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The room fills with whistles.
Alchemy, who runs our more legitimate business, the Kings Pride distillery, gets up and picks a bottle off the shelves across the room. He pours us all a shot.
Jack raises his glass. “To a fucking profitable crop harvest.”
A hum of agreement rumbles around the table as all the Kings throw back their shot of Kings Pride moonshine.
It’s a face melter.
Even I react to the burn as it sears a path down my throat and into my chest.
“Before I call time on Church, there’s one last matter to attend to. Lacey from the Spicy Crawdad said three thugs paid her a visit and said if she didn’t start making weekly payments, quote, bad things could happen to the club and the people who run it, end quote.”
The Spicy Crawdad is a strip club the Kings own in town. It’s open twenty-four-seven and is the most popular club in town. Lacey is the feisty manager. As tough as an old leather boot up the ass, she isn’t easily rattled. She’s more likely to blow holes in you with the 12-gauge she keeps behind the bar than quake in her boots. But when something like this happens, it’s protocol to let us know.
“A protection racket?” Shooter asks. “They linked to anyone we know?”
“No, I looked into it this afternoon after Jack got the call,” Paw says. “Luka Silvaro is a gutter-feeding amoeba trying to break into the protection game. But he’s not connected. He’s small time with big dreams. Besides the Crawdad, he’s hit seven other businesses nearby.”
“Bam and I will take care of it,” Loki says with a grin. He’s the oldest of Jack’s twin sons, and to call him a player is an understatement.
“No fucking way,” Bam says.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because the last time we visited the Crawdad on business, you brought home three girlfriends.”
Loki gives him a shit-eating grin. “And your point is?”
The twins are complete opposites. Loki is a long-haired musician who doesn’t hide a penchant for hot girls while Bam looks like he stepped out of a college debate championship. Glasses. Short hair. He’s more reserved than his outgoing twin brother.
“My point is… if I have to hear you make anyone else scream as you listen to George Michael’s “Freeek!” on loop again, I’ll burn the goddamn house down.”
“Freeek!?”
“Yeah, the girl with the pink hair insisted you keep playing it. Over and over and over again.”
“Oh yeah.” Loki’s grin grows huge as he remembers. “I forgot about her.”
“How? I’m pretty sure she was the one who kept screaming, do me, daddy, do me.”
Loki looks smug and lifts his arms. “Well, when you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”
Bam throws a pack of matches at him.
While the exchange amuses the rest of the bikers in the room, Jack clears his throat. “I could’ve gone the rest of my life without hearing that,” he states, giving his son a pointed look. His eyes shift to me. “I want you to ride out there and let this asshole know what the Kings think about his latest business venture. Pick-up is supposed to be at eight-thirty tonight. You can take Shooter and Dakota Joe.”
“I’ll go alone,” I say.
I need to ride off this restlessness, and the Spicy Crawdad is across town near the state line leading into the Appalachian Trail. I can take my Harley for a ride into Virginia and back after taking care of Luka fucking Silva.
Jack calls time on Church by bringing down the gavel, and we all disperse.
As I leave the clubhouse and ride toward the Spicy Crawdad, my mind slips back to Rory, and those wide, almond-shaped eyes have haunted me ever since.
Common sense tells me I should be concerned that she hit me up to be a hired gun. If I’m honest, there’s always a concern my past might catch up with me someday, and when a beautiful girl approaches you in a bar and asks you to kill her stepdaddy for putting his hands on her, well, you have to wonder if she knows more than she is telling you.
But even with all of that in mind, it’s those big eyes and full, plush lips that come to mind first.
