That said, lately the balance has shifted. We’re close to making just as much money above board as we do under it.
Across the garage, I catch Dime’s eye. He motions toward his office. I follow, shutting the door behind us. We try not to talk serious business at the garage, but sometimes there’s no avoiding it.
“How’s it going?” I ask as I step inside.
“Busy. But I’m guessing you already knew that,” he replies, smirking as he crosses his arms. “Word is the Rebels are pissed.”
“Wouldn’t doubt it,” I say. “The grow op was their only consistent cashflow.”
He leans back on his desk, thoughtful. “You think it’s worth it? Doing the dirty work?”
I know what he’s really asking. We're embedded so deep now it’s hard to tell where the cover ends and real life begins. We’ve taken down threats to the club, played our roles too well. The longer we’re here, the more blurred the lines get.
“It has to be,” I reply, reaching into my jeans, grabbing out a cigarette. This is a bad habit I’ve picked up to deal with the stress. Lighting up, I inhale, and let the nicotine wash over me. “If this ends with us getting that shit off the street, then yeah—it’s worth it.”
Dime exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Wanna hear my plan for next steps?”
He met with Mason a few days ago. I haven’t caught up with him yet, but I will. “I do. What’s the objective?”
He smirks. “Always an objective. They need info on Tommy’s convenience store.”
Tommy’s a longtime Rebel, and rumor’s been circling for years—he’s running drugs out the back of that place.
“What do they want us to do?”
“Send a prospect in to make a buy. Frame it like we’re watching our turf.”
I nod slowly. The deeper we go, the harder it’s going to be to get out. People in town respect us now—hell, they fear us. It’s not what I expected when this all started. And I’d be lying if I said the power wasn’t addicting.
“All right,” I say. “You want me to talk to him?”
“Yeah. It’ll carry more weight coming from you. Good way to reinforce your authority, too.”
He’s not wrong. Everything I do now has to be calculated—especially with the members watching.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Good. My mom’s done with chemo.”
He’s talking about his real mom—not the one we invented for our backstories.
“That’s great. I’m happy for you.” I pause, letting out a breath. “It’s gonna be hard to go back to normal life after this, isn’t it?”
His eyes close, his jaw tightens. We’ve both been under so long, we don’t really know what ‘normal’ means anymore. “What if we don’t want to?” he asks quietly.
I shift, hands sliding into my pockets, rocking back on my heels. “That’s something we’ll have to figure out.”
He nods, mouth in a hard line. “Gotta get back out there. Talk to the probie.”
“I will.”
I let him leave first, then linger for a moment, shrinking under the weight of his words. Finally, I step out of the office and whistle.
“Prospect! Come here.”
Lee jogs over—twenty years old, fresh-faced, eager. He came to us hungry and bruised, but he’s earned his keep.
“Sir?” he asks.
