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"Did he find you?"
"Eventually," she answers without any more details. "Oh, and Ross finally went home with Brian."
"Wow, he’s been trying to get in his pants for a while."
"Yeah, he says thanks. The big, scary bikers worked like a good luck charm."
Okay that’s so ridiculous, even I have to laugh. When I finally stop, my foggy brain remembers the way Lilly and Z had been making fuck-me eyes at each other.
"Lilly get home okay?"
"She got a ride," Sophie says and then bursts into laughter.
I roll my eyes at the ceiling. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re the same age.
The first thing I do after getting off the phone with Sophie is make a hair appointment. I call up a place that has a day spa attached to it. Asking Sophie or one of my other friends to go with me would probably be a good idea, but I want the alone time.
Colors Day Spa is that perfect mix between edgy stylish and uppity salon. They’ve been in the area forever, but I never went because I didn’t have the money. Now I do, and it’s a completely different experience. When I walk in the door, I’m greeted by a friendly girl who leads me to a beverage counter. She pours me some cucumber water, which, I discover, is fabulous. I opted for a full package, and for the rest of the afternoon I am washed, plucked, waxed, polished, trimmed, conditioned, and massaged until I feel it’s a crime to get back into the clothes I wore in here and drive myself away. The difference is amazing, and I can’t stop staring at myself in my rearview mirror. I had missed my bangs. Now they are back, perfectly trimmed and styled. Clothes are next on my agenda. My pants are currently being held up by a belt I had to punch extra holes in.
I pick up a few pairs of jeans, some sweaters, T-shirts, sleep sets, and one dress. Feeling more than a little guilty, I head to the lingerie department and splurge on some racy new bras and barely there panties. Just in case. If Rock liked me at my worst, imagine what he’ll think now.
My stupidity hits me dead in the middle of the mall. We haven’t made any plans to see each other again. Although we said goodbye with a nice amount of affection this morning, there was no second date planned. No "I’ll call you later." Nothing. I slump down on one of the benches, my burst of energy deflated.
"Damn."
I turn my head and catch the scent of the shampoo the salon used. It’s enough to perk me up out of my slump. So what if we didn’t make plans? He was definitely into me. He’ll get in touch. I’m not going to turn into one of those crazy, clingy women. I’ve got my own shit going on.
Except I don’t have anything going on in my life. Up until two days ago, I had been in a depressed fog. I’ll figure it out, though. I gather up my packages and head home.
"Tell me again why I put up with these Green Street dickwads," I ask Wrath as I watch Hope drive away. I should have been the one to drive her home, or at least let her follow me so she doesn’t get lost finding her way back. But, she insisted she’d be fine, so instead of taking her upstairs and tying her to my bed like I wanted, I’m watching her cloud of dust.
"'Cause they buy almost everything we grow," Wrath offers.
I grunt in response.
"And when we stopped moving stuff for the Mexicans and growing our own shit, they stuck with us?"
Yeah, okay. That was a dicey time in our club’s history. Wrath and I go way back. We’ve been friends since I found him living on the street as a teenager, supporting himself by beating the shit out of people in unsanctioned, underground fights. Two years younger than me, he’s the closest I have to a blood brother, which also probably explains why half the time I want to kick his ass.
There is no one else I trust with my life more than Wrath.
Together with Z, we’d seized our opportunity to take the Lost Kings in a new direction almost ten years ago. We’d originally joined to belong to a brotherhood of riders looking for freedom. The MC represented the family we never had. It meant something. But the club started moving in a direction that was bad for everyone but those at the very top. Were we ever going to be legit civilians working straight nine to fives? Fuck, no. But we didn’t have to be thugs who lined their pockets at the expense of their brothers either.
"Still doesn’t explain why that mouthy little punk insists I be there for every damn drop."
"I think he’s got a crush on you, prez."
Wrath thinks he’s hysterical. I think I want to kick his ass again.
"So, what’s the story with the uptight lawyer chick? How was she?"
I cock my head to the side, seriously concerned about my friend’s mental health. "Do you have some sort of death wish you need to discuss with me?"
"She your old lady now?"
I don’t even need to think about this. "Yeah, she’s gonna be."
Wrath takes a step back, eyes wide, and nods his head. "Wow, that’s big, prez. We don’t got any old ladies right now. So, that’s huge."
Fuck, yeah, it is. Like I don’t have enough bullshit to deal with. The club is going to want more info on Hope. They need to trust whoever we bring into the fold. Unless I keep her completely isolated from the club, over time it’s only natural she’ll overhear stuff, and they’re going to want to know they can trust her. I’m sure the fact that she’s a lawyer will also cause problems, although I don’t understand why. In fact, since she’s bound by confidentiality oaths that I know she takes very seriously, they should just simmer the fuck down about it.
Wrath’s right about one thing, though. There are no active ol’ ladies at the moment. In fact, the whole club is pretty young. At thirty-seven, I’m almost the oldest member. I’ve also been in the longest at about twenty years. With one exception, all our older members are either dead, or retired. The retired ones usually go cause trouble down in Florida. They come up and give us grief for a few weeks during the hottest parts of the summer and then ride back down the coast, taking their ol' ladies with them.
"I’m sure Trinity wouldn’t mind you making her an ol’ lady," I say just because I feel like giving Wrath shit right now.
"That’s never going to happen, prez."
"Why? She’s a good girl. She’s gorgeous. Knows when to keep her mouth shut. Knows her way around the club."
"That’s the problem—she knows her way around the club a little too well."
"Oh please—you’ve fucked every skank in a hundred mile radius, so what’s the difference?" I hate this attitude some of the guys get about club ass being good enough to fuck but not good enough to settle down with. In reality, it would cause a lot less problems. Although considering my thing for Hope, I’m hardly in a position to be handing out advice on this subject.
"The difference is, I wouldn’t be his old lady if he got down on both knees and begged in front of the entire club."
Oh shit. I didn’t see Trinity hanging out around the corner. The hurt in her voice makes me wish I’d kept my damn mouth shut. Giving Wrath a hard time isn’t worth the pain his shitty comments probably just caused her.
"Fuck, Trinny. I should make you wear a damn bell around your neck," I tease to smooth the tension.
She comes fully around the corner. There’s a smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Thanks for sticking up for me, Rock."
I hold out my arms, and she comes over, giving Wrath a death glare on her way. I give her a quick hug. "You’re a big help to the club, Trinny, and we all appreciate what you do."
"I know that’s not true. But I know you appreciate it, and that’s all that matters."
I give her an affectionate pat on the side and watch Wrath’s nostrils flare. It’s absurd because Wrath knows damn well she’s like a kid sister to me.
"You headed out, babe?" I ask.
"Kitchen’s all cleaned up for now. There’s still some girls inside, so if it gets messed up again, they’ll take care of it."
"Good deal. You coming back later?"
Her gaze slides over to Wrath before she answers, "No, I’ve got a date
tonight."
Wrath turns and goes inside without another word.
Trinity giggles. "That was fun."
"Thanks, babe. He’s had it coming all morning."
She turns back with serious eyes. "I liked Hope. Will we be seeing more of her around here?"
"That’s the plan."
"Good. It’s about time you find the right woman. You do so much for everyone. You deserve to be happy too, Rock."
This is probably the most serious conversation Trinny and I have had in years.
"Think you can show her the ropes? Ease her in slow?"
"Of course. You know I’ll do anything for you, prez." A soft smile plays over her lips, and I wonder what’s going on in her pretty head. "Don’t worry about Wrath and me. It’s never going to happen. I’m over it."
"Trinity—"
"Seriously, Rock. I’m fine."
I find Wrath sulking in the war room. "You done busting my nuts about Trinity?"
"Yeah, I guess."
He plants his hands on the table and stands. "Let’s check shit out downstairs. Prospect is bringing the van up."
"We’re not taking the fucking prospect," I warn him as we walk side by side down the steps to the grow house. It’s humid as fuck and smells like sweetened shit once we pass through the sealed door. There are no plants in this first room. It’s all packaging. Stash and Teller are busy weighing and packing up the weed we’re bringing to GSC.
"Where’s Sparky?"
Teller looks up and rolls his eyes. "Singing to his plants."
Not unusual at all. Sparky is a goldmine for the club, but he’s also spent way too much alone time with the bud. He’s fashioned a small bedroom for himself down here, but during the early growth stages, he sleeps on a cot next to the plants.
"Great," I mutter.
Pushing through the next sealed door, I find Sparky is indeed singing to his little plants. The six rooms back here are a grower’s wet dream. Sparky could make a fortune if he went around setting up grow houses freelance. But he chose the club a long time ago. His brilliant plan is what got us out from under the violent Mexican cartel. After the initial sticker shock of setting up the grow house, things have been profitable. It’s less money than we made with the Mexicans, but it’s also a lot less risk and a lot less Kings in the ground. My brothers’ safety means more to me than the ability to buy a new Escalade every year.
Sparky’s dad made his living as an electrician, so he learned the trade at a young age. Put himself through engineering school, but for some reason decided he’d rather live an outlaw life instead of the life of a buttoned-up professional.
Finding this conference center was the key to putting Sparky’s plan into action. Self-sufficient, large, secluded, and two different alternate energy choices to choose from. Couldn’t ask for more. He altered the downstairs to suit his needs without destroying the entire facility, which is where a lot of grow houses ran into trouble. I didn’t know every detail, but the place hadn’t burned down yet and none of us had died from mold exposure, so I figured Sparky had done a good job. The different strains of bud he grew had a reputation and were in high demand. The money rolled in, and everyone was happy.
Sparky glances up with a finger pressed to his lips. "Shhh, boss, these guys don’t know you yet."
I nod, not because I think the plants give a shit about a proper introduction, but because I don’t want to upset Sparky’s precarious grasp on sanity. Jerking my finger to the door, I silently tell him to meet me outside. He makes some adjustments and follows me out.
"This is prime growing time, boss. I gotta be with the plants," he whispers as soon as the door seals behind us.
"Yeah, we got the drop with GSC tonight. Anything I need to know?"
This part excites Sparky. He rubs his hands together in his mad scientist way.
"Follow me, boss." We go back into the front room where Teller and Stash have everything bundled into three large crates. One crate has a red bar painted on the side, one has a green cross, and the last one has a purple circle—Sparky’s way of keeping everything organized.
Giddy with the excitement of explaining how his babies work, he runs a loving hand over each crate, stopping at the purple marked one. "This one is Purple Ghost. Tell them it’s best for stress, anxiety, and insomnia because it’s gonna leave the smoker happy and euphoric, but a little sleepy."
"Got it."
He gives me a narrowed-eyed look as if he senses I’m not as enthralled with all of this as he is.
He touches the next crate with care. "Okay, this one is the Jaded Bastard. It’s taken me like two years to perfect this one. Sticky-icky and dank. They should charge the most for this one, okay?"
"Okay, I’ll pass that along."
He nods.
"What’s special about it?" I prompt.
Sparky bounces right back to happy with my interest in his creation. While I don’t buy into all this bullshit and I don’t for a minute fool myself that we’re somehow offering a medical service, I am at my heart a hustler, and I do want to talk up my product to the buyer.
He thumps his fists together in front of his face for a few seconds before answering. "Okay, okay. This is awesome for pain relief. Anyone with migraines, arthritis, fibromyalgia or shit like that, this is for them."
Pain relief. Jesus Christ, what ever happened to straight-up Motrin?
I point to the last crate, and Sparky is off. "This is the best. She’s a beauty. Definitely charge more for her." He doesn’t realize he already said that about the last one, and I don’t point it out. "Red Widow."
I suck in a deep breath. It’s a coincidence, but it feels like some weird omen. "The Red Widow relieves depression better than any Prozac. It’s gonna leave them happy and uplifted."
Wrath, who’s been silent the entire time, starts laughing like an asshole. Sparky is instantly insulted.
"Naw, you done a good job here, bro. It’s just Prez already found his own uplifting Red Widow."
Satisfied with that answer, Sparky heads back to his plants.
I jab a finger in Wrath’s direction. "Get those crates loaded into the van, and keep your mouth shut. One more word out of you, and you’re staying here tonight."
"Rock, I’m only joking. You can’t go without me."
He’s right. I picked him to be my enforcer for a reason. Although I’ve got a good relationship with GSC, it doesn’t mean these drops aren’t dangerous. Still, he’s been working my last fucking nerve all day.
"Simmer the fuck down, or I’ll cut you out. Don’t press me."
For the most part, club profits are split evenly. Twenty-five percent goes directly to the club account. The rest is split among all members, except for the ones who go to the actual drop. They get an extra bump. So by mouthing off, Wrath is risking his fat envelope of cash. Sparky also gets the bump and paid at the same level as officers for obvious reasons. Not the way things were run when I was coming up in the club. The guys at the top took everything, leaving scraps for the ones below. My view on this is, we all assume a certain level of risk and should all be rewarded for our sacrifices. I would never be comfortable sleeping in my mansion knowing the guys below me were struggling to pay their bills or some shit. I don’t operate that way, and I know for a fact that method does not generate loyalty. Leadership still makes more because there is more work and more risk involved, but in the end, all of this is a team effort. I try to pay everyone fairly. What they do after that isn’t my concern.
"Come on, let’s load this shit in," Wrath barks to Stash and Teller.
Stash pounds up the cellar stairs and throws open the Bilco door. "Hoot! Bring the van over."
Convinced they can handle this without me, I go upstairs to get ready.
The rumpled sheets remind me that mere hours ago, I had the woman who has haunted me for two years underneath me. My cock hardens at the memory of her soft skin and slick heat. Fuck. I miss her so much I already feel twitchy. I can’t believe I’m tur
ning into such a mushy asshole. Especially when I have serious business to attend to this evening. The timing couldn’t be worse. We only do this drop once every two months or so. I need to get my head straight.
Even the shower stall teases me. I find a few long strands of Hope’s hair inside. Fuck me if it looks like she didn’t use my razor too. The idea of her in here all nervous, maybe prepping herself for me, makes me want to go hunt her down and fuck her senseless.
I’ve barely dried off from my shower as I stand in my closet and pull down my Kevlar vest. I always wear one on these drops. Like I said, I have a good relationship with GSC, but you still never know. I don’t trust any of these little shits. I pull on a sweatshirt and then strap on a holster. In it goes two 9mm pistols. The clips I carry were made illegal by New York’s bullshit gun control legislation last year because they hold ten rounds. But it’s not like these little street punks say "oh, I’m only allowed to put seven rounds in," so neither do I. I throw two extra fully loaded clips in the cargo pockets of my pants and head downstairs.
I poke my head in the back of the van to verify all three crates are loaded in. At least Wrath is good for something today. Z and Teller are in the front seat. Wrath and I will take our bikes. A prickle of unease settles over me, and I step back inside the clubhouse.
"Bricks, glad you’re here. Why don’t you and Murphy tag along tonight?"
"You sure, boss?"
"What’s wrong, prez?" Wrath asks from behind me.
"Just got a feeling. Don’t worry—I’ll pay them out of my cut."
He sighs. "That’s not what I meant. We always go with four guys. What’s got you worried?"
I’m not one hundred percent sure what’s crawled up my ass tonight. "Nothing. I just want them to go on a drop. See how it’s done."
"I’ll find Murphy and meet you outside," Bricks says and takes off.
"You got a bad feeling?" Wrath asks.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the weight of the two pistols at my sides. "Have them ride in the van."
It’s obvious Wrath wants to question me more about this, but he knows better. I get on my bike. Four guys pile into the van, and we take off. I take the lead with Wrath right behind me, and the van follows. Now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have had two of the guys drive behind the van. It’s never good to start questioning yourself in this line of business.
