They wore that symbol on their cuts and on their skin, branded into their souls. They were bonded together, stitched together just as tightly as the lethal loom that they’d been tortured with, so many years ago, at that school. All of them bore those scars and woke with those nightmares.
He looked at Destroyer, wanting him to understand what was being offered to him. Willing him to take it, just as Alena and Savage had held it out to him. Czar had stood for him. Destroyer was covered in prison tattoo ink. He knew Destroyer still wasn’t quite convinced he was where he should be, and somehow, like the others in Torpedo Ink, Player felt compelled to convince him.
Player turned to Lana. “Babe, are you really serious about wanting to use this space for a shop?”
“Yes, but all of you were so busy worrying about Zyah and all the men fawning all over her you couldn’t give me your opinion. I’m very serious. What do you think? Too big? Too small? Am I crazy to want to actually work? I hate being cooped up.”
“If you want my real opinion, then I’m going to give it to you because you know I love you, honey,” Player warned.
“Of course I want it, or I wouldn’t be asking,” Lana said, but she sounded wary.
The others wandered through the four rooms. There was the larger floor space with a single dressing room. A back room and a bathroom. The storefront looked out onto the street and gave a good view of the ocean. The back had a very nice enclosed, covered patio like most of the other businesses on the street, which were closed.
“I think the idea of you running a clothing store like the one you’re talking about is unrealistic given your personality. You’ll be bored out of your mind in a day. You would never have the shop open. Not ever. You already know that. What you should do is start up a business designing exclusive clothing for some of these kids Darby was telling us about, who can’t afford shit and the other kids are so fucking mean to. You could change their lives for them.”
When the club came together for breakfast or barbecues, Darby, Czar’s oldest adopted daughter, often talked about other teens she met that had difficult home lives. Sometimes Player found it difficult to listen to the stories she told about children who actually had parents. The parents didn’t take care of them; instead they made alcohol or drugs their priority.
Alena spun around. She’d been staring out the window, keeping her eye on the grocery store, but she hurried across to them. “That’s so brilliant, Player, why didn’t I think of that? He’s right, Lana. That’s exactly what you should do. Design a few pieces of clothing. One of a kind. Sell them for a bazillion dollars so that everyone wants your label. You know they will. No one will be able to resist, just like with Ice’s jewelry. Once your label is blowing everyone away, then have Darby bring these kids to you. You make their clothes for them and put your special whammy into them. It won’t matter so much that they don’t have the best home life. If they start hanging around your shop and talking to you while you measure them, sitting in your chairs or on the patio outside with Darby while you work, it really could be a good thing.”
“Do you really think their parents are going to let them hang around with a bunch of bikers?” Keys asked.
“I don’t think we’re talking about kids whose parents give two fucks,” Player said.
“Player’s right, Lana,” Preacher said. “We go to Blythe and Czar’s home nearly every weekend for breakfast or lunch in the afternoon with their kids. We teach survival class, and Darby or Kenny always brings up something about kids they know from hanging at the beach or down at the community school when they test, or when Airiana teaches them physics. Lana, you could really do some good.”
Lana shook her head. She even took two steps back, as if the idea were terrifying, when she wasn’t afraid of anything. “I don’t know the first thing about kids. Blythe had a thing or two to say about the way we were handling survivor class, remember?”
“But she didn’t stop us,” Master pointed out. “One word from her and the show’s over. We all know that. The kids know it. She looks at Czar and he just caves.”
They all laughed—everyone, Player noticed, with the exception of Destroyer. He sent the man a small grin. “We sound like Blythe’s a battle-ax. You’ve met her numerous times. She’s really as sweet as she seems. It’s just that . . . well . . . she’s . . .” He trailed off again.