We ride out of town for the potential suppliers. I have no clue where we’re going, but I don’t care. My palms are sweating and my heart is beating like a fucking beast. This is my test, to show Bull and the club if I’m worthy to be a Devil. Loyalty and respect are something that swims in my DNA, and I need my pack that shares the same dominance. I need that brotherhood, that family that would do anything for one another. Maybe it’s because I didn’t have it growing up, fuck if I know. All I know is being patched into the Devil’s Dust, being called a brother… that’s all I want in life right now, and if I fuck this up, I won’t have it.
We pull up to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. No grass, no houses, not shit. Just desert and some aluminum-sided warehouse. I blow out a ragged breath, trying to compose myself. Maybe I should ask Bull for a cigarette, calm my fucking nerves before I have a heart attack.
I pull in behind Locks and park my bike.
A middle-aged guy in a sleeveless flannel shirt walks out of the door to the shitty warehouse, a couple of armed men standing behind him.
I swipe my sunglasses from my face, searching the area for anything suspicious.
“Devil’s fucking Dust,” the guy chimes.
“Bart,” Bull greets, his tone anything but welcoming.
“You looking for good weed, we got it.” The guy holds his hands out wide, as if this trashy warehouse is gold or some shit.
“Yeah, let me be the judge of that,” Bull sneers.
Bart loses his smile and opens the door to the warehouse. Walking in, there are tables lined with Ziploc bags and scales. Along the back of the warehouse are crates and lights hanging from the ceiling. There aren’t any marijuana plants in sight, though, so this isn’t the main warehouse where he grows. This is just where he packages.
“This is my top shit.” Bart points at some dime bags on a nearby table.
I walk over to the supply and open a bag. The smell isn’t strong. I glance inside the bag and notice more seed than bud. My father taught me all I needed to know about marijuana, coke, the quickest way to kill a man—the list goes on.
“It’s ditch weed,” I state, shuffling the bag around. Bull lifts an eye at Bart and grabs the bag from me.
“Excuse me?” Bart quips, his tone coming off as if I’ve insulted him.
“It’s not top-notch. I can grow better weed out of a pot in my kitchen window.” I raise a brow at Bart, waiting for him to fucking lie to my face.
Bull inspects the green and hands it to Locks as I walk over to the table behind this one and find more bags. I open one and the smell of earthy tones nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s good. Really fucking good. This is no ditch weed.
“Yeah, it’s shit,” Locks agrees.
“So, that’s your best shit, huh?” I toss the bag of good weed to Bull. He scrunches his face in question as he catches it. “Open that one,” I encourage.
Bull opens it and instantly pins Bart with a death glare. “You trying to hustle me bad weed?”
“I mean, you gotta work up, you know?” Bart chuckles and I grit my teeth. I’ve had enough of his fucking lies and hustling, as I know Bull has, too. If I want to prove myself, now is the time to do it.
I pull my gun from my waistband and put it to the back of Bart’s head.
“Do you know who you’re fucking with? We don’t work up to nothing,” I seethe. Our club is the biggest in LA, we have a reputation, and we’ve worked hard for over the years. “Your disrespect for my club is going to put you in the ground,” I promise.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Bart holds his hands up in surrender.
“My boy is right, Bart. Do you know who you’re fucking with? Lying to my face is not something I take lightly,” Bull explains.
“Okay, okay, how about we give you a couple blocks of Betsy, and for a third of the cost?”
I look at Bull, waiting for his direction.
“This Betsy?” Bull points at the good bag of weed.
“Ye-yeah, yeah,” Bart stammers.
“Okay, deal. But you try and give me anything less, I’ll have Lip here shoot you in the fucking foot,” Bull threatens.
Bart nods, rolling his lips on top of each other out of fear. For a drug dealer, he sure is a pussy.
“Grow some balls, man,” I insult, taking the barrel of my gun away from his head.
Bull laughs and pats me on the back. I smirk; it feels good to be in his good graces. As a kid, some local thugs cornered my father once. I grabbed his gun from his motorcycle and took aim, threatening the punks. They ran away in seconds. My dad was not impressed, said I should have pulled the trigger. I never made his fucking ass happy.
“Get my shit together, Bart.” Bull points at Bart as we head out of the warehouse.
“You did good, son. You’re on that run for sure.”
I smile and climb on my bike. This right here, this is the life I long for. Guns, drugs, and violence, but most of all respect. I do what I love and I get respect in the end. This is the only life I know. I’m a sinner. A Devil at heart. I’d make my father smile and my mother pray if they saw me today.
***
“So, this is the newest model?” Bull points at the black SUV. He doesn’t seem impressed, though. After the deal, the boys went back to the club while Bull and I headed over to the local dealership to find the club an SUV.
I glance inside the vehicle and shrug. I’m not fond of the model, either.
“Too much money for standard shit,” I add.