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“Here’s the big winner.” Samson slapped him on the back. “You came through tonight. My associates are very happy.”
Good news since most of Samson’s buddies from New York looked like they’d just walked off the soundstage ofGood Fellows—the kind of guys he didn’t want to disappoint or piss off.
Mamba shot Cobra a glance, but as usual, he silently took in their exchange but added nothing. His prez never spat out bullshit, and most times, his sentences were short and to the point, but tonight was torture. Cobra held Mamba’s future, and for once, he wished his boss would show his hand or at least reveal some of what simmered in his steel trap of a brain.
“We have a place for you here.” Samson picked up a shot glass and handed it to Mamba. The two men clinked glasses and shot the whiskey. Mamba shifted his glance to Cobra, but nothing.
Python came up on his other side. “Shit, brother, I think there’s more hot ass here than at the Gold Mine. When do you have time to train?”
Mamba flexed his arms, which had grown no less than an inch over the last month. “Do I look like I’ve been slacking?” He shouldered-butted the sergeant-at-arms, and it felt good to razz each other. Real fuckin’ good. Now if Cobra would only make it official.
Cobra eased off the barstool, and his laser blue eyes focused in on Mamba. “I want a word.”
Mamba’s heart kicked up—the moment of truth. He followed his prez to the back of the bar and into the office, slamming the door behind him. Cobra leaned his hip against the metal desk to face him, and as usual, Mamba had no idea what the fuck he would spit out.
“You’re doin’ good down here.” He pulled a cig out of his pocket and plugged it between his lips. Mamba flicked his Zippo and lit the tip, hoping the small gesture would work in his favor. “Samson’s happy with the setup, and so are we.”
Mamba remained silent, every muscle coiled as he waited for his verdict. Fuckin’ worse than standing in front of the toughest judge at his arraignments.
“Looking forward to getting back to Vegas, so I can make some real money for the Serpents.”
“You already are.” Cobra blew out a stream of smoke.
Mamba narrowed his eyes as his brows drew together.
“Samson’s giving us a percentage in return for setting him up with some contacts in Vegas.”
Mamba never claimed to be a genius, but it sure sounded like he was getting the short end of a shitty stick.
“Were you getting a percentage when I was fighting for Razor too?” Mamba suspected he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it out of Cobra’s mouth.
“Of course, you’re our fighter. You belong to us.”
“I thought slavery was outlawed over a hundred years ago.”
Cobra glared at him through a cloud of smoke. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“I thought you and the Serpents being here tonight meant I was going back to Vegas.”
“Samson just opened this place. He needs your rep in the ring to bring in the big money.”
“So I’m still on loan?” Mamba huffed out a sharp breath. “Un-fuckin-believable.”
“Did you forget how you got yourself into this situation in the first place?”
“I didn’t forget, but I can’t fuckin’ believe that my club and my prez are hanging me out to dry and making money off my ass.”
“You disobeyed an order twice, then you drag us into Marauder bullshit. Bullshit we don’t need.”
“You ever intend to take me back, or are you just stringing me along until the money dries up?” Mamba couldn’t control the venom in his voice.
“Are you questioning me?”
“I’ve been down here for almost eight weeks. Four weeks without my bike, living in some shithole not much bigger than my cell in the pen, and now here.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t strip your patch and burn the colors off your back.”
“I paid my dues,” Mamba raged.
