Jax (Titan #9)(35)

God, she hated when he went on benders. "You shouldn't get like this. You didn't used to, and when you're in business with—"

He perched forward on the edge of the chair. "Club business isn't your business."

"Well, talk about taking your drugs away, and you certainly wake up."

Johnny looked away, shaking his head.

"And you seem to find your phone when you need to order pizza." Seven stood up, trying not to fume. She hated when he acted as though she didn't have any investment in Mayhem. Her world was Mayhem. What, since she was a woman, she couldn't talk to him about the empire her father had built? "Call me when you're sober. I like that Johnny. This Johnny is a dick."

"Fat chance."

Seven stormed out as Mrs. Reed opened the door. "Would you like a piece of carrot cake for the little ones?"

It was odd that she would even think about them. "Sure, thank you."

"The nicest man was asking about them. We just chatted and—"

The door opened back up, and Johnny strode out, but as soon as he saw Mrs. Reed, whatever he was about to yell after Seven fell away with an awkward smile. "Hi, Mrs. Reed."

Leave it to Johnny to pull out some charm.

"Hello, dear. Would you like a piece of carrot cake?"

"I have to go. I'm late." After offering a dozen apologies, Seven shuffled away, not willing to stand next to a coked-out Johnny, making small talk with the neighbors as if this were Mayberry.

As soon as Seven got in her car, she turned over the engine and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. "Screw this."

She didn't have cake and wouldn't have an ex-husband who was going to snort his life away. Seven grabbed her cell phone and called Hawke. The phone rang twice before he picked up. If nothing else, he gave her the respect she deserved, most times, and listened to her thoughts.

"Hey, Hawke, do you have a few minutes?"

"Sorry, Seven, but I was getting ready to call you real quick."

"Why, what's up?"

"Can you make it to Vegas to help sort out our headache?"

If it had anything to do with Mayhem, she was down to help. "Sure. Whenever you need me."

"I'm calling a summit of possible distribution partners. Whether or not Hernán is on board or not, I'm figuring this out."

Her head dropped back against the headrest. That was terrific news. "What's Johnny have to say?"

"Haven't heard from him in a few days, and honestly? I don't give a fuck. He'll show up or not."

Ah, now it all made sense—why Johnny was on a bender and what had triggered him and his worse-than-normal mood. "He'll be there. He'd never miss anything for the club."

Hawke sighed. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

###

Across the parking lot, Jorge Torres spun a pencil between his fingers. He'd parked in a way that allowed him to watch the walk-up apartment complex and also keep an eye on Johnny Miller's window as well as the parking lot.

Jorge had rightly assumed that Mayhem's vice president had locked himself inside his home. He hadn't seen the wife they knew about, women they'd heard about, or anyone besides his blow connection and food delivery.

Fast food was the dinner of champions. He grumbled, staring at the bag of tacos and tacquitos he'd picked up at a drive-through. The smell was almost enticing, but that was perhaps a mind-over-matter situation as he hadn't stopped for a meal in almost a day. Hernán had told him to work and work fast. That Johnny was the weak link, and so there Jorge was, in America, with bad food and no sign of life.

Until the pink-and-blue-haired wild child with leather boots and tight pants had shown up. He'd watched her through binoculars nearly slap down the door. The woman matched the description he had of Johnny's wife. Trouble in paradise. Made sense. Between a woman disrespectful enough to kick the door and Mayhem in chaos with Hernán, Jorge imagined few lived a normal life of love without the complexities that cartel business added.

With few leads, the one small ping of information had come from a neighbor when he'd thrown out random questions about a wife, kids, and a job. Only the kids had seemed to interest the woman. They were most likely staying wherever the wife was staying.

Jorge tossed the pencil and opened up the bag of food. It'd cooled, but tacos were fine—hot, cold, whatever—when he was starving. He opened the room-temperature taco, shoved it into his mouth, and gagged. "Mierda!" He spat into the bag and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Why couldn't this have been a job somewhere he liked? New York? New Orleans? But Sweet Hills, Iowa? He spat in the bag again, unable to get the over-processed aftertaste out of his mouth. I would even take Toronto in the winter. Give me that. They could make a mean tostado—authentic and fast. Not this mierda.

He picked up the phone, dialing the business counterpoint who regularly contracted his services for the Suarez cartel. It rang twice, and when the line picked up without a response, Jorge felt a twinge of relief as he readied to pass the update. "Relay that we have found our negotiating point."

The line went dead. He rolled his window down, held out the bag of food, lit it on fire, and dropped the flaming bag to the parking lot. He pulled out as the wife stayed in her car, talking on the phone. Jorge would find a good position where he could follow her to see where she lived and if there were kids.