I turn and lean against the counter. When I was locked up, a lot of shit went down in the club. FBI was knocking on our door, and I mean that literally. Babs was killed in a hit-and-run, and we even found out that Locks, our previous VP, was a rat. I never did like that guy. During this time, Bull stepped out of reality, too. I got orders inside of prison from Shadow for the last several months I was in the joint. His orders were different then Bull’s—more digressed, more violent. Things I never had to do before, Shadow ordered me to do. He was the VP, so I did what I was ordered.
Lots of shit can go down in a six-year period, but it was all worth it because I got patched in as soon as I walked out of there. I look down at my cut and smirk. Feels good to be a member, to belong. But prison changed me in a way, the things I did and saw; my mind slowly became as tarnished and marred as the walls that imprisoned me.
“Bull’s gone? What about the drop tonight?” Bobby questions, digging in the fridge.
“It’s all set up. It should run smoothly.” Shadow shrugs.
“Suppliers paid?” Bobby asks, pulling out a tub of coleslaw.
“Shit!” Shadow exclaims.
“I’ll take care of it,” I offer.
Shadow looks at his phone and shakes his head.
“If you can, man, that would be great. I need to meet Dani about Zane’s school,” Shadow states. Dani is his wife, and Zane is his little boy. Shit has changed since I was in prison. I never would have thought Shadow as the prime example of a happy family. I mean, his kids are cute, but I don’t want any. Fuck. That.
“Can do,” I reply.
“Want me to come with?” Bobby asks, diving a fork right into the container.
“Nah, I got it. I gotta go to my mom’s afterward.”
“See ya tomorrow, brother,” Bobby sounds around a mouth full of food.
***
The sun is hot on my arms, and the wind is sweeping through my hair. In prison, I thought about a lot of shit. Pussy, good food, a nice bed. But what I missed the most was my bike. There is no therapy like wind therapy. Having the open road at my mercy, my thoughts free to roam where they please. It’s a freedom I longed for.
I pull into the shady-looking bar and turn my bike off. Striding inside, the smell of mold and stale beer is strong.
“I was wondering when you’d be here,” a guy sitting at the bar states. He looks Mexican, with short, dark hair. He has a tattoo of a marijuana leaf on his dark tan skin. He’s wearing a white shirt and black jeans, a gold Rolex shining amongst the shitty bar lights. This place is clearly a front, a way to hide the outrageous amounts of money he’s pocketing. I step over to him and slap the envelope on the counter.
“You Bud?” That is obviously not his name, but what the fuck ever.
“Yup. That two thousand?”
“Yeah.”
He slides his hand over and grabs the envelope.
“Everything’s on schedule then.”
“Great,” I respond, tapping my knuckles against the counter.
Stepping out of the bar, I inhale a large breath, taking in the clean crisp air. That was easy—no bullets, no hustling. Guess I’ll be arriving at my mom’s earlier than I thought. I clench my teeth. It’s as if I long for violence now. I hate it. Taking pain from another is similar to doing drugs. You’re nervous at first, thinking of all the things that can go wrong, but then you push through those unsettling nerves and just do it. You come to find out it’s not that bad. You actually get a high out of it; feel fucking great. You do it again, and then again, and the next thing you know, you start craving it.
I glance over and find a black shiny car parked next to the curb with a man leaning against the hood, his legs crossed out in front of him. I squint, trying to figure out if I recognize the man when he turns his head and looks right at me. Fuck.
“Phillip. You haven’t been answering my calls.” It’s Stevin, the FBI agent who hounded me in prison.
“Get the fuck away!” I yell, pointing off into the distance. Stevin grins and stares off. He knows he’s putting me at risk.
“So, you’ve been ignoring my calls.”
I shake my head before turning and walking toward my bike. “This ain’t prison. You have no leverage over me anymore.”
“I’d think again. I want you as my informant!” Stevin hollers.
“Not my problem.” I step up to my bike, ready to throw my leg over it.
“Yeah, but it will be your problem if your club knows you’ve been talking to the FBI inside of prison.” I stop, my blood running cold as my heart beats to a dangerous level.
“What about the pretty little redhead, huh? I wonder what dirt I can dig up on her.” He lifts his shoulders with a Cheshire grin plastered across his arrogant face.
I nibble on my lip ring, not sure what to do. He’s threatening not only my woman, but my club. I flick my eyes to his and start my bike.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, deciding he’s fucking bluffing. If he were going to do that shit, he’d have done it.
***