“So you want to take over Hell’s Gates and it has nothing to do with Gracie Mae?” Snake asks after we park our bikes in front of the joint.
It’s a sad excuse of a business.
The paint is chipping. The sign is outdated and doesn’t even light. The parking lot is gravel instead of nice smooth pavement. And the inside . . . don’t even get me started on the inside. It’s a fucking wreck.
“Don’t mention her name, Snake.”
He snickers. “Wasn’t aware she became Beetlejuice.”
“You’ve watched Beetlejuice?” Disbelief colors my tone.
“Who the fuck hasn’t?”
“Then you would know you would have to say the fucker’s name three times.”
“Semantics.” Snake rolls his eyes and pulls out a cigarette from his inner pocket in his cut. Placing it between his lips he then pulls out a box of matches.
I raise my brow at him. “I thought you quit.”
He strikes the match and lights his cigarette. “I only smoke when the situation calls for it,” he responds with the cigarette between his lips.
“And this situation calls for it?”
A billow of smoke appears in front of his face and then he pulls another drag of the nicotine. Pinching the cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger he tips the cigarette towards me. “Well, when I have my best friend not only bring me back to this god forsaken place,” he pauses and I go to interrupt but he doesn’t let me. “And he won’t admit the only reason he’s back here is for,she who shall not be named, I think that calls for a cigarette.” He brings the cigarette back to his lips and takes another long drawl.
I only stare at him blankly.
His lips quirk up in a knowing smirk. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Shut the fuck up.” His smirk turns to a full blown smile.
Fucker.
Taking one last draw from the cigarette he flicks it to the ground and puts it out with his steel toed boot. “When is the contractor going to be here?”
I glance down at my watch, the face of it on my inner wrist. Ever since jointing the military I can’t wear it any other way. Feels wrong if I do. “He should be here within ten minutes.”
“You trust him?”
I nod my head. Jerry is a contractor who is a veteran. Every one of his employees are veterans as well. Any man who has served and helps those when they return home have a well paid job earns my respect. Plus, he has a good name for himself. And he cuts discounts for those who have served or are active military. Not that Vipers MC needs it with how well we are doing but a little saving has never hurt anybody.
The sound of a truck has us both looking in the direction it’s coming from.
In comes Jerry, the fifty-eight year old man, in an older black Chevy Silverado. Once he parks he steps out of the truck like a young man rather than one who will be entering his sixties soon.
Jerry isn’t that tall but he keeps himself built for the job. His eyes aren’t kind, they resemble mine. I feel as if every person who has experienced battle has that same look in their eyes. We can fake it with everyone else but you can’t fake it with someone who has experienced what you have. His head is shaved but he has a brown beard with grey mixed heavily in it. Wrinkles etch his forehead and crows feet are planted by his eyes.
He meets us and I immediately go to give him a firm handshake. Manners from my mother and respect drilled in me from the military have me do it on autopilot. Taking his hand in mine I give him a firm shake followed by, “Sir.”
His brown eyes squint up at me causing his crows feet to deepen. His handshake is as firm as mine but I expect no less. “Oak, I take it.”
I nod my head. “Yes, sir.”
After we finish our handshake his eyes assess me from head to toe. “Marine?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods his head. “Same here. I was a sniper.”
