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“What a stupid fucking name, Stone,” Pasha says with a laugh, grabbing a piece of bread and piling eggs on top of it. “Motherfucker really is a caveman.”
Greg laughs, but I’m not amused. These two get paid a steady salary. Mine is dictated by how much money we’re able to bring in from our businesses, and if the Triple Six Angels cause too much trouble, my little money machine will turn into a ghost town. I need to make sure that doesn’t happen.
I finish off my Bloody Mary and crunch on the celery stick from my glass, the fibers peeling off and wedging themselves between my teeth. As much as I hate having to deal with a biker gang getting in the way of business, it’s almost a welcome relief from the topic of Oakley.
I can’t get her face out of my head, and that’s dangerous in my line of work. No man should be that distracted by a woman.
Still, despite the pressure of finding a solution to Stone and his posse of braindead followers, Oakley’s face floats across my vision.
Then her neck.
Then her breasts.
Then her hips and her ass in those tight blue jeans.
My cock is pulsing again, and I’m ready to go home and spill my seed just to free myself from her mind-numbing grip. Whatever works.
“How do we send a signal?” Greg finally asks, breaking me out of my spell. “Should we shoot one of them?”
“No,” I say with a slight laugh. “That would be a bit drastic. I’ll have to think about it. Perhaps if we simply sent someone to talk to them, they’d relent.”
Greg raises his hands. “I’m not going.”
“Pussy,” Pasha says.
“Oh, you’d like to go?”
Pasha looks toward me for some kind of support, but I rather like Greg’s idea. “Right, well, if you think Greg can’t do it, then you’re the better one to go. Just speak like you’re talking to a couple of wild boars and you should be alright. Explain it to them in terms they can understand.”
“Take many dollars, no money left. Take few dollars, always have money,” Greg says, imitating the stereotype of a caveman.
Pasha gives him an annoyed look. “Thanks a lot,” he says sarcastically.
“No problem.”
I sigh. “Alright, let’s get out of here. This place is getting too busy. Any suggestions where we should meet next week?”
“Your house, maybe. Don’t you have a private chef?” Pasha suggests.
“He doesn’t work on weekends,” I reply, already hating the idea of having to entertain these two at my house. Once they discovered the hot tub in the backyard, they’d never leave.
“What good is a chef that doesn’t cook on weekends? Is that when you’d want one?”
“I have time on the weekends. Occasionally, a man likes to cook for himself,” I reply.
“Sounds like you need a wife,” Greg says.
“I don’t have time for that,” I snap, but I immediately picture Oakley in my kitchen, wearing nothing but an apron, her bare ass exposed as she bends over to open the oven. I’d kill to have her walking around my house, cleaning things, feeding me, and falling to her knees to suck me off at the snap of my fingers.
Is that worth giving up two-thousand dollars a week?
Probably not.
Probablynot.
8
Oakley
