“Fuckin’ Fist, he was a wilder ass than me.”
“Which is a huge plus in the outlaw world,” Maggie adds. “Not so much with civilians.”
I finish off my beer, and miraculously, my headache and my dick have stopped pounding. I push away from the table and pitch my bottle into the recycling bin.
“Might as well get this plan of mine going.”
“Good luck.” Maggie tosses me the keys to her pickup, and I head out to the garage.
After making a mental inventory of everything I’ll need, I head to Home Depot. A half hour later, I corral a flatbed with two-by-fours, assorted tools and cleaning supplies up to the register. I unload the smaller shit onto the checkout counter, dig my hand into my jeans for my money and freeze.
“Scratch?”
“Deuce?” Scratch stands across the counter in the orange apron with Donald, his legal name, written across the top.
“What the fuck? You’re working here?”
He spreads his arms wide, and I laugh.
“What the hell?”
“Got a little behind with my bills.”
I lean over the counter. “In other words, your bookie is up your ass.”
“The bastard’s so fuckin’ impatient.” He shrugs. “I heard you were out.” He waves his hand over the tools and two-by-fours. “What’s all this? You starting up a construction company?”
“No, wiseass.” I cock my head. “I was gonna look you up later.” I jerk my chin at his lame apron. “Looks like I’m too late.”
He points to a star pinned to his apron. “Last month I was employee of the week.”
“Shit,” I hiss. “Fuckin’ Speed was delivering pizzas, and you’re a checker at Home Depot.”
“Time’s been tough the last five years.” Scratch begins ringing up my order.
“So I heard.” I hadn’t realized how tough. “I’m getting the Kings back together.”
“How’s that working out?”
I glance from Scratch to the register. “What the hell are you doin’?”
“I’m giving my prez a discount.”
“Discount?” He’s ringing a zero balance for every item. “Discounts like this will get your ass fired.”
Scratch continues to ring up my items for free, packs the smaller things in a sack, then unties his apron, pulls it over his head and walks around the counter. “Let’s go.”
I push the flatbed toward the exit, and Scratch balls up his apron.
“Where you going?” the manager by the door asks.
Scratch pitches the apron at the manager. “On a permanent break, asshole.”
I laugh my ass off all the way to Maggie’s pickup. “That was un-fuckin-believable.”
“Let’s get this shit loaded before they realize I just shorted them over five hundred bucks.” Scratch lifts the two-by-fours. “Then let’s get the Kings riding again.”
We barrel out of the parking lot, and Scratch bangs his fists on the dashboard. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long fuckin’ time.”
