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That was fair, so Eight nodded. “Okay. I like when you sayourson.”
She grinned. “I like that you want him.”
“I really do. I want you both.” Eight leaned down and claimed another dizzying kiss.
~oOo~
The next day, Eight was over at the station, checking in. He managed the place now, but he didn’t spend a lot of time in it, and hadn’t since he’d stepped up to be Becker’s VP. Overall, he’d been glad to hang up his tools, but he missed the days when he was nobody important, just a grunt doing what he was told. He also missed the racket of a busy service station at work.
Back when he’d first begun hanging around the Bulls, Brian Delaney Auto Service had been a lowkey shop, just four full-service pumps, a tiny office where customers checked out, and four service bays. Then almost twenty years ago, a little old lady from the neighborhood lost control of her big boat of an ancient Lincoln Continental and utterly destroyed the station, killing herself and almost killing Fitz in the process.
In the rebuild, they’d decided to take out the overflow lot and build out the office area considerably, turning it into a convenience mart.
They weren’t especially close to an interstate, or in an affluent area, so their clientele was largely made up of neighborhood folks, and that little quick shop was a huge draw for them. The nearest supermarket was several miles away, and a lot of their neighbors relied on public transportation. Now they didn’t have to take a bus to get a gallon of milk.
It had been important to Delaney and Mo to be good neighbors, and they’d gone out of their way to fit in, and to be helpful. D had retired before the station was wrecked and rebuilt, and he no longer had a significant stake in the operation, but they hadn’t changed the business name, nor the relationship D had built with the community.
When they threw a big party, like the one coming up on Friday, they opened their doors to the blocks around them, but that was the least of their outreach efforts.
They’d done a whole lot of repairs for little old ladies and men, and struggling families, arranging long payment plans, or sometimes charging for parts only. They welcomed the grey-haired retirees who sat in their plastic lawn chairs outside the shop and bitched about the world through every warm day. And they all kept watch over the kids playing nearby.
For the most part, Eight had ignored all that. Until extremely recently, he’d never really worked at any relationship—honestly, he and Becker wouldn’t have been so close if Becker hadn’t refused to be dissuaded by Eight’s attitude—and he couldn’t have cared less if the Bulls were friends or foes to the people living near the compound. But he did eventually come to see the recruitment potential.
A lot of the boys who’d ridden their bikes and skateboards through the station lot grew up to hang around the clubhouse, at least for a little while, before they moved on. A few had stuck and applied to prospect. Terry Capewell, who’d been killed in the Perro fight, had been their first patch from the neighborhood, close to twenty years ago. Then Jazz had come up the same way. A couple others had bailed or washed out during the prospect period. Now Christian was waiting his turn for a vote. Eight thought that kid needed some seasoning first, but that wasn’t unusual. Overall, he’d be a good patch.
Christian was working today, pumping gas. Eight leaned on the side of the counter and watched the kid clean the windows of a late-model Lexus.
They still hadn’t converted the pumps to self-service, and Eight doubted they ever would. When the whole fucking world went to self-serve, they’d kept on doing things their own way. Despite their inconvenient location, they’d managed to keep the bays busy by being among the best mechanics and auto-body folks in the region. Now they’d also carved out a little niche for themselves as a novelty and had some regular customers, most of them women, who came all the way to their shitty little neighborhood so they could sit behind the wheel and be taken care of. Like a spa day for their cars.
“Hey, Prez.”
Surprised to hear JJ’s voice at the station, since he wasn’t back on the work schedule yet, Eight turned. JJ stood across the shop, in the doorway to the bays. He wasn’t in his Sinclair greens, but wore jeans, a hoodie, and his kutte.
He looked good, overall. As good as somebody who’d taken two bullets at close range and was down a vital organ could look. He’d lost maybe twenty pounds, none of which he could have spared, but he seemed strong.
“Hey, kid. How’re you doin’?”
“Okay. Pretty good. Ready to get back to it.”
“That why you’re here? Looking to get on the schedule? You know Mav handles all that, and he’s on a security job today. He’ll be back around five.”
“I know. I rode in with Zach. I’m bored outta my skin at home.” He got a conflicted look, almost shy, and asked, “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure. Hit me.”
“It’s … can we do it someplace quieter? Like, private?”
His antennae twitching madly, Eight stood up straight and looked the kid sharp in the eyes. “Did you fuck up again?” Fuck! How could he have? He was supposed to berecuperating.
“No! No, nothing like that. I just … can I talk to you? Privately?”
Eight sighed. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good news. The kid was too twitchy for the topic to be easy. “Yeah, okay. Go on over. I’ll meet you in a couple minutes.”
JJ grinned, obviously relieved. “Thanks, Prez.” After an awkward pause where he looked like he didn’t know what to do next, JJ went out the front door and crossed the lot toward the clubhouse.
Eight stood where he was and watched him go. Then he went out to the bays, where Zach was rotating the tires on a Toyota.
“Zach!” he yelled over the noise of the impact wrench.
