Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(101)
Missy wouldn't even talk to me the next day. We rode to the clubhouse in stone cold silence for another fun filled day ahead. I'd be hearing about the latest cartel raids while she worked her ass off trying to clean this shithole up and earn the brothers' trust.
I kept an eye out for her in between checking in with Blackjack and Crack. It was no small relief to have them riding my ass about cartel business instead of the girls.
Blackjack was in the garage, probably on his tenth smoke that morning. “Three shipments hit last night on the run to San Diego. Fucked beyond all recognition. That's it, boys. The club won't be making any more hops too close to the border 'til we're confident we own the roads south again.”
“Fuck!” Crack smashed his fists together. “Did you tell the Prez yet?”
“Nope.” Blackjack winked. “That's your job, VP. Don't need to tell you morale's in the shitter too. If Fang finds out, he'll blow the f*cking roof off and cancel Lipstick Night tomorrow. And that's if he doesn't send our asses charging into Mexico to get cut to pieces.”
The VP growled, giving me the evil eye. “This is all your bitch's dead daddy's fault, Brass. I f*cked up letting you haul those cunts outta here, I swear to f*cking God...”
He stepped up. Crack was a total hothead, always waving his dick, remembering the days when he used to be the Prez in Redding before Fang spoiled his fun. I didn't move a muscle, bowing up 'til I was at least a good inch taller than the VP.
“It's not their fault,” I said coldly. “Cancer man was the rat. You've got nothing to the contrary because it doesn't f*cking exist. With all due respect, you gotta let this go, Veep. I'll keep them outta our hair, make sure they never talk. Shit, if anybody could bring the dead man back to life and put a bullet in his skull for the shit he's done to this club, I'd be the first in line.”
An obvious lie. I didn't know what the hell to do with anything involving Missy anymore. She made my dick throb in my pants so f*cking hard it sucked the blood outta my head. Too hard to think. Maybe so damned hard it pulled the blinders off too, because I was really starting to wonder about the moves my brothers were making.
And doubting my own f*cking club was never a good thing.
Crack eased back a single step. He still looked like he was ready to wheel around and send his fist into my jaw anytime. I scraped my boot on the concrete, looking at Rabid next to me.
“The boy's right,” Blackjack said, pushing his big beefy body between the Veep and I. “You wanna punch someone in the mouth, I'm right here. It was my call to give the girls a chance instead of burying them. I don't regret making it – especially not when he made such a convincing show out of claiming the older one. Tell me, Brass. Was it worth it, son? You managed to f*ck some respect into that * yet, or is she still icing down your nuts?”
Rabid coughed, suppressing a laugh. I looked at the ground and refused to answer the old man. Blackjack was a f*ck, but he stuck up for me in his own way, diffusing a situation that easily could've gone sour with the Veep.
Crack was halfway across the garage and almost in the clubhouse when he spun around, pointing at the three of us. “Don't breathe a word about the raid for a couple days. I'll tell the Prez then. No f*cking way am I gonna be the * who spills his guts and gets Lipstick Night canceled.”
The door slammed behind him. I waited a few seconds, ready to go in after him, but Blackjack reached out and stopped me with a tight squeeze to my forearm.
“Easy, boy. You've been on edge since the night we brought those strays in. Don't let her get to you unless you really mean to make an old lady out of her.” He held my gaze, looking more wizardly than ever with his hair flapping on his cut. “Your choice. If you're not gonna take this thing all the way, then drop the f*cking show and have some fun tomorrow. Fuck. Drink. Be merry. Life's shorter than we know.”
What the f*ck was I supposed to say to that? It was like he'd given a voice to the whirlwind inside me, beating everything I thought I knew before Missy to tatters. Blackjack tightened his grip – hard enough to pinch my muscles – and then let go all at once.
Rabid followed me inside and we hit the bar together. Suzy the bartender was standing there, a cigarette in her mouth and a blank expression on her face as she watched the TV. The woman was in her late forties, an old lady transplant from Sacramento, property of a dude named Toss. She'd taken on the bartender roll out of boredom, with nothing better to do since Fang ordered everybody and their families north.
Rabid asked for his usual and got a tall glass of whiskey mixed with ginger ale. I never figured out how many shots were in that f*cker, but he definitely wouldn't be riding anytime soon.
“What about you?” Suzy asked, her thin lips pulled in a smile.
I shook my head. “Gotta leave with my girl soon. We got family business to take care of with her little sis.”
Rabid laughed and hit the counter. “You gotta be shitting me. You, Brass, a family man? Since f*cking when?”
“Since I decided I didn't want to end up in the shed with the Mauler if these girls f*cked us over. I gotta keep 'em happy and outta trouble too.”
“Come on, man. One f*cking beer. Shit, when you showed up here, you went on runs with something a lot more potent than Jack flowing in your veins.”