As he reached for the paper, the door jangled, announcing a new arrival. From the corner of his eye, Saint caught both customers glance up from their seats. The woman gasped and paled while the man mouthed a curse. She abandoned her folding and scurried toward a back exit. Two seconds after she ran past him, the older man left as well.
Their sudden departure was enough to have the back of Saint’s neck prickling with unease. “What did you do?” he asked the attendant, who looked everywhere but at Saint.
Slowly, so as not to startle whoever had entered, Saint turned around to find a large man blocking the exit. Jet-black hair, black jeans, and a black T-shirt, combined with a scowl and a jagged scar crossing his left jaw, gave the newcomer a menacing look. Thick gold rings that would hurt like hell if they smashed into Saint’s face rested on at least five of his fingers. He didn’t bother to conceal the knife hanging from his belt, but at least he didn’t have a gun unless it was hidden.
“You called in the muscle,” Saint said with a sigh. He must have a panic button under the counter. He glanced over his shoulder. “What’d you go and do that for? I followed the protocol.”
The attendant stood there, eyes bugging and mouth flapping like a suffocating fish.
“Time to go,” the guy said in a deep, reverberating voice that matched his size and stature.
“Works for me. I got what I came for.” He fanned himself with the scrap of paper containing the phone number. Lord knew if the attendant gave him the real contact information.
“Leave the number.”
Of course, this wasn’t going to go down easily.
“Really?” he asked, tilting his head. “Your boss doesn’t like to make money? What’s his name? Silas Crow?”
In his peripheral vision, Saint caught sight of Zach and Maverick on foot, inching closer to the laundromat. Backup had arrived. Knowing they were close and ready to jump in to kick ass lowered Saint’s blood pressure.
The guy’s eyes narrowed upon hearing the name. “Not from you. We know your club. You have no interest in using that number.” The guy narrowed his eyes and stared with what he probably assumed was a menacing glare, but this fucker had no idea who raised Saint. Deadlier men than him tried to destroy Saint from infancy, and if they hadn’t succeeded, this loser sure wouldn’t.
“Well, sure.” He shrugged. “We don’t need it for… business purposes.” Neither of them was willing to say the word drugs out loud. The last thing he needed was this guy or the laundromat attendant getting a video of him saying he wanted to buy or sell drugs. Clearly, the newcomer wasn’t an idiot if he monitored his words as well. “But if you know our club, as you claim, you know we love a good party.”
“Find a new way to get your… party favors.”
“Nah, I don’t think so. This seems really convenient.” He glanced at the paper, then back to his new friend with a smirk. “Yeah, I think I’ll give them a call as soon as I leave here. Unless you wanna pass a message along for me.”
The guy took three menacing steps toward Saint, who held his ground without flinching or reaching for his gun as instinct demanded.
The man came close enough that Saint noticed the scar transecting his jaw was part of a larger network of wounds. Itwas the darkest while smaller, web-like lines crisscrossed his cheek. Whatever he’d been through left a permanent reminder.
The guy’s hand went to the hilt of his hunting knife. “Think I’d rather send you back to your club with a message from my boss.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that? You’re coming for us? You wanna run our town? You think your band of cute little wannabe outlaws is going to take territory the Handlers have held for decades?” He laughed, making sure it sounded as mocking as possible. Taunting this asshole was a bad idea. He didn’t want a bloody brawl in the middle of the laundromat that would alert the local cops. Sure, the club had some in their pocket, but there were still many in the police force who hated them and would love to toss their ass in jail. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”
The guy’s hand closed over his knife handle as his face darkened. “Fuck y—”
The door jangled, and Maverick strode in, followed by Zach and Louie, the trusty Louisville Slugger he’d had for years. That bat had busted countless kneecaps and deserved its own cut. Louie was a tried-and-true member of the HHMC.
“Maintenance,” Maverick announced. He clapped his hands together once, then rubbed them back and forth as though eager for fun to start. “We heard machine thirteen is out of order.”
“Oh fuck,” the attendant squeaked out. “C-can you guys take this outside? I can’t have blood in here.”
“No worries, buddy,” Mav said with his customary don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. “We ain’t gonna shed any blood. We’re just gonna have a friendly chat with our new friend here.” He walked over to the outnumbered guy and gripped his shoulder. “Right, friend?”
The guy looked like he could have murdered Mav with his bare hands right there in the laundromat, but he also knew he’d be dead before Mav took his last breath.
“I said, right, friend?” Mav shook him a little with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“Right,” the guy managed through his tightly clenched teeth. Saint could almost see his blood boiling beneath his skin.
“All right. Good answer. So, Saint, my brother, what did you want to say to my new friend?” He squeezed the guy’s shoulder as he spoke.
Fucking Maverick.
Zach stayed off to the side, letting Saint run the show as he’d done increasingly often lately. He leaned against a non-running washing machine, resting Louie across the top, a gentle reminder of his power and authority.
