Page 9 of Life Or Death

“Fuck,” I hiss.

The blows just keep coming.

I push off from the desk and pace the small confines of the trailer. Ten grand isn’t even enough to cover what I already owe the hospital, let alone the upcoming surgery.

“It sucks,” Mammon says, pulling my attention back to him. “But we just dropped a ton of money into Meadows Ranch. Everything we made from our last rodeo season at Steel Horse went towards the purchase of the ranch. We would’ve probably been okay if we hadn’t changed the initial deal. Sinking that extra five hundred k for Shadow’s dude ranch depleted our funds.”

I stop pacing and turn to face him.

When Maddox proposed a partnership with the club to save his ranch, the dude ranch wasn’t part of it. My VP, Shadow, went behind Maddox’s back and came to me a few days later with a business plan Della had drawn up. I knew the man was thinking with his dick, wanting to make his woman feel purposeful, and I still fucking agreed to dump more of the club’s money into that fucking ranch. I know the return on our investment is going to be plentiful, but it’s a marathon, not a sprint. We gave the ranch enough cash to climb out of debt, but it’s going to be a long while before we recover our initial investment, and even longer before we turn a profit.

“You might want to talk to Maddox. With everything going on—Della being taken, and all that shit—there is no way they broke ground on the dude ranch. Tell him we’re strapped, that the build on the dude ranch is going to have to wait. If we get those funds back, we can rebuild Rodeo Roundup.”

I don’t give a fuck about rebuilding the bar, but Mammon doesn’t know that. He also doesn’t know I need the money now. Telling Maddox to halt the construction on the dude ranch won’t get me what I need to ensure Jess has her surgery, but the hospital bills are only going to keep stacking, and I’m going to need a lot more than a hundred grand in the coming months. I can’t imagine he’d give me any trouble, but my VP is another story. Shadow won’t take kindly to disappointing his woman, and that’s going to cause a problem with Howdy-fucking-Doody. I just don’t have it in me to give a fuck.

I make a mental note to speak with my new business partner and rack my brain for another solution that will get me the cash I need quickly. My mind immediately wanders to the stockpile of guns we have in an underground bunker thirty miles north of Saddle Ridge. We’ve got crates of Glocks, AR-15s, and enough ammunition to supply a small militia.

Without so much as another glance in Mammon’s direction, I storm out of the trailer and make my way back to the clubhouse. Dread and Homeboy are still at the bar, the joint they were sharing long gone.

Dread’s eyes lift as I approach, and he must see something in my face because he sits up a little straighter.

“Homeboy,” I don’t even look at the prospect, “get lost.”

He hesitates for half a second—just long enough to make my jaw clench—before pushing off the bar and shuffling toward one of the couches on the other side of the room.

I slide onto the stool Homeboy vacated and turn to face Dread. “We need to talk.”

Dread takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his gray eyes studying me over the rim of the glass. “Figured as much when you came storming in here looking like a bat out of hell.”

“I need to move the inventory at the bunker. All of it.”

Dread sets his glass down and blinks at me. “All of it?”

“Every last fucking gun. I need cash, and I need it fast.”

Blowing out a breath, he leans back on his stool and rubs his jaw with one hand. The man is an asset to the club. He can move product like nobody’s business, and he’s got connections in places most people don’t even know exist. Not to mention, he’s got judges and ATF agents indebted to him for God knows what.

“How much, and just how fast are we fucking talking about?”

“A hundred grand, and I needed it yesterday, but a couple of hours from now will do. I know we can’t go to our usual buyers. If they know we’re liquidating everything at once, they’re gonna smell blood in the water and lowball us into the ground. That’s why I’m thinking we reach out to the Satan’s Knights. Word on the street is the Knightdale charter is trying to expand their arsenal. They got the cash and their president, Maverick, has the appetite.”

Dread scoffs. “Even if they want a bite at the apple, there’s no way we’re moving that much product in a couple of hours.” He pauses for a moment. “What the fuck is going on, Lucifer? Why do you need the money so badly?”

The words sit heavy on my tongue, and I know the second I let them out, there’s no taking them back. My brothers know Jess as the girl who works at the bar. The poor soul who got caught in the fire. They don’t know that she’s been living rent-free in my head since the first time I laid eyes on her. They don’t know I’ve been parading around the hospital as her pretend husband, holding her hand every night, promising to make it right.

Now, I’m about to drain the club’s assets for her.

I drag my gaze up to meet Dread’s, and I see the question still burning behind his eyes. He’s waiting for an answer, and for once in my goddamn life, I don’t have a lie ready.

“It’s Jess.”

Dread’s brows pinch together. “The bartender?”

“Yeah.”

Dread’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind his eyes. A flicker of understanding, maybe. Or maybe it’s pity. Either way, it makes my skin crawl.

I clear my throat and avert my eyes.