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I open my mouth to speak, but it’s Brew whose voice booms in the room. I’m thankful, mainly because I’m not quite sure what to say. I wasn’t there from the conception to know what this group was doing.
All I was asked to do was to be Brew’s backup and maybe rough this guy up a little if he needed it. He was already scared shitless with just me standing there. I didn’t even have to get my hands dirty.
“He owed the Dark Horse MC over twenty thousand dollars. He swore he could push the shit in the clubs, but he couldn’t. I think he used it all himself. A bad habit that tends to happen in this industry.”
“He’d be dead on that habit if he used it all himself,” Atomic snorts.
“Well…” I say.
His eyes find mine, and he shakes it once, trying to keep from laughing. It’s funny, if nothing else. We need to laugh about this shit. If we don’t laugh, we’ll be pissed that we just lost a fuckton of money.
“We aren’t on their radar as far as I know,” he says. “But we do need to be careful.”
“We were,” Brew says. “Very careful. We didn’t hurt him at all. We spoke to him, threatened him, and gave him a fucking timeline.”
“They suspect foul play?” I ask.
Atomic clears his throat. “They don’t, at least not yet, and probably won’t. It is clear that he had his own demons.”
“Those being us?” Piston asks.
I wink, unsure of what else to say. The asshole owed us twenty thousand bucks for a bunch of coke and speed. He swore he could push that shit, but he couldn’t do dick, mainly because he likely used all the product his fucking self.
“Those being his fucking self,” Atomic murmurs. “Nobody forced him to do what he did. All we did was demand payment and give him a timeline. Now we aren’t getting a fucking dime from his ass, which benefits us… zilch.”
He’s not wrong. “What do we do now?” I ask.
Piston stands, placing his palms on the warm wood of the conference table. “We go on, business as usual, and we try to figure out a way to make it back—and fast.”
“What we need is a new way to funnel funds. Just the keg delivery alone isn’t enough. We need something that uses a lot of cash,” I say.
“Strip club,” Brew shouts, and a couple guys clap.
“Bar?” I ask, knowing that I would rather die than help run any bar in the whole world again.
Atomic stands, slamming his gavel down again. “Let’s forget about it until the next meeting. We can make a decision then. I want everyone to think of some ways to diversify the club. King is right. It’s what we need to do. We can’t rely on kegs and drugs. We need more.”
And with that, the meeting is adjourned. They never last long, mainly because we’re a group of men who want to fuck and drink, not sit in meetings. So that is exactly what we all do. Fuck and drink. We’ll worry about the rest of the bullshit tomorrow.
SHAWN
I count the cupcake boxes again. I want this to be perfect. I need it to be perfect. I can’t help thinking that I’m missing something, so I count the boxes and the cupcakes again, for the third time.
Each time, I count three hundred and forty-eight. I added an extra couple dozen cupcakes just in case, all fluffily delicious and ready to be consumed. I’m shaking. I can’t believe that this order is real, that this really happened.
Taking my phone out of my pocket, I glance down at the time. I need to leave here in fifteen minutes, and my ride hasn’t arrived yet. My brother thankfully offered to help me, though I’m not really sure why. I think it’s mostly because I’m going to this place.
Once he heard the address, he was more than happy to join me. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t ask either. Honestly, I’m just ecstatic to have a ride and not have to figure out a bus schedule to carry three hundred and forty-eight cupcakes across town.
A horn honks twice, and I turn my head, looking behind my shoulder to see my brother’s pickup truck pull up to the curb. A van would be a better vehicle, but my bakery isn’t really a custom order-and-delivery type business… yet. I suppose if I’m going to do more than this, I’ll need my license and a van.
I open the door to the shop, stick my arm out, and wave as my brother slams his pickup door and makes his way toward me. I have fifteen boxes of cupcakes ready for delivery.
“Do you think these will fit in the back seat?” I ask as he walks into the shop.
He looks around, taking it all in. He’s never been inside of the bakery before. He doesn’t speak or answer me immediately. Instead, he observes, then his gaze flicks to mine and he smirks.
“This is a cute place,” he murmurs.
