Russ didn't think much on how he looked. He looked tired, and he looked rough around the edges and he was both, and Sam had owned the strings enough to pull on to get him to do things for her for over a year; he didn't think about payrolls or celebrity or names. Louis was a Donovan, so he got talked about but the men in the shop didn't do much of the talking. They had homes and lives and they kept conversation abrupt and to the point. There was none of the joking, laughing that had been the place in Vegas. Sometimes Russ missed it.
He'd seen Sam shook up before and he'd seen her needle-skinny, he figured she'd sent him because this brother was drunk or high or beat up from some fight from picking on someone else's girl. Russ blinked: once and long as he took in all those traceries of blood, symbols he didn't understand. It looked good and fucked up and that was all he needed to know, and Louis didn't look like he was wearing a fucking thing except the blanket.
"Not far." His voice was sleep-gritty, like sand wearing at rock. He was already shrugging out of the shirt, much-washed red cotton and standing in the sleeveless vest underneath. "Back there." He jerked his thumb and he assessed whether Sam's brother looked like he'd fall under his own weight if he walked by himself. He held out the shirt, and he began scuffing the stones and mess and glass out of the way with the sides of his boots, shuffling a path that bare feet could walk on without too much mess.
He didn't ask about the perpetrators, and he didn't say a damn thing about the mess on his chest.
"Got a towel in there. You need," Russ blinked once again, all sandy-blond nonchalance for a fucking insane situation, "A hand?"