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“Damn, man, maybe we need fresh meat in the bunny pool. They’re getting lazy.”
“It’ll be up for discussion.”
Me and the boys shot the shit for the twenty plus minutes it took Half Pint to carry in eight bags of greasy ass fast-food breakfast and weak as shit coffee.
“Half Pint, you are to make sure the brass has something besides frozen fucking pizza for lunch. Get the bunnies to do it or one of the other prospects. ’Cause I know you can burn fuckin’ water. Close the doors on the way out.”
Papa shoved a greasy bag and coffee in my direction. I pulled off the lid and took a whiff before tasting the brew.
“Fuck, that’s worse than I thought it would be. Blue, have we got any business from last week?”
“No, Prez.” Blue drew out the words with his deep Memphis drawl. The man could sing too. Black hair, blue eyes and a voice that could sell millions. A modern-day Elvis with tattoos and piercings. He had a contract once but got screwed. He walked away. No one knows what happened. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Blue’s demons ran deep, maybe deeper than my own. Though I couldn’t complain. My old man was solid, and my mama was an angel.
“First order of business. Anyone have leads on the hire we need to finish the compound?”
“I do Prez,” Decker, his Road Captain, spoke up. “One of Willow’s friends has a degree in business and hotel management. Moved here recently. Will take cash.”
Interesting. “What’s his name and when can he start?”
“Her name is Stormy St. James, and she can start as soon as you call her. I’ll send you her digits after church.”
“She a stripper?” Papa asked with a laugh.
“Stripper name, two degrees. I bet she’s a dog,” Boomer added. Several balled up sandwich wrappers hit Boomer, including my own.
“You’re a dog.”
Boomer grabbed his crotch. “You know it.”
“Dakota, update on the businesses.”
“Finer than the hair on a frog’s ass, Prez. All in the black with increasing profits.”
The Voodoo Kings owned several businesses. A brewery, gym, grow house, garage and dispensary. Our grow house also produced products from bud to brownies and everything in between. When we finished moving into the new digs, Cash wanted to convert the old firehouse into a burlesque venue.
“We need better food and better pussy.”
“What’s wrong with the pussy?” Smoke quipped.
“I tire of seeing it taking up space and eating greasy fast food or burnt, frozen pizza.”
“So, what you are saying is you want her to look good, suck cock and cook?” Boomer asked.
“Yup.”
“Why don’t you just get yourself an old lady?” Decker asked.
I shot him the bird. “Maybe I will, motherfuckers.”
