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Shade wondered who the fuck they sold that garbage to.
Manning Grove didn’t have a bad drug problem from what he knew. But meth was a popular drug of choice for both country and city folk alike. It was a cheap, easily available high.
However, the clan had to have a way to distribute it.
He couldn‘t believe the local PD hadn’t shut this shit down. Or brought in the DEA.
Maybe the chief and his crew hoped the Shirleys would blow up their own mountain with their stupidity. Shade knew making meth, especially the way they were doing it, was dangerous.
Just like the way they made moonshine. Liquor Control Enforcement would probably be interested in their shitty homemade stills. And if the Shirleys were careless, those stills could turn into bombs.
Maybe if they weren’t selling it, like they were the meth, then the LCE couldn’t give a fuck about the Shirleys’ junkyard stills. While Shade had stolen some of their moonshine, he was damn sure he wouldn’t pay a dime for it. But there was always a market for cheap booze.
Even if the Feds came in and hauled away the key players, the Shirleys would only make more Shirleys. There seemed to be an endless cycle of them. If the women were old enough to be fertile, they were usually pregnant or just had a kid.
At one point, Shade counted forty children, from teenagers to infants. He wasn’t the best at counting but he knew that number was damn close.
The clan didn’t need a lot of men to make a lot of babies. More than one woman for each Shirley male was completely acceptable. Even if they were related.
Unfortunately, while he was sneaking away from that shed last night, one of the little kids playing in the dirt spotted him and began to point and yell. That had the women scrambling and picking up weapons, which was a risky thing to do when working with highly explosive materials.
No one said the Shirleys were smart.
Shade escaped before the shed blew up, or had something more deadly than a little kid’s finger pointed in his direction.
He slipped away successfully, but it had been close.
When he went up there, he wanted no one but his target to know he’d been on that mountain. And if possible, not even his target until it was too late.
Last night had been a failure on his part.
One that couldn’t happen again.
He had come back to the farm, found a quiet spot out in the dark, smoked some bud and drank some of the Shirleys’ own moonshine until he was ready to pass out.
Luckily, that didn’t take long and once he did, he was out for longer than normal.
That stolen moonshine was probably killing the few good brain cells he had. He might have to switch back to drinking something not flirting with being poison.
Or paint thinner.
When he walked through her door, Chelle announced she bought real paint thinner, along with rollers, brushes, a few cans of paint, some plastic to cover the floors and furniture, blue tape and the rest of the shit needed to paint a fucking room.
Yesterday while things were quiet at the crematorium, he’d watched several YouTube videos on his phone from what he hoped were experts on how to tape off and paint a room. This way he wouldn’t be totally fucking clueless.
He had tucked his cut into the saddlebag before entering her house and, as soon as he walked through the door, she had shoved a mug of black coffee at him. He’d taken it and sucked half of it down right away.
One problem with drinking himself to sleep some nights was that he woke up with a headache. But numbing himself so he could sleep was better than the alternative.
“I have a whole pot made, so help yourself. Plus, bottles of water and Gatorade in the fridge. Whatever you need, just let me know.”
He wouldn’t do that. Because if he let himself think about what he really needed, it would be Chelle naked on her back with him settled between her legs and his hips cushioned between her thighs.
After giving her a nod, he finished his first mug of strong coffee instead. While he did so, he let his gaze sweep her from top to toe.
Her reddish-blonde hair was pulled up to the top of her head in a floppy loop-like thing which reminded him of a fountain. Her curvy figure was now, for the most part, hidden under an oversized white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Black stretchy pants—maybe what the women called leggings—covered what he could see of her legs.
And she was barefoot. Her pink-painted toes were surprisingly tempting. He’d never been into feet but if he was, Chelle’s would be the type of feet he’d be into. Her toes weren’t fat and stubby but long and delicate, just like her fingers.
