brightly when a bloody cooler is placed on the stone table in his backyard. It’s a pretty big cooler with wheels and the only non-blood touched part of it is the handle. He laughs when Vegas throws a pack of strawberry flavored marshmallows onto the table and sits down on the stone bench like the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.
“Don,” Vegas states. “His group of upper-rank security was on holiday and that’s who came across you at the bar. Them, and his son. I can’t kill Don yet. Unfortunately, he’s still necessary to the European trade route.”
Tapping the cooler, Porsche asks: “Who is in here?”
”His son.”
Porsche nods. “Why him in particular?”
”He’s the one who put his hands on your neck.”
”Oh.” Porsche makes grabby-hands at the marshmallows. Vegas picks them up and throws them at him. “He got me by surprise. It really upset Ché to see me like that. I don’t like seeing Ché upset.” Porsche rips open the bag and shoves a handful into his mouth. “Dah’ he kn’?”
Vegas holds out his hand and Porsche pours a small handful of marshmallows into his hand. “He knows his son is missing. He doesn’t know who took him, but he will receive a gift in—” he looks at his watch, “—about 10 minutes.” Vegas eats a couple of the marshmallows, lifting his hand to acknowledge Porsché who appears at the back door.
“Do either of you want something to drink? I made lemonade and coffee.”
“Lemonade,” Porsche turns around and yells back.
”Second.”
”Make that two!”
Porsché smiles. “Okie dokie!”
Porsche turns back around and taps the cooler again. “What’s in here?”
”Hands, feet, and torso. You can feed them to the wild dogs near the forrest if you want.”
”What? No head?” Porsche grins.
Vegas rolls his eyes.
“Stop pissing everyone off,” Vegas snaps at him before yanking Porsche beneath the bar to avoid a stray bullet.
Porsche pouts. “My existence pisses everyone off.”
Unintentionally—and that’s the part that pisses Vegas off the most it seems—Porsche snubbed the Russian cartel’s mistress when she made an advance at him, but her advance was quickly overshadowed. The moment Porsche saw Vegas, he didn’t care about getting laid. His friend is here goddamn it and he wanted to go greet him.
“I can’t even be properly mad at you,” Vegas replies as a rain of bullets destroy 10s of 1000s in baht of liquor and wine.
“Let me just delete my existence for you,” Porsche replies sarcastically.
Vegas finally (finally) shoves a gun into his hands. “If you die, I’ll bring you back myself and then beat the shit out of you.”
”The power of friendship is truly a magical thing.” Porsche checks the clip before shoving it back into the gun. “Are we still catching that movie on Friday?”
Vegas looks like he swallowed a lemon.
“Porsche.”
”Yes?”
”I’m telling Ché.”
Porsche stares at him, wide-eyed and shocked. “Tell him what?!”
”I’m telling him you’re an idiot and you need to be bubble-wrapped and kept in a room with padded walls.”
“I don’t—“
Vegas holds up a hand. “Shut up. We’re getting out of here and then I’m telling on you.” The door to the inventory room, with a door that leads to the back alleyway, is within sight. “Follow me. Shoot everyone but me. Can you do that?”
”Just so you know, I did shoot everyone but you.”
Vegas doesn’t answer.
”Vegas?”
Nope.
He refuses to talk.
“In my defense, your backside was open.”
That, above all else, has Vegas twists to look at him; the pain in his shoulder flares white hot for a second but it’s nothing compared to the anger Vegas feels in this moment. “The next time I tell you to fucking leave me behind, do it. Go home, Porsche.”
”Because Macau just doesn’t matter, right?”
“Shut up.”
”No,” Porsche snaps; no more jokes.
“I’m not agreeing to disagree with you, Porsche.”
”We both should be going home to our brothers, Vee. Both of us. I knew the wound wouldn’t kill me and I’m not going to leave you behind just because you think it’s your job to keep me safe from any and all harm.”
Vegas wants to argue.
He wants to throttle Porsche for being stupid, for being self-sacrificing.
It’s Macau, Porsche, and Porsché.
He doesn’t give a damn about anyone else.
“Besides, we’re matching now.” Porsche points to his shoulder and then Vegas’. “At this point, we can call them friendship bullet wounds.”
”Because friendship bracelets are overrated,” Vegas deadpans.
“Exactly!”
”You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”
Porsche kicks his feet back and forth on the stool next to Vegas—one of many recent installments to the Kittisawat’s kitchen bar. “Yeah, but you love me~”
He does.
Porsche is family.
“Give me your wrist.”
Not looking up from his phone, Vegas just holds out his wrist. Something cold surrounds it. He looks to see a simple, metal wristlet; small in size and dark purple. Porsche is wearing a matching one.
“Friendship bracelet?”
Porsche grins. “Friendship bracelet,” he confirms.
Vegas looks at it. “Purple really isn’t my color.”
”You don’t have to wear,” Porsche replies with a little shrug.
”Shut up,” Vegas snaps back, no real heat. “I’m going to wear it forever.”