Page 86 of Flock
He nods. “Good eye.”
“Sean, come on, give me something.”
He gestures in the direction of an El Camino where two mammoth men sit on the tailgate scanning the party, their faces void of any animation. Clearly brothers, their features similar. “See those two?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Matteo and Andre, The Spanish Lullaby. Behind them is their crew. They’re from Miami.”
“They drove here from Miami?”
“Yeah.”
“For a party?”
He nods.
“Why are they called The Spanish Lullaby?”
He eyes me. “Use your imagination.”
“That isn’t scary at all.”
“I’ve got you, Pup.”
And I believe him. Sean’s face turns to stone as he dips his chin at the Miami crew when they zero in on us. The lift of their chins in return is barely perceptible.
“And that group over there,” he points to a truck where one of the guys lands a backflip off the hood of a pickup before downing some Jack Daniels. “That fool is Marcus, and the guy next to him is Andrew. That’s Tallahassee, the rest of Florida, and they’re fucking shysters. So, stay a foot or six away at all times if you want to keep your valuables.”
He takes his time walking me around the party, or meetup, or whatever the hell it is, and it doesn’t take long to notice the slew of raven tattoos marking the arms of everyone in attendance. Some of the girls have a tattoo as well—dainty wings inked on their shoulder blades. A few of them are wearing halters, no doubt to show them off. And it’s then I know those wings are a symbol of possession.
Sean leads me over to a freshly tapped keg and passes me a beer. I take it, and a sip, preoccupied with the truth behind this party. Sean merges us in with a few of the groups, easy conversation flowing from his lips as I scan others sitting on the edge of their cars, watching the rest of the party. I press up onto my tiptoes after a few minutes and lean into Sean with a whisper.
“Are you in a gang?”
He tosses his head back and laughs.
I scowl. “How is that funny?”
“Do we look like gangsters?”
“No. Yes. Kind of. Then what is this?”
“Just a bunch of like-minded people with similar interests hanging out.”
“With the same tattoo?”
He shrugs. “It’s a badass tattoo.”
“Sean,” I grit out impatiently. Though we’re in the midst of a mingling with Alabama, he lifts his chin at Tallahassee and turns to me. “I need to go talk to a few guys. You cool here?”
Eyes wide, I search his face. “They won’t touch you, Cecelia. You pulled up with Dominic.”
“And that means what exactly?”
“It means I’ll be right back.”
He smiles and shakes his head, moving to abandon me and I grip his arm. “Where’s Layla?”
