"He's with me," Max said in an almost bored tone as he tucked away his bill clip. "And he'll wear whatever he wants." Without another word, Max took a hold of Oscar's bicep and stepped past the bouncer. The other bouncer wordlessly held up the line going in to let Max and Oz through.

The inside of Club Max screamed money. There were three different areas inside the club, two giant dance floors and a bar occupied the first floor, while private VIP booths and a less private lounge occupied the second. The first floor was relatively simple, most of the seating and décor was polished chrome that not only reflected the lights, but was easy to keep clean.  It was on the second floor where the true glam of the club was on full display. Deep purple velvet carpets, chairs and sofas with golden lion-footed stools and tables. The chandeliers glittered with gold and crystal, and the waitresses and go-go dancers were dressed in skimpy maid and butler outfits.

Suddenly, Oscar's apprehension had turned into a smug little smirk. With Max around, he was untouchable.

The thrill he got from sporting his biker jacket in the Royal's nightclub, was a brand of danger he hadn't yet indulged in, but was quickly acquiring a taste for. Personally, he'd never had any problems with the rival gang, he was just guilty by association, but that was enough to earn him dirty looks from every Royal they passed.

Max either didn't seem to notice the dirty looks or didn't care. He wore a relaxed grin on his lips as he made his way through the crowd and past the main dance floor, headed for the set of carpeted stairs, where another bouncer stood.

"Any booths open?" Max asked, and even though the Royal's nose crinkled at the sight of Oz, he nodded. "Great," Max said, pulling out his bill clip again and handing over some cash before leading Oz up the staircase. From the second floor, they had a great view of the majority of the club, but it was quieter up here. The intense thumping of the base was dulled to a satisfying, thrumming pulse, and Max honed in on the spot he apparently wanted—a somewhat private, moon-shaped, cushioned booth with low, warm gold lighting, hugging a sleek, lacquered table. "How's this?" he asked, turning to face Oz, looking quite pleased with his offering.  

"It's a start," Oscar approved as he fell back onto the sofa.

Grinning, Max slid into the booth with him, and pulled a small, silver vintage cigarette case out of his front pocket, popping it open towards Oscar. "I figured it was time I brought the green for once," he said, just as a waiter got to their table. "I'll haaaave," Max bit his bottom lip and looked at Oscar for a second before looking back up, and making a popping sound with his lips. "A mojito. Oz, what do you want? Whiskey and Coke?"

Oscar paused in his admiration of the finely rolled blunt, and nodded "Yeah, Or—Wait!—I'll take a fireball!" he amended, as he pulled out his silver skull lighter.

The waiter was off to get their drinks as quick as he appeared, and as Oz lit up, Max relaxed into the seat, letting out a satisfied sigh as he closed his eyes for a second...only to open them as soon as he heard a familiar voice.

"Should I assume you wanted my attention, Gallagher?" In front of them was a classy, very dark-skinned man that looked like he was barely pushing forty, if that, despite the amount of gray speckling his black hair, which was sheared into a tight, almost angular fade. He was dressed in a bright navy suit with gold lining, accented with a royal purple pocket square, diamond earrings, and his thick fingers sported almost as many rings as Oscar was wearing.

"Rayshawn," Max sat up straighter. "Yeah, actually, I was hoping you were here tonight."

Rayshawn didn't look flattered. "Uh-huh..."

"I wanted to introduce you to my buddy, Oz."

"You know he's not the kinda company I keep, Marcus. Or welcome around here."

Max nodded, putting an arm out to rest it around Oz's shoulder. "Well, he's my company, and I want him left alone."

Before Rayshawn could protest, Max continued, "Not his whole gang," he assured, putting his other hand up in surrender. "Just him. He's cool."

"Riiight. Right..." Rayshawn ran his hand over his beard.

Max blinked up at him. "That's not a problem, is it? 'Cause my da-"

"Yeah, naw. That's not a problem, little cousin. That's not a problem... We can do that..." Rayshawn replied before squinting slightly at Oscar. "Ya know, now that I'm looking' at you,"he said, pointing at Oscar and shifting his weight. "Tati did say she seen your sister fooling around with some skinny white thug she didn't recognize... This him, Marcus?"

Max just stared for a minute. For some reason he wasn't expecting that...which was stupid, because he knew Oscar and Elise had been hanging out together around Kingsport, but no one had actually voiced as much around him yet.

This was a first.

The twist of jealousy in his stomach made him really wish that waiter would hurry it up with that mojito. "Yeah," Max chuckled. "Yeah...They're kind of a thing." The mafia prince looked at Oscar, but his grin had waned into only a faint smile.

Without another word, he took the blunt from Oz's lips and took a hit, mostly containing the quiet cough it triggered.

"Alright, well, I'll see that word gets circulated about Oz," Rayshawn said, before looking at Oscar. "You shouldn't have any problems... Not with any of mine at least, so long as you don't start any... You gentlemen enjoy your night."

"Thanks, Ray," Max, said, raising a hand in a half-assed wave before leaning back and taking another hit. He hissed the smoke out like a teapot. Then, while still staring at the shimmering chandelier over their table, he spoke. "You two haven't actually been fooling around...right?"

"Nah, why? Do you think we should?" Oscar teased, until he noticed that Max didn't look as amused by the joke. The idea that Max could genuinely be worried or jealous over him, was never something Oscar had thought about before.

He was just a punk biker with a petty criminal record. Max could get someone better without even trying. Yet, here he was, worried about a cover relationship between Oscar and his sister... The punk almost felt honored. Or, he would have, if hadn't been for the look in Max's eyes.

"Sorry, that was a lame joke. For the record, I enjoy hanging out with her, but I'd prefer to hang with you."

"Well, that's a relief." Max offered the blunt back to Oscar, holding it so that he could take it the way he often did—with his mouth.

Just after Oscar had taken it, the server returned with their drinks and asked if there was anything else he could do for them.

Max made him wait as he took a test sip of his mojito before letting out a satisfied 'hum' and nodding. "Mr. Bradley and I have business to discuss."

The server looked briefly at Oscar and nodded. "Understood, Sir," the man said, before tucking the serving tray under his arm so that he could draw the heavy curtains around the open end of the booth for them.

"So," Max said, his tone perking up again now that they had some privacy. He grinned as he tossed an arm around Oz's shoulder. "Tell me again how much you'd prefer to spend time with me," he whispered into Oscar's ear, "I like hearing it."

"You're cute when you're jealous... You know that?" Oscar smirked, as he finished chasing his hit from the blunt with a long sip of whiskey before standing up, glass and cigar still in hand, and straddling his lover. He pressed his lips roughly to Max's before pulling back and replacing it with the blunt, then took another sip of his whiskey, before starting to undo the Mafia prince's belt. "You know you're the only one for me..." Oscar hissed as he finished off everything but the ice, which he left sitting in the glass as he leaned back and placed it on the table, focusing back on Max and taking the blunt back.

Max smirked, gripping Oscar's hips and grinding against him. "Oh, I know I am," he agreed, voice husky and low. "I just gotta make sure you don't forget that." He took the blunt away from Oscar and dropped it into Oscar's empty glass before pulling him back into an urgent, heated kiss. His tongue forced its way between Oscar's lips, and meshed with his. Max was breathless when he pulled back, but was still able to get a question out. "How quiet do you think you could be?"

Oscar's reply was drowned out by some not-so-distant pops and shouts.

Then, the distinctly shrill screams of a few female voices, and the sound of a lot of people suddenly scrambling. Something was definitely happening downstairs...

"Goddammit," Max seethed, pushing Oscar off his lap and onto the seat beside him.

They were lucky he had. Only seconds after, the curtain was thrown back open by Rayshawn. "What the fuck, Gallagher?" Rayshawn snapped, even daring to semi-point the glock in his hand in Max's direction.

"What?! What's happening?"

"You said your dog wouldn't be trouble!"

"He's not!" Max balked, motioning to the stunned punk.

More popping, but this time it was a lot louder—right in the entryway of the club. Max scrambled up to follow Rayshawn and his guys to the top of the stairs of the second level, where they had a clear view of most of the club's lower level.

"Keenen's shot!" someone yelled, as Royals fired back from behind tables they'd overturned nearest the door.

That was when Oscar heard it—the distinct ripple of engines—of choppers. 

"Smoke these motherfuckers!!" Rayshawn bellowed. "Get after them!"    

"They'll lose 'em if they make it to the west side. Let me tail 'em," Oscar spoke up, and his attention turned to Max, who was quick to reply.

"No." Max couldn't possibly impart a stronger look of warning.

"They won't expect me," Oscar insisted.

Max opened his mouth, but Rayshawn and his guys were staring. Precious milliseconds were ticking by. "Fine," he growled, yanking the piece out of the shoulder holster of one of Rayshawn's men, and shoving it against Oscar's chest.

Oscar just gave Max a nod, took the piece, and slipped it into a custom pocket on the inside of his jacket. Then he was moving. There wasn't time for cool one-liners, jokes, or reassurance that he had this under control. The biker gang was already moving, and he needed every second if he was going to catch up.

"Hey! Skinny!" Rayshawn yelled before Oscar had even made it halfway down the stairs, tossing a clip at him as soon as they made eye contact with each other. He then side glanced at Max. "Let's see if Miss Elise needs a new cracker after this..." 

The punk dashed through what was left of the chaotic crowds in the nightclub, dodging between the clubbers going in one direction and Reshawn's security going in the other. When he broke through and out onto the side street, there was already a crowd forming. One of the Devil's Rejects was lying in the road, but Oscar didn't bother looking close enough to know if he recognized him. Instead, he headed right for the biker's abandoned ride.

The Chopper roared to life, and he sped forward, pushing his way through the crowd before it had grown too thick. He could already hear the distant whine of sirens echoing through the buildings. The cops and other emergency vehicles were closing in from all over the city. Oscar wasn't worried. He just increased speed and leaned into the handlebars, cutting through the traffic around him, as effortlessly as a shark through water.

He'd been right. The Royals that had gotten to their cars were already struggling to keep up, dropping further and further behind by the second. They were too big—lacked the sheer acceleration and maneuverability of a bike. But most importantly, they didn't know the Rejects.

Their same old tricks were working on the Royals, but not on Oscar. They were already several blocks away from Club Max now, and he was still hot on their heels.

He was...until he saw the flashing lights ahead of them...

Okay, okay, this time, Oscar can pull something off... He's in his element again. Right? ...Who thinks he's got this? 👀🤚

Shout out to @And--here-we-are ! Thanks so much for your support!!