Brandon knew few words of Spanish, but he did know those. Time spent as a beat cop in the Brooklyn streets had seen to that. "We aren't fucking righteous," he seethed. Maybe it would've been possible to give this guy their story, tell him why they stuck together as much as they did, but Brandon didn't want him to have that satisfaction. "Just because people don't fucking respond well to constant vulgarity doesn't mean their righteous." That was why Brandon was trying—really trying—to clean himself up. Moments like this made it difficult as hell, though.
"It doesn't matter who brought 'the kid' up. It matters that 'the kid' was even mentioned in the same sentence as the word bitch." He breathed out in a huff, shaking his head when the guy asked for a fight. "A month ago, I'd probably have fought you without a question. But no. Not today." He finished the rest of his drink and set the glass on the counter, waving off the bartender when she offered to pour him another. "And if you want to fucking hit on me, you're barking up the way wrong tree."
He turned back to the guy again. "But. Leave my fucking sisters alone."