The next morning Oscar still hadn't heard anything from Max, but he didn't dwell on it too much. Max was doing his thing, in his world, and Oscar had his own shit to deal with. Again, it was only morning for Oscar. For the rest of the population it was technically afternoon, and as soon as he was dressed, he headed on over to Charley's Automotive.

When he pulled in, Charley had the garage door up, so Oscar just walked right in, issuing a loud, "Hey, Charles!" so that it could be heard over the radio blasting classic rock.

"Hey, Oscar! And it's just Charley, dammit!" the middle-aged biker snapped back without much of a reaction from Oscar. "What brings ya in? You need your ride tuned up?"

"Nah, Hugo's fine," Oscar assured while he strolled over and leaned across one of the red toolboxes. "Hey, did you hear Daryl was out early?"

"Ah, yep. I think Vick mentioned it a few days back. Why? He come find you already?" Charley wondered.

"He made his return pretty clear," Oscar tossed back.

"Mm. Never understood why you took up with him. He's on thin ice," Charley said thoughtfully as he reached over for a wrench and then went back to tightening the valve on a pressure line.

"He fast-tracked me into the club," Oscar replied. Daryl wasn't exactly a hard man to figure out. He'd taken an early interest in Oscar, and Oscar had leveraged that to secure his way into the gang. They'd never actually been a thing. At least not in his opinion.

"Mhm, speaking of fast track... Word is mafia's been sniffing around our turf. Keep your eyes out. Last thing we need is for our guys to get caught with their pants down," Charley warned, tossing the wrench back into the toolbox.

"Right, right."

"I'm serious, Oscar. The Irish and the Italians are on the brink of a fucking turf war if things keep up."

"Vick not picking sides?" Oscar wondered curiously.

"Hell, no. Let them rip each other apart if they want, as long as they stay out of Commerce City and the southern docks, then Vick aint getting involved."

"Hn. Makes sense I guess... Well, I'll see ya around, Charley!" Oscar said as he sauntered out of the garage back to his bike.

So, Daryl was on thin ice with Vick... That was good to hear but he wasn't sure how much that really meant. Daryl was part of the original crew. That allowed him certain exceptions. Even if Vick was pissed off at him, that didn't mean he was in danger of being ejected from the gang. Oscar, on the other hand, had to be careful. His position in the gang wasn't as solid, and he needed to play the politics if he wanted to stay in. Which meant...confronting Daryl.

He knew where he'd find him. The Stormcloud Brewhouse on 64th. Daryl practically lived there before he'd been locked up, and Oscar was sure he'd find the greasy bastard back at his old haunt.

Sure enough, when Oscar walked in, there he was at the bar—harassing some bleach blond barfly who was quickly forgotten the moment Daryl set eyes on Oscar.

Oscar was greeted with a tire sized fist to his face that nearly knocked him to the floor before he was grabbed by his hair and yanked over to the bar.

"I missed you, Oscar!" Daryl jeered viciously. "You never came to visit me in the slammer!"

"I figured you wanted your privacy," Oscar explained, but Daryl didn't seem to be buying his excuse.

"Haha—if I didn't know better, I'd say that you were trying to weasel your way out of our agreement."

"Nah. I just prefer to keep my distance from prison," Oscar clarified.

"Great! Then let's pick up where we left off!" As Daryl stood, his hand had an iron grip on Oscar's shoulders, steering him to the dingy bathroom. They weren't in there long, but any amount of time that Oscar had to spend with Daryl felt like an eternity.

Daryl emerged ten minutes later, zipping up his fly, while Oscar was still cleaning his face in the dirty sink. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink! Jack and Coke, right?" Daryl shouted when he saw Oscar come out of the bathroom.

"Eh, really shouldn't... I'm busy today," Oscar lied.

"Fine, see ya next week then!" Daryl called, just before Oscar exited the bar. Everyone had to pay their dues to the club... Oscar just paid for his in the only way that he could afford.

"So," Max said between licks on his ice cream cone—vanilla chocolate swirl with brightly colored sprinkles.

The bastard looked like a living portrait. Some kind of sickeningly sweet ad for a store trying to sell you on the idea that if you bought their products, then they'd somehow make you look as effortlessly cool and sexy as Max did, sitting there in his khaki crew shorts and sporty, bright teal tank, on top of the picnic table he shared with Oscar. Bronze skin glistening. Sunglasses perched perfectly atop his hair.

"...I know this is kinda out of left field, but how would you feel about going to a concert with me on Thursday?" Max glanced down at Oscar, only then noticing the ice cream he'd been dripping.

"Who the fuck has a concert on a Thursday night?" Oscar wondered while trying to juggle his cone and avoid the dripping from the cracked bottom as if he was playing some sort of bizarre yoga game. Finally, he just shoved the entire thing into his mouth, which was an impressive feat, but not necessarily the most enjoyable way to finish a snack.

"Weeeell... It's an orchestral concert," Max said. "Kingsport Symphony Orchestra." He couldn't help but snicker, watching Oscar's plight with the ice cream. "I gotta make an appearance, and-" he paused, catching Oz's hand with his own, and pulling it up to his lips, licking off a thin trail left by the sweet treat. "I'd really appreciate you sitting through it with me..."

Oscar's irritated scowl melted instantly into a blank stare as he watched Max's mouth work and found it impossible not to let his imagination run with that visual. "Don't you have to wear, like... nice clothes to something like that?"

Max's amber eyes met Oscar's as he took fingers into his mouth. "Mhm..." he hummed, sucking suggestively, before pulling away and going back to what was left of his own cone. "Would you let me dress you up for it?"

This was unfair. How could he possibly tell Max no after a display like that? The answer was obvious. "Eh, why the hell not," Oscar conceded casually.

Just as Max's face lit up with excitement, the rumbling of a bike engine quickly grew in volume until it rippled to a peak, then died right behind them, in the parking lot where the ice cream stand sat, along with a few other concessions.

It drew Oscar's attention only because it was a bike, and that alone was often enough to at least get a passing glance out of him, if only just so he could declare that his custom was better than any piece of stock it shared the road with. This time however, he wasn't just met with a bike, but a person he was familiar with.

Daryl was making a line right for them, which Oscar found oddly impressive given how much alcohol he consumed regularly.

"Hey, Oscar! How's it going?" the biker greeted.

"Daryl, what are the odds?" Oscar tossed back with significantly less enthusiasm in return.

"Wanna go get a drink?" Daryl offered as he placed his hands on his hips and began to look around, presumably for the nearest bar.

"No, I'm busy-"

"Bah, you always say that! I ain't stupid, Oscar, I know you're an unemployed little shit stain." The laugh that Daryl emitted definitely felt more like it was at Oscar's expense, rather than friendly.

"Uhm..." Max was utterly and thoroughly confused. He was also trying his best not to look as disgusted as he was by the guy's appearance. For all of the ways that Oscar made the grungy, punk, rocker, biker vibes look appealing, this guy somehow made it just look...gross and obnoxious. "He said no, Buddy."

The way Daryl's expression suddenly changed, stirred panic in Oscar, who quickly got to his feet.

"What the fuc-?"

"Hey!" Oscar exclaimed, "Ya know what? Changed my mind! A drink sounds perfect! Why don't you go on ahead, and I'll catch up in a few?"

But Daryl had already reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife that he was busy flicking open. "Sure, right after I teach your mouthy friend a lesson."

Max's eyes widened, and he looked at the knife in stunned silence for a moment before genuine laughter suddenly burst out of him. "Man, seriously?" he said, standing up and tilting his head as he looked down at Daryl with a measure of pity...almost like the bully at a damned playground. Max took a bite out of his cone, then continued, mouth half full. "You really wanna flash a knife right now? Triggered, much."

"He's right. You don't want to break your parole, right?" Oscar pointed out as he stepped closer, only to be met with a swift elbow to the nose.

"Ah!" Oscar yelped as he heard his nose snap."Son of a bitch!"

The rest of Max's ice cream cone hit Daryl in the face just before the butt of his magnum.

Max hadn't actually meant to hit him with it, but the wild swing just sort of happened when his sneaker slid and he lost his balance for a split second as he was jumping down from the table.

There was a scream from a woman nearby, and an, "Oh shit!" from someone else, and a few people were already abandoning the area. Clearly they knew how stupid this guy was to bring a knife to what Max had clearly turned into a potential gun fight.

What happened next was a blur for Oscar as he tried to stop the gush of blood from his nose.

Daryl reeled back from the collision with Max and stumbled into him, and Oscar scrambled, but wasn't fast enough to avoid the larger man. In an instant the three of them were going down—landing in a heap. Oscar felt a thud and then a pop. A gurgle, and it was over. Daryl twitched a few times as red seeped out of him, his own knife planted deep into the biker's neck.

"Holy shit," Oscar breathed, as he wriggled out from under Daryl's dead weight. "Holy shit! Holy shit—holy shit!"

"Fuck," Max hissed as he, too, scrambled to his feet. He quickly tucked his gun back out of sight, under the end of his tank top and into the holster his expensive, pink and yellow fanny pack had been concealing the bottom of. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think as he got a look at the few people who were left gawking.

Thankfully, only one had thought to pull out their phone to film them. "Hey! Can you call the police?" Max pleaded. "Please!"

Phone Guy looked visibly shaken. Ashy pale, despite the warm sun overhead. "Uh... Me?"

"Yeah! You caught that right? On your phone?" Max said, putting a steadying hand on Oscar's shoulder before pointing to the dead asshole on the ground. "He attacked us!"

Phone Guy chanced the quickest look at Daryl, which seemed to be a mistake, because he clearly couldn't stomach it, even through the shock. "Y-Yeah?"

"Common, man! My friend is hurt!"

"I can call!" The girl next to Phone Guy said, waving her hand frantically, as she clopped over to them in her foam platform flip flops. "I saw the whole thing! Oh my gosh. Ohhh my goodness," she muttered while dialing.

"Great. Thank you," Max said, turning his full attention to Oscar, trying to cup the punk's cheeks in his hands to get a better look at his bleeding face. "Are you okay, Oz?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Oscar winced, it was painful, but he was in way better shape than Daryl, at least. "We need to get out of here, though."

Max shook his head. "You go. I'll stay and handle this."

"The cops are on their way," the girl interjected, leaning in a little too close for Max's liking, almost expectantly. What did she want? A fucking cookie? A pat on the head?

"Awesome, thanks," Max said over his shoulder before turning back to Oz. "Trust me. It'll be fine. Go get cleaned up, or to a doctor, or whatever you need to do. I've got this."

Ya know, there's something to be said for 'fuck around and find out' energy...💅 What do ya'll think? xD

Shout out to OwlieCat ! Thanks so much for your support!!