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“They’re well placed geographically,” Jazz said. “And look at the club photo again.” Apollo flipped back to the first slide. “More than half those men are too young to have been patched when the club was at its peak.”
“But the men who were patched then brought those younger men in,” Mav pushed.
“I ran every one of them,” Apollo said with a glance at Mav. “They all have at least an arrest on the books, and only one man has a charge I don’t like.” A pen came onto the slide and made a bright red circle around the older man holding up the right side of the banner. “Steve-O Ingish. Did six years for three counts of aggravated rape.”
Aggravated rape pretty much meant the guy had beaten the shit out of the women he’d forced himself on. Three counts sounded like a habit. That was a Grade-A Prime villain right there.
“Jesus,” Duncan muttered. “I don’t want that asshole wearing a Bull.”
His father looked down the table at him. Jay resented the pride in Maverick’s eyes.
Pop was proud that Zach and Jay were Bulls—well, he was proud of Zach and pleased enough with Jay—but he’d been retired before Jay had a seat at this table, so he’d never seen him in action.
“No, we don’t want Steve-O wearing the Bull,” Eight said. “If we do decide to patch the Nameless over, getting rid of him would be part of it.”
“I like the poetry of patching over a club called the Nameless,” Gunner said with a grin.
“We’re not voting on it yet. And it’s nowhere near a done deal,” Eight interjected, sounding impatient with the discussion already. “But Mav, Dex, Apollo, and me are gonna ride out there soon so we can get a firsthand look at ‘em.” He sighed, and Jay figured everybody else heard the same thing in that loud breath: long rides were hard for Eight, and Tulsa to Eureka had to be more than two thousand miles. “We’re heading out some time after the next Russian run. Caleb’ll have the gavel while we’re gone.”
Reminded that he was being forced to go on the next Russian run, Jay lost interest in the patch-over talk and remembered that he felt like shit.
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~oOo~
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This time he wasn’tbeing a creepy stalker. This time, he was walking right in.
Petra’s almost-visit to the station that afternoon was the closest thing to something good he’d had in days—since the last good thing he’d had, which was also Petra. So he was going back for her.
He needed to feel something decent. He needed somebody to fuckingwanthim. To think he was enough.
One good thing about not being somebody who spent a lot of time in self-reflection? His brain tended not to get in his way when he wanted something.
Gertrude’s on a Wednesday night was a different place from Gertrude’s on a Friday night. The music on the sound system was low and soft, just a guitar, playing a ballad that sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place it. The little groupings of low tables and fancy armchairs were full, and the barstools were mostly full, and there were lots of conversations going on, but there wasn’t a lot of noise. More wineglasses than beer bottles or booze glasses. And just about everybody—still almost entirely women—had a book in their hands. Even the lighting was different—a little brighter than Friday night, and warmer, too. Almost like candleglow.
One thing was the same: all those lesbians were looking right at him as he headed for the bar.
A few other things were the same, actually.
Petra stood behind it, just like last time. Her angry friend, whose name Jay couldn’t remember, stood beside her, looking pissed directly at him, just like last time. But her friend could suck a dick—ha! not that she, or they or whatever, would. So could all the other gawking folks. His attention was entirely focused on Petra. And hers was focused on him.
He hadn’t forgotten a hair on her head. She was just as beautiful as he remembered.
She wore a snug black halter top that accentuated every curve and contour of her slim body. Earlier, when he’d caught sight of her driving away, he’d noticed that her hair was done up a little, the front pulled back and caught in a clip that had sparkled in the sun. Now it was loose. Watching him approach, she tucked one side behind her ear and showed a big silver hoop earring. Those seemed to be the only jewelry she had on. She didn’t have ink, either. He thought maybe she was the only woman he’d been with since high school who didn’t have any ink at all. No body art but a single piercing in each ear. It was surprisingly hot.
“Hey,” he said as he reached the bar and slipped in between two empty stools.
“Hi ...” she answered, still staring at him, looking shocked and maybe a little embarrassed, but not upset. He didn’t think. He hoped the embarrassment was about her little tour of his neck of the woods earlier and not about his presence in hers now.
“What do you want, asshole?” her angry friend snapped. “You don’t belong here and you’re not wanted here.”
“Dre, don’t,” Petra said softly.
Dre. Right. He ignored the angry friend—who had turned their angry scowl on Petra.
“You have got to be kidding me, Pet. Don’t do this. I know shit’s fucked for you right now, but this shithead ain’t it.”
