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Cooper grinned. “I volunteer to be the president of the Nevada charter of the Brazen Bulls.”
“I’ll go, too,” Zach said.
His little brother turned and gaped at him. “Mom will fuckin’tenderizeyou if you move to Nevada.”
Zach ignored him.
“Hold up, fellas,” Eight said, putting up a hand. “We’re not that far yet. Today, we’re only voting on if we want a charter at all. There’s a lot of work to do before anybody’s moving anywhere, and we’ll vote that, too, when the time comes. Are we ready to vote on the idea of a new charter?”
The brothers all nodded, and all looked around to see the others nodding.
Eight laughed. “I get the feeling we don’t really need this vote, but let’s do this right. All those in favor of staking a new club charter in Laughlin, Nevada, say aye. Aye. Mav?”
“Aye.”
When it came around to Dex, the last vote, only Gargoyle had voted no. It was decided. So Dex felt free to vote his conscience, and he did not atalllike that this idea—which might on its own have merit—had started with a Russian demand. “No.”
Eight gave him a narrow look before he faced the whole table again. “Twelve to two. Vote carries. We’re staking a new charter.” He slammed the gavel, and most of the table applauded and slapped hands.
“That’s the business that brought us here today. We’ll discuss it again when we have a full plan, but for now, let’s get back to our day.” He raised the gavel again.
“Hey,” Cooper said before Eight could knock it on the table. “You never said who Niko ID’d. Who had Grenell and his boys on a leash?”
“Right.” Eight nodded and set the gavel down again. “They’re Colombian, not Mexican. It’s the Zapatas.”
Gunner frowned. “The Zapatas? I thought they got buried by the Italians back East years ago.”
“I guess they’re trying to make another stand,” Jazz said.
Eight grinned. “Weretrying. Niko means to put them down.”
~oOo~
After chapel, the Bulls went back to the mundanity that was, in good times, normal. For Dex, that meant heading back to the station to finish replacing the transmission on a 1975 Ford LTD. He loved working on big old land yachts like this. Newer cars had computers on board, and all you had to do was jack in, run a diagnostic, and get a menu of work to do.
An old car like this, a mechanic got to be part detective, figuring out what was wrong, whether it could be fixed. That answer was far more often yes with an old car; newer cars mostly needed parts replaced, not repaired. It was just much more fun to work on cars that let you actually work on them.
He was on a roller board, under the LTD, when somebody grabbed his boot and yanked him out.
“What the fuck, man?” he said before his head cleared the car. Then he was looking up at a very angry Maverick, who swooped down, grabbed Dex’s coverall, and yanked him up.
The board rolled and caught them off balance; they crashed together into the Ford’s fender, and then Mav punched him in the face.
Dex shoved him back and let his own fist fly. He caught Mav right on the button and dropped him.
He was sick to fuck of this asshole blindsiding him with his goddamn fists. It was one thing when he felt guilty, like he was soiling Mav’s daughter just to look at her, but they were together now, and this motherfucker was supposed to be okay with it.
“What is your goddamn problem?” Dex snarled as he offered his hand to Kelsey’s father.
Maverick knocked it away and got up himself. “I fuckingtrustedyou with her. She told me she wanted you, shelovedyou, and I let it happen. I fuckingtrustedyou.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Kelsey’sfine. We’refine. We’regood.” Then it dawned on him. “Shit, is she okay? Did something happen? Did somebody hurt her?” And why did Mav think it was his fault?
Maverick glared at him silently. Then he dug his phone from his pocket, swiped around on it, and shoved it at Dex.
A text thread was on the screen. Hannah’s name was at the top. Why the hell was Mav showing him texts from his fifteen-year-old k—
OMG DADDY KELSEY IS
