Panty-melting fucking and liquor don’t exactly measure up to all the trappings of a life I couldn’t give her. Wouldn’t give her. All the things she wants she’d never have with me.
I rinse my hands and shake them dry, letting the restroom door slam shut behind me. I’m happy for Jess.
Nah, not that. Not happy.
But she laid down the law, and I’ll abide by it. She had something going with this guy and a… Fuck, a male friend putting his dick where it didn’t belong… For now, Jessica says she’s good, and that’s good enough for me. It has to be.
I head toward the coolers for a bottle of something for the road. I’ve got another half-hour ride ahead to the property, and that sun is going to hit hard by the time I reach the isolated yard. Better fuel up with more than just gas while I’m here.
The club is changing. Has to. With Crow locked up, we’re down a man, and we need what every club needs—manpower and cash.
And more than that, I’m not looking to spend the rest of my life locked up behind bars. The Disciples aren’t the same, sliding further into illegal activities, upping my chances of dying inside a jail cell.
Six months ago, we decided to break away from the Disciples and start a new club. It wasn’t an easy vote, but it’s what is best for us and our future.
We are no longer the Disciples or any dangling branch of the original club.
We are new.
Born fresh.
Starting over from scratch.
We are going legit, making money the old-fashioned way without the complications of drugs and violence. Looking over our shoulders had become tiring, but I’m sure the habit will take years to shake.
I’ve spent the last couple months fucking Jessica by phone at night and securing a real estate deal by day. Using part of the club’s cash reserves, we bought a small commercial property at a real estate auction. Practically stole that shit.
The bank seized a C-3 zoned strip with loads of parking on nearly two acres of land. The listing only said the existing building has PVC air lines inside, which made me think auto repair or auto service. All I saw of the building itself before we made the offer was one grainy aerial photo on the auction listing. We bought the whole nine with cash, as-is. Everything, including any trash, leftover equipment, lock, stock, and barrel, all ours as of closing.
When the club decided to expand, we couldn’t agree on exactly what we’d put on the new property, but we don’t really know what’ll work until we can gain access to the place and figure out if anything left is usable. Or if we have to demo the whole site and start from scratch. I can’t say I care either way.
Tattoo shops and cars, the shit we know best, they don’t need foot traffic to bring in business. But I’ve been wondering about whether we should try something a little different. Diversify a bit. Still cash-heavy shit like auto repair or, fuck, maybe even a nail salon, something the old ladies of the club can benefit from too. Anything that can move a little money when we need to, but something that will also bring in dollars clean.
Legit.
As I head toward the coolers, I spot the girl from the bathroom. She’s standing in front of the hot dog machine, shuffling back and forth on her feet, looking like she’s got the weight of the world riding on this decision. She’s got her hand deep in what looks like a child’s purse, and she’s digging through it, like she’s scrounging for change.
Maybe it’s the curve of her ass in those body-hugging pants or the fact that her hair is almost the same shade as the sunshine, but I walk up to her.
“Pick the one with the pucker,” I say.
She turns her full body toward me, looking startled. “Excuse me?” She closes the small purse and grasps it to her chest like I’m a mugger sizing up her tiny teal handbag for what’s inside.
I give her a playful grin. I point past her to the slim rolls of meat, each one slowly turning under an electric heat lamp.
“Pick the one with the pucker,” I repeat. “See the skin?” I nod toward the glass display case where the hot dogs are in various states of doneness. “That one.” I lean down to point to the one I mean, and I catch a whiff of her hair. She smells sweet, like cookies. Pure sugar. “When the skin puckers like that, it means the dog is nice and cooked inside but not too dry and not too raw. Just right,” I explain.
The woman watches me and takes a tiny step back. I get it. I’m a heavily tattooed stranger three times her size, and she’s a sweet little wisp of a thing trying to buy her lunch in peace. She’s pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, and I can see her brown eyes are light, startlingly so. The look of caution in them, and the tightness at her mouth, trip up my gut.
I can see the light dim in her face as she scans my beard, my leathers, the decades-old ink on my neck.
She’s braced. Protective. Afraid.
And that’s my cue to move on.
“Cover it up with some relish and you got damn near as decent a meal as you can get on the road.” I give her a grin and a nod, ending the conversation.
She gives me a press of her lips that passes for smiling back, but it’s guarded. Hesitant. She looks like she’s struggling between being polite and running for her life. It hits me why I’m drawn to her, why I’m chatting up a sexy stranger in front of the hot dog machine at a gas station.
Jessica. This woman reminds me of Jessica. No old lady, not one of those down-to-whatever, whenever, for-a-good-time types.
She’s another scared little bird fallen from the nest. If only women like this understood what real wolves look like.
I take one last breath of that sugar-cookie fragrance. “Enjoy your dog,” I say.
Then she speaks. “Uh, thanks.” The words sound as soft as her hair looks and as guarded as her face.
I nod and head past her, leaving her to her hot dog and her troubles.
I yank open a cooler and grab two sweet teas in one hand and the phone buzzing my pocket with the other.
“Fuckin’ Tiny,” I mutter.
Tiny’s been like a damn housemother since we bought the property. I scan the text just to confirm it’s from him and pocket my phone. Tiny can wait.
I grab a bottle of water to add to the teas and head for the register.
“I’m so sorry, I…” The little bird in the yoga pants is already being checked out. There is a hot dog on the counter along with some other snacks, and Mr. Green Glitter Eye Shadow is shaking his head.
“Lady, card’s declined. Won’t go through. I ran it three times.” He drops the piece of plastic on the counter. “You got cash?”
I stand a respectful distance behind her, trying not to look at her ass in those yoga pants. I look anywhere but down, aiming for her sunshine hair and the sleeveless tank that reveals trim, almost muscular arms.
She’s telling the attendant her card worked fine when she paid for gas outside at the pump. “Could you try it again? Please?” she asks, her voice proud, but the exhaustion of defeat sneaks through.
The kid huffs a sigh, but he picks up the card and runs it again. After a second, he raises his brows. “Okay? Satisfied?” he asks. He hands it back to her. “Won’t go through. I’m sorry, all right? It’s shitty, but this isn’t our fault. You gotta pay cash or…”
My eyes trace what look like finger-shaped bruises on the backs of her upper arms. The marks aren’t faint, but they are starting to heal. They look recent enough that I’m sure, goddamned sure, that somebody gripped her and shook her not that long ago. Shook her hard.