Page 39 of Property of Kevlar

Wearing a bright, cheery smile, the waitress, clad in lacy lingerie, squeaked, “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

The Dixie Mafia, from what Kevlar remembered, wasn’t like the Italians, Irish, or Russians in the area, but pretty fucking close. They didn’t have titles but respected rank. Joseph, the man across from him, and his brother-in-law, Michael, were in charge. Their kids were next in the hierarchy, and then there were soldiers. Everyone had a role to play, and they worked like a decently oiled machine from what he recalled.

Though there was that mess with the Irish. He wondered if that was still going on.

“Mickey tells us you’re in town for good,” Michael commented as he rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands.

“Yep,” Kevlar said. “New club, though.”

He wanted to dispel any concerns that there would be bad blood between him and the men who had burned down his former clubhouse.

Eddie ran a finger along the stubble on his chin. “For how long? Are you just passing through?”

They could only wish.

Kevlar shook his head. “We heard you had a Scorpion problem.”

Michael and Eddie exchanged glances. Kevlar believed their expression meant they’d had a run-in with the vermin already. Good. That could only bolster his case.

“Kid and I are home for good.” He gestured to his brother and himself. “We’d like your help in getting rid of your pests.”

“Alright.” The waitress had returned, her tray filled with beverages. “I’ve got some Cutty and water and a bottle of tequila,” she announced as she dispensed the drinks.

The men at the table quieted and eyed each other as though whoever had the best stare would win. Win what? Oklahoma City? Kevlar scoffed internally. That wasn’t happening. No one could corner the market on this place. There was too much to be had. Territory and turf wars were bound to happen.

Despite the chaos of multiple syndicates operating in the same vicinity, things were pretty civil. Everyone maintained a different piece of the pie with little overlap. The Russians handled trafficking women, the Irish handled guns and exports, the Colombians dabbled in the drug market, the Dixie Dicks had their illegal casinos, and the Italians oversaw a little of everything. They were the big fish.

Bikers were often the scum on the shoe of these pretentious assholes. Probably because they diversified. Kevlar wanted to dip his toe into all of what there was to delve into. Though what he had the most backing for was arms deals, so he’d be going up against the Irish once he got his shit together. A problem for another day.

Right now, his focus was on getting the support of the Dixie Mafia to take out the Scorpions. One situation at a time.

“What makes you think we can’t handle the pest problem?” Michael asked after the woman had left the table.

“You can,” Kevlar responded honestly as he cracked open the white and blue bottle of Clase Azul Reposado Tequila. “But why do it alone and risk your own when we can help?”

“Because you don’t have any men,” Joseph declared.

Doing his best not to bristle, Kevlar poured the alcohol into his shot glass. “Not here, but I can get them. They’re a phone call away. The Royal Bastards are national.” He placed the bottle on the table. “We’re not going anywhere. I’d much rather have you as an ally than an enemy.”

Holding the older man’s gaze, he threw back the shot.

No salt.

No lime.

Just the raw burn of quality tequila. He let it linger in his mouth before he swallowed. “Besides, we’re practically family.”

22

Kelsey

Whew! A day off. Kelsey had been running for two weeks straight. Between the salon, weddings on the weekend, and the play that had finally wrapped production, she’d barely had a minute to breathe, let alone shop.

Which was, by far, her favorite therapeutic activity. Nothing boosted her mood more than scoring a kick-ass outfit for a rock-bottom price.

There was nothing better than combing through thrift shops, searching for that diamond in the rough. Considering Kelsey carried a few more pounds than most, had a full hourglass figure with a generous portion of hips, thighs, ass, and tits, if she found anything in her size, she celebrated.

Though in Oklahoma, discovering anything that wasn’t equivalent to a poncho was difficult. She loved the hunt. Sometimes, fancying herself a seamstress, she bought the smaller sizes, intending to rework a piece to fit her body.