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He jerks his head toward his pickup truck. I’m not surprised we aren’t taking the bikes, but I am partially annoyed. My bike is my ticket to freedom. I don’t like being beholden to someone else’s timeline. I don’t want to have to wait for him to get to the truck if we need to get the fuck out of there.
But on the other hand, I trust Atomic. He’s my brother. So if it’s more inconspicuous to be in the pickup truck, then that’s the shit we’ll do. I walk over to it, tug the door open, and climb inside just as he jumps into the driver’s seat.
“How far out is this place?” I ask.
“Just in the industrial area. It’s a big sorting and shipping facility,” he replies.
There are a few out there, and I’m glad that’s where it is. It seems like the safest place to have an operation like this. At least the most low-key, anyway. Before we’re even out of the compound driveway, Atomic clears his throat.
“What?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“You gonna make that baker your bitch?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Why?”
“Her brother is a fucking problem.”
“Yeah, I got that,” I say.
“You gonna rectify it?”
He doesn’t look at me as he drives toward the industrial area, the buildings growing larger, and I notice the trucks are heavy in the area. I’ve only ever been here during the day, and if there were this many trucks around, I didn’t notice it.
Then I realize he’s waiting for my answer. Clearing my throat, I turn to look at his profile. “Yeah, brother. I’m going to rectify it, even if I don’t make her my bitch. She’s a good girl, doesn’t need that piece of shit waiting for whatever the fuck he’s waiting for.”
“Money, dope… opportunity.”
“Yeah,” I grunt. “That’s exactly it. Opportunity. Well, that shit is fucking done.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
SHAWN
“What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep from clenching my jaw and gnashing my teeth together.
I ball my hands in fists at my thighs, unsure of what to do but knowing I need to do something.
My mother’s lips curl into an expression of disgust as she closes the distance between us. I know that look all too well. It’s usually how she glares at me, and I know that she’s about to say something nasty.
She places her palms on the clean glass of my case, and I know that the oils on her hands are going to smear the glass. It bothers me, but only because it’s her. I wouldn’t give a shit if anyone else in the world did it… well, except maybe my brother.
“What do you want?” I ask again through gritted teeth.
She laughs. It’s ugly and loud. Too loud. “Looks like you got a whole fuckin’ setup here,” she snaps. “And you couldn’t even give your momma a helping hand? I see how it is.”
Momma. She only calls herself that when she’s trying to make me feel guilty about something. She’s never been a mother to me. Not when I was a kid, and certainly not now.
“You don’t see shit,” I snap.
I’m sick of her, of everything about her. I walked out when I was eighteen, and I haven’t looked back. She’s only here because my brother told her that I got paid for baking those cupcakes, and he only did that to be petty. He’s angry because he got thrown out on his ass by Elvis.
She arches a brow. “I heard you were fucking a Dark Horse,” she says, her voice almost a purr.
I hate it.
She would get this voice any time one of her druggie boyfriends looked at me. Eyed me instead of her. It was always me who was tempting them. Always me who was a filthy whore. It was always me who was doing whatever to or for them.
