“What are you girls talking about?” Nash asks when he comes in and takes his seat on the right of Malcolm’s place at the head of the table. He’s our VP, and that seat is always reserved for him.
“Nothing,” I say at the same time Fiasco says, “Dev went to a rock concert and met some people.”
“What are you, twelve?” Nash jokes.
“Wasteland Authority isn’t some tween band. They’re legendary, one of the best rock bands of the last decade.”
“Never heard of them,” he says.
“That’s because you’re so old you only listen to classic rock,” I tease him, and he flips me the bird.
Wirth joins the table next and then Silas, so we’re only waiting for Malcolm, our president.
And while we wait, my mind keeps flashing back to the best night ever, mostly of Jetta naked, her tits bouncing, the taste of her pussy, how we kissed like we had done it a thousand times before.
Too bad I don’t know where to find her, or I would be burying my face between her legs right fucking now and show up late to this meeting.
“Hey, ah, any of you know a purple-haired girl named Jetta?” I ask the table. They all consider it for a moment before shaking their heads no.
“Why?” Nash asks. “She knock you up and forget to leave a forwarding address?”
Now it’s my turn to flip him off just as Malcolm comes in and takes his seat at the head of the table.
“We’re coming up on the end of the quarter as most of you know,” Malcolm starts. “And we’ve been slacking off the last few months on recovery. Does anyone have any idea how much money we’re owed from gambling debts?” he asks. No one responds. “Not even a guess?” he presses.
“Ten thousand?” I offer.
“Ten thousand,” Malcolm scoffs. “I wish it was only ten thousand. But no. The amount owed to us is the highest it’s ever been at two-hundred fucking grand.”
“How the hell did it get that high?” Nash asks.
“Why don’t we ask our enforcers, Dev and Fiasco?”
“People are broke. Times are hard,” I tell them defensively.
“Or,” Malcolm starts. “You listen to their sob stories and then leave empty handed without putting the fear of god, or worse, the fear of this MC into them. Do better!”
“How much better?” Fiasco asks.
“What have I told you? If they can’t pay, you take any electronics that are not bolted down and see what you can get for the shit at the pawn shop. A little is better than nothing, and it drives the point home that we collect on our debts even in ‘hard times.’ Times are always hard when you’re too stupid to handle your money, and you end up owing every fucking body on the planet. The credit card company or the utilities have to be paid in cash. We’ll take what we’re owed in anything, be it guns, cars, drugs, bikes, jewelry…fuck, if they’ve got gold teeth, they better pry them out and pass them over. Otherwise we’ll take what we’re owed out of their ass. Understand?”
“Fine, we’ll do better,” I assure him.
“I want knees broken and mouths busted for repeat offenders. You hear me?” Malcolm asks. “The first time they say they’re broke, they lose their possessions. The second time, you take a payment from their flesh, pressing them harder each and every time until everyone is paid up. Got it?”
“Yeah, got it,” I agree. “Take possessions, bust heads, repeat until we collect the full amount owed.”
Being an enforcer isn’t an easy job. But if we want the MC to be more than a hangout, and we’re going to stay in the gambling business, we need to collect debts and make it successful.
Chapter Seven
Jetta
I’ve been to every restaurant and grocery store within a twenty-mile radius, since that’s the only work experience I have, but no one is hiring! Apparently, they brought on all the summer help they needed back in May! I am starting to feel royally screwed and will be homeless soon if I don’t find somewhere to work fast.
It’s hot as fuck even with the air conditioning in my car cranked up as far as it will go, and I’m on my way back to Sean’s place when I spot “help wanted” written up high on a marquee. I put on my turn signal and go back, not even caring what business it is since a paycheck is a paycheck.
But then, when I stop my car in the parking lot where safari animals are spouting water, I have second thoughts.
It’s a water park. Not a huge one, but there’s the animal section for little kids, a lazy river tube ride that winds around a couple of big slides, and then a wave pool that is slam packed with people.
Sucking up my pride, I get out of my car in my suffocating black skirt suit and head for the ticket booth with a copy of my resume even though I have no experience pertaining to a water park.
“Can I help you?” the teenage boy asks me through the glass after I wait in line sweating bullets for ten minutes. He lifts his eyebrows in disapproval as he takes in my attire.
“I was hoping to speak to someone in management about the position you’re hiring for.”
“Just a sec,” he tells me before he picks up a landline phone and speaks to someone on it. “Leslie will be right out,” he says when he hangs up the phone.
“Thanks.”
I step over to the side so I’m no longer holding up the line; and a few minutes later, a woman in a white polo with the waterpark’s logo on the chest and a pair of khaki shorts comes up to me with a clipboard.
“Are you here about the job?” she asks.
I start to respond with something smart like, No, I prefer to swim in a suit, but refrain.
“Yes, I am.”
“Great! Come on back to my office and we’ll talk about the positions we have available.”
“Awesome, thanks,” I agree as I follow her into the air-conditioned building while trying to subtly dab away the sweat from my upper lip and brow. She said positions, plural, which is awesome.
It’s a small interior with just a girl sitting at the front desk chomping on gum and filing her nails followed by a divider wall and another desk with one plain metal chair on the opposite side. At least it’s cool thanks to a window air conditioner unit.
“Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” I reply. “And here’s a copy of my resume even though I only have experience in the food industry.”
“Can you swim?” Leslie asks when she takes a seat and I lower myself into the metal chair that squeaks loudly.
“Ah, yes, I can swim pretty well.”
“The water is only five feet in the deepest part,” she explains. “So it doesn’t take an Olympic gold medalist.”
“So the position you’re looking to fill is for a lifeguard?” I ask with a fake smile. Any job where my pasty ass has to wear a swimsuit and stay out in the scorching hot sun all day is a nightmare come true.
“We need a lifeguard, and we also need someone to wear the mascot uniform and twirl a sign out front.”
“What’s your mascot?” I ask.
“A shark,” she says, swiveling her rolling chair around to pick up an enormous, bright blue, grinning shark costume from behind her.