“Okay,” I said.
“Give my regards to Larkin,” Jetter said to Ford.
“Will do.”
Jetter turned and left, followed by the bald man, who simply leered at me before disappearing.
I slammed back my drink and exhaled heavily. I felt like someone had just sat on my chest for an hour.
“You okay?” Ford asked.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good.” He finished his drink. “Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“What about your boss?”
He shrugged. “He’s fine. He heard all that.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home. Maybe I’ll strip in front of you again.”
“Is that all you think about?”
He stared at me seriously. “Caralee, when you’re around, fucking you really is all I can think about.”
I looked back and suddenly forgot all about Jetter and his creepy associate for a moment. I felt a thrill run through me, and I wanted to sit on the back of Ford’s bike, feel the power between my legs, feel his hard body as we rode.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We headed out then, got on his bike, and rode.
I felt more excited than I had in a long time.
Chapter Sixteen: Ford
I woke up, hungover and bleary, back aching from lying on the couch all damn night. My cell phone was ringing, so I grabbed it.
“What?” I barked.
“It’s me,” Larkin said.
“What’s up, prez?” I asked. “It’s early as fuck.”
“Got a job today.”
That made me sit up. “What’s the deal?”
“Meeting with the Mezcals. Buying a little shipment.”
“Time?”
“Two hours. Down by our favorite cactus patch.”
“Who’s coming?”
“A few guys. Meet here in twenty.”
“Got it.”
I hung up the phone and sat up, grunting. I checked the time and frowned. It was barely past six, and the sun probably just rose not long ago.
Damn Larkin and his fucking early morning meetings.
I stood up and put some coffee on. My memory of the night before was hazy, but I knew nothing had happened. As soon as we got back to my house, Caralee had disappeared in my bedroom, and I had drunk whisky until I could finally pass out on my uncomfortable couch.
The damn girl was going to be the death of me.
I poured a cup of coffee and walked across the room, wearing only my boxer briefs. I quietly pushed open the bedroom door.
She was twisted up in the sheets, still fast asleep. I snuck inside and grabbed some clean clothes. As I began to slip out, I heard her stir.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting clothes. Go back to sleep.”
“Are you leaving?”
“For a few hours, yeah.”
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I should come.”
“No,” I said. “Club business. Larkin will send some pledges to keep an eye on you.”
She sighed. “Okay.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.” She stretched, and I got a great fucking view of her full tits through her thin, white cotton T-shirt. She had an incredible body, even first thing in the morning. I felt my cock begin to stiffen just looking at her.
I shut the door and shook my head.
Damn girl was going to be the death of me.
We tore down the highway, riding in formation. There were eight of us: me, Clutch, Spoil, Noble, Dow, Tyson, Locke, and Thade. It was a simple buy mission, just a quick swap of cash for goods from the Mexican club, the Mezcals.
There was nothing better than flying down the highway, wearing our cuts, bikes screaming, wind blowing, adrenaline pumping. I loved the anticipation I felt every time I was about to get involved in another mission, even a relatively safe and low-value one like buying drugs from the Mezcals.
We were on good terms, us and the Mexicans. We tried to keep it that way, because they definitely had the ability to strangle us out of the drug game. They got their drugs cheap as dirt across the border, and while we tried to do business with other dealers farther south, we found that we had to buy from the Mezcals from time to time to keep our stock up.
I was running point, with Clutch and Spoil my main backup. The other guys were mainly there as support, just acting as a show of force, proving to the Mezcals that we still had numbers and hardware.
The guys were all strapped into Kevlar and carrying rifles. That was how we rolled when we went up against another crew, even a relatively friendly crew.
The normal cactus patch was this outcropping of low hills and cacti out in the desert, well away from civilization. We found it useful as a nice neutral place to meet up to do our business.
It took about a half hour by bike to tear out there, riding fast. The cops knew not to fuck with us, especially our local cops. We were the law out in the desert, the real guys controlling the space. Nobody fucked with you when you wore the Demons cut, and for good reason.