Bull. Your perception has always been majorly skewed.

Way to remind me I didn’t get the math brain.

Quit brooding. I got the brains. You got the heart. Which one of us is still alive? So you tell me which one is more important.

The voice disappeared again, leaving him feeling bereft.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

AFTER Deacon found the semiprivate room at Dave & Buster’s and exchanged the customary hand-jive, half-bro hugs with the Black Arts MMA crew, he focused on the birthday boy—who wore a Burger King crown, for fuck’s sake.

Beck grinned. “Like the crown? Ivan’s idea. I’d tell you to get on your knees . . . but you’d take it the wrong way, D.”

“Ya think?” Deacon looked around. There were monitors in this section that gave a live overview of the different game areas. “Dave and Buster’s? What are you? Ten years old?”

“Piss off, Deacon. This place rocks. Besides, it’s a tradition. Twenty-fifth year in a row I’ve spent my birthday in an arcade.”

Deacon swiped his light beer off the table. “So you didn’t discover video games until you were twenty?”

“Not even on my worst day do I look ten years older than I am, unlike some bald-headed dudes, so fuck off, ass-monkey.”

“Can you guys tone down your lovers’ quarrel? I’m trying to figure out what to eat here,” Blaze complained.

“But their bromance is legendary,” Ivan deadpanned.

“Fuck both of you.”

Deacon looked around the table. Beck, Ivan, Sergei, Blaze, and Fisher. Surprisingly, Blue—not Gil—rounded out the group. Then again, if Beck and Maddox had words, Gil wouldn’t be invited since he and Mad were so tight.

“You looking for someone in particular?” Beck asked.

“The creepy guy who ties balloon animals at kiddie parties. Thought he could fashion that big dick you’ve always wanted.”

“Bite me.” He smirked. “Unless your jaw hurts too much from taking one on the chin from Courey earlier this morning?”

A chorus of oohs echoed back to him.

“Ha-fucking-larious, douche bag. No. I just thought . . . Never mind.”

Beck swigged his beer. “Yes, I invited Ronin, Knox, and Riggins, but they all had other plans.”

“Riggins never comes to nothin’,” Blaze pointed out.

“Training at Black Arts is a hobby for him. If he’s not being paid for his medical assistance with the fighters, he’s not hanging around with us. That’s who he is.” Beck shrugged.

“Where’d you find him?” Deacon asked.

“I didn’t find him. Knox did. So I assume they were military buddies or Riggins works for GSC, the same security place Knox does.”

Or Knox and Ronin recruited him from Twisted—not that Deacon could share that suspicion.

“Dinner’s on me tonight, so pull that damn menu away from Blaze,” Beck said. “The redheaded imp will bankrupt me.”

“I hate when you call me imp.”

“Dude. You’re like five five, and you weigh a buck thirty-five. Imp applies.”

“Whatever. Just don’t call me rooster. Or red. I’ll prove size don’t matter when I come out swinging, ’cause them’s fighting words.”

Food ordered, they all kicked back and decided to hit the games after eating. Talk turned to sports. Being raised in Seattle, Beck was a diehard Mariners fan. No one else followed baseball as fanatically as he did, so Fisher brought up the Broncos heading to training camp. Which generated Beck’s impassioned speech about the Seahawks.

“You lived in Denver for three years and in San Francisco for almost five years and you didn’t switch to teams that actually win championships?” Fisher asked snidely.

“Spoken like a native Coloradan who’s never lived anywhere else,” Beck said. “My allegiance remains with the teams I’ve followed for years—no matter where I live.” He pointed at Deacon. “Tell him, Yondan.”

“What?”

“Who’s your team?”

“The Cowboys. Ain’t only my team; they’re America’s team.”

Arguments followed, and Beck started spouting off stats for all the teams. The man had a head for figures. Reminded him of Dante in a lot of ways.

Deacon noticed Ivan, Sergei, and Blue were talking among themselves. “Care to share with the class, boys?”

“We’re talking real football. You Americans wouldn’t understand,” Ivan said with an air of superiority.

“You mean soccer,” Blaze scoffed.

“Football,” Blue corrected.