“Yeah. Welcome home, asshole.” I groaned.
Chapter Eighteen
Side Mission
Big Vick
I loved poker runs or any nice, relaxing ride really. This wasn’t that. City traffic was no joke, and neither was the weight we hauled back down state with us.
Traffic and trafficking new product weren’t the only things making the trip miserable, our road captain, C.C., and Mark had been exchanging death glares ever since we left Chicago. We took seventy to Effingham on the way up, but when it was time to come home, Mark took the lead and picked a new route.
I had a feeling that was what had C.C. in a snit.
I filled my tank with everyone else and noticed him heading into the gas station. I decided to follow while everyone else stretched. He entered the men’s room, without a backwards glance. His long, blond hair swayed down his back while he shot through the length of the room, shoving stall doors open until he was assured that the room was ours.
“What the fuck?” he hissed as he whirled around, “This cowboy shit ain’t cute, Vick. This last-minute route change… He’s gonna have us all sitting down somewhere before this shit is over.”
I pressed the air down between us and glanced back at the door, slowly shaking my head as I tried to choose my words as carefully as I could.
“We voted–”
“We voted for shit! I didn’t vote for this. You can’t tell me you did, either…”
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “He’s our president. We need to just…” I sighed, his expression and those icy-blue eyes burning through the bullshit as fast as I could spew it at him.
C.C. scoffed and shot out of the restroom, letting the door slap off the wall loudly enough to make the cashier eye us as I followed him back out to the guys and bikes.
Everyone was on edge. No one wanted to run coke, and yet, no one, apparently, had the backbone to tell Mark that it wasn’t going to happen.
His son was all in.
Of course, he was. Makaveli loved his nose candy. Monty had seconded the venture, and despite C.C.’s bitching, he had rode with his brother, as he always did on votes. So, in the end, it didn’t matter what I wanted to do.
The numbers were already set; we were coke dealers.
I shook my head, fired the bike up, and glanced at Mark.
“C.C. is taking the guys home. You’re with me.”
I shot a panicked look toward C.C. and George. Ol’ George shrugged and started his bike.
Great.
This was bullshit, exactly as C.C. called it, but I was no better than the rest. I didn’t want to deal with the temper tantrum that would come if I denied him. I could already tell it was more the mob sister, than the boss he was really interested in.
It was shitty he was dragging us all into this just to smile at the broad, but what could I say without proof? He’d deny it if I confronted him and we’d be at odds. I’d been doing this outlaw shit since I was a teenager and wearing his patch every step of the way. I wasn’t new to dancing with Mark’s moody ass.
He was all smiles.
And that was a problem.
I expected him to froth at the mouth about sending them off. Instead, there was a sick, smugness in his weathered smile that left me uneasy and more than a little worried. The concern doubled when he switched lanes as we navigated the interstate around Springfield.
“Goddamn it,” I huffed under my breath, when he signaled and turned toward the Pink Cabaret.
Mark wasn’t a titty-bar-type of man. He was the fucking club president. An original disciple.
What need did he have in paying for a peek?
