Page 10 of Ruger's Rage
I laugh, a genuine sound that surprises me. "That's one way to put it."
Our conversation is interrupted when Bloodhound clears his throat behind me. "You want the usual corner table?"
I nod, but hesitate before moving. "Keep 'em coming," I tell Tildie, tapping my glass.
Her smile is small but real. "I can do that."
I join my brothers at our table, but my attention keeps drifting back to the bar.
Watching Tildie work makes my cock twitch.
She remembers drinks without scribbling notes like an amateur, handles the drunk bastard at the end of the bar like she's done it a thousand fucking times before, and moves like every move she makes is calculated—like she's avoiding being cornered.
Maddox snaps his fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Prez."
I grumble, "What?"
"Ounce was telling us about the Grim Vultures sniffing around our territory again."
I force myself to focus on club business. "What have the fuckers been doing?"
"Moving product through the south side," Ounce reports, his face grave. "They're testing us, seeing how far they can push now."
My jaw tightens.
I've been expecting this. Honestly, it's surprising we made it this long without too many issues from them.
"They've hit four of our drop points in the past month," Bloodhound adds, his voice low enough that the other patrons won't overhear. "Not taking cash, just fuckin' with our inventory. It's a message."
"What's the message?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"That they don't respect the new leadership," Maddox growls. "Think three years is long enough for us to get soft."
I take a long pull from my whiskey, letting the burn ground me while I process this.
The Grim Vultures have been testing the waters since I took over, but they've been patient.
Waiting for the right moment to push.
"Set up a meet with Viper," I decide. "See what he's really after before this turns into a war we don't need."
As we discuss strategy, I notice the bar getting rowdier.
A group of men in work boots have claimed the counter, already deep into their drinking.
Three years of being President has taught me to read a room, and these bastards are trouble.
"Another round, beautiful!" the loudest one slurs, slamming his empty glass on the bar.
He's built like a linebacker, neck tattoo creeping up from under his collar.
Tildie approaches with a fresh pitcher, her professional smile firmly in place. "Ten minutes until last call, gentlemen."
"Plenty of time to get to know you better," Neck Tattoo leers, his buddies chuckling as his eyes roam over her body. "Goddamn, look at those tits. Real ones too, from what I can see."
My hand tightens around my glass.
Every head at our table turns toward the bar.
