“I want in to see my father.”
“I can’t do that. They have his ass separated from everyone else awaiting trial.” He shakes his head sternly.
“Can you give him something for me?” I slide my hand in my pocket, my fingers grazing the pack of Marlboro Lights.
“Depends what it is…” He eyes me warily.
Pulling the pack out, I stare at it. This is it. By giving this pack to this dip shit, my father will be dead and I will be president.
The fresh smell of tobacco wafts up to me, reminding me of my father. My rat of a father. I snarl, the sting of him betraying not only the club, but me, is painful. I toss the pack at the sheriff and lift my shoulders.
“Cigarettes? You want me to give these to him?” He palms them, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Yup.” I wait for the questions to start on why I asked him to come all the way out here to take a pack of smokes.
He nods and sticks the pack into his pocket. “I can do that.”
I sigh, relieved I don’t have to come up with some lie about why he needs to deliver them. “I want my father to call me a couple hours after you deliver.”
“I can’t do—”
“You can, and you will. Get him a phone, and have him call me. You can’t get me in to see him, so I want a fucking phone call.”
He sighs heavily. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.” Swinging my leg over my bike, I start it and leave.
***
Riding back to my house, a million things go through my head. I wish I could single one out to concentrate on it, but it’s pointless.
Pulling up to my shitty house, I head inside to find the front door open, but the screen door shut. I snap out of my daze and immediately focus. The front door being open is unusual, since Rachel is a paranoid chick. She always has everything bolted like Fort Knox.
The shit I put my fingers in, it’s smart of her.
Going inside, the lamp is knocked over. I pick it up and put it back on the end table, but nothing else seems out of place.
“Rachel?” I holler throughout the house. I look in our bedroom, bathroom, kitchen—everywhere. She’s not here. Her purse and clothes are gone and her car is missing.
I narrow my brows, looking around the room. I know I told her to leave, but she has no money, and no family. Where the fuck would she go?
Cross and Uncle’s words flare in my head.
‘It means, the longer you take with your decision, shit could go wrong. People could… go missing.’
Running outside, I jump on my bike and ride back to the casino. He better not have touched her. I swear to God I’ll kill him. I may not have been very fond of Rachel, but she was under my protection—my property. Racing all the way to the top of the casino, I whip in and out between parked cars and stoplights, my heart pounding with anger and adrenaline the entire time. Pushing through security and punching one fuck-nut in the nose, I make it to my Uncle’s office finally.
I stop right outside Frank’s doors, my chest lifting and falling rapidly as I try to catch my breath. Grabbing my gun from my waistband, I push the doors open.
“Where is she?” I growl, my head lowered, eyes pinned right on Frank’s.
“Who?” he asks casually.
“You know who.”
Uncle holds both his hands out, looking around the room. “I’m confused, Zeek. Who are you looking for?”
“Rachel is gone.” I slowly lower the gun, his face and tone of voice not giving me any indication that he knows where she is.
He tilts his head to the side. “And you think I had something to do with it?”
“You threatened me if I didn’t make a decision quick enough…”
He frowns. “I’m saddened you think I’d go against our deal.”
Standing, a cigar in his mouth, he strides my way, and my hand grips the gun tighter.
“You’re president now, Zeek. No time for emotions in this, they’re a distraction. Together, we will become rich, and we will take Vegas BY THE BALLS!” His voice gets rough, his hand coming up like he’s actually grabbing a pair of balls as he speaks.
“I need to know I can trust you. I need that to make this club the best that I can.”
He smiles big, nodding enthusiastically.
“Trust?”
“Yes.”
He steps to his side and runs both hands through his hair.
“Your father was big on trust, wasn’t he?” My father preached and preached about how if you don’t trust the man beside you, you might as well not trust yourself.
“All right, Zeek. You have my trust,” he mutters, his shoulders tensing.
Placing my gun back in my waistband, I exhale slowly. “So, you didn’t have anything to do with Rachel?”
He puffs on a cigar, looking at me with squinted eyes.
“Nope.”
Staring into his eyes, I can’t read if he’s telling the truth or not. “I’ll put my boys on it, see if they can track her down.” And if I find out he touched something that belonged to me… he’s a dead man.