The driver is quick to speak. “He brought them. Nothing was in the limo when I took it out. I cleared it myself when prepping it like he wanted.” From the snarled lip of the other guy, I take it as truth.
“What were his specifications? How did he want the limo prepped?” I demand.
The driver—a snotnosed kid named Jeff Nash, early twenties and a clean record from what the boys found—trembles as he looks at me but must feel the weight of the other guy staring at him. “Bottled waters, all Dasani with the blue labels, and the temp had to be seventy-six degrees on the nose.” He tosses his head, letting his scraggly hair, which is seriously in need of a cut, fall to the side. I bet he’s the type that uses gel to style it into some kind of side thing. Might even get some lift to it. But that shit is gone now. Gel doesn’t hold up against being roughed up by bikers. Not that we did much to the kid. He really just was in the wrong place at the wrong time, it seems. However, he’s still on my shit list because, while he claims the partition was up and he didn’t see anything, I’ve got no reason to believe he didn’t hearanything. That makes him a fucker in my book. Listening and not doing shit when someone is in distress, just sitting on your ass? Even courts have put people behind bars for it.
“Anything else?”
Jeff shakes his head as if he’s having a seizure with the amount of vigor he’s putting into it.
A knock on the door makes him freeze. I don’t look behind me, nor do I hear the door open. I can guess who it is, but it doesn’t really matter. They’re going to help me no matter if they were expecting to or not.
“Mickey.” He moves enough that I can hear him approach. “Release him.” I give Jeff a chin lift, and the guy’s eyes bug out in relief. “He’s told us all I need to know.”
Mickey’s quick to flip out a blade and cut off the twist ties on Jeff’s legs, then goes around to unlock the chain holding his arms behind his back as he sat in the chair.
Jeff stumbles to his feet, almost like a baby bird learning to walk for the first time. “Thanks, man. Thank you. I really don’t know nothing. I told you everything, I swear.”
I punch him in the face, breaking his nose and sending blood flying throughout the room. As he wails and bends forward in pain, I uppercut him in the chest. The grunt of his misery makes me smile as he falls to the floor.
“That’s for doing nothing. Next time you hear something that could be anything other than happy-go-lucky shit in the back of your limo, you check it out. I don’t care what they pay you to not look. You look, and you help. Now get this piece of shit out of my sight. And if he learns a few more lessons on his way, I won’t be upset about it.”
Mickey looks like I just gave him his first gun based on the smile on his face. The crazy fuck is Irish, gloats about all the Irish rebel shit all the time. And he’s giddy about everything, to include his weapons. Boasts about how excited he would get when he got one as a kid. Apparently, he had a few, and it was better than candy. Guy had a weird upbringing.
Then again, most of the brothers at the club didn’t have what someone would call a “normal, healthy upbringing.” I was a runaway with a cracked-out mama and a deadbeat dad. Police kept finding me and bringing me back home, but I only stayed long enough to figure out another way to leave. Never got beaten on or anything, just never wanted to be around them. They didn’t care either, so it worked out. I haven’t spoken to them since I last left at seventeen. I’m sure Flint can see what they’re up to these days, but why bother? Didn’t care then, don’t care now. If anyone asks, my parents are dead. At least to me they are, and that’s all that matters in the end.
You can’t claim to be a good parent when a kid goes hungry more often than not because you spend the money on drugs. I don’t know how I even made it as a kid, but I did. Saw more crack pipes than anyone ever should before the age of five.
Might be the reason I love to blow shit up. I wanted to as a kid. Fantasized about burning down my home so often I lost count. Not to kill my parents, but just to destroy all the shit that was chosen over me. It took me a while to let go of that rage. Sometimes it comes back. And that’s about the time I take a job and go do what I do best. The club fully supports my needs, even caters to them. What can I say? I’m a lucky bastard to have friends likemine.
Mickey drags the guy out by his foot, but other than whimpering about his nose, he goes quietly. Luckey comes in next, and I grin, happy to see a trusted member at my back, before turning to the other guy.
Roy Baner. On paper, he’s nothing more than a businessman. Someone who goes to work from nine to five and comes home. And then apparently goes out, buys drugs, and uses them on women. Doesn’t care if they’re underground fighters or not.
“And then there was one,” Lucky sings behind me, and for the first time in a long time, I laugh. Maybe this place and these fuckers are growing on me after all.
I’m still cold, though. That shit isn’t going away anytime soon, it seems.
Chapter 10—Viv
“Fuck,” I yell at the piece I’m working on, but it gives me nothing back. Just a waste of metal. It’s not talking to me, and my head is too lost in other crap to focus on bending it to my will to force something out of it.
But instead of calling it names like I want, I chuck it across the room to my crap pile. There’s an entire corner of my workstation dedicated to me throwing something at it. Sometimes you just need to throw something, or punch someone. But since the person I want to punch is myself, I can’t do it. Got too pretty a face to ruin it.
“Jeez, what did that piece of metal ever do to you?”
I glare as Domino strolls in as if he owns the place. I’m already in a pissed-off mood; I don’t need him here to agitate me any further. I should have kept the bay doors closed and just suffered in the dark like a normal person.
“Fuck off. Shop’s closed.” I turn and lightly set my tools down. I want to throw them like I did the last sculpture, but these cost too much. I might be mad, but I still have a brain. Not going to ruin things I’ve invested in. I can always get new metal but finding good tools is the real trick.
“Oh, someone’s in a bad mood. Want to talk about it?” I notice he hops onto the workbench that has a space big enough for him to squeeze his fine ass into and not upset my chaos of a workshop. Summer says it’s not organized, butI know where everything is since I put it there, and that’s all that matters. If someone moves it, then we’ve got a problem.
“No.” I say it. I believe it. And yet my mouth opens, and word vomit comes out. “I fucked up, and I feel stupid for it.”
“What was the fuckup?”
I shake my head. “Nothing earth-shattering. Just screwed up some advertising I was trying to do. Ran a promotion deal, or at least I thought I did. Buy one sculpture, pick a second of three premade ones for free.”
“Did no one buy any or something?”
