Fuck.
Chapter Eight
Hunter
Out of sight, but never out of mind.
“For the record, I hate this,” William mutters as he glares at me through my iPad screen. He groans and rolls his eyes. “What happened to face-to-face meetings? Fucking technology has taken the human out of humanity.”
“You’re a dinosaur,” I say around a smirk as he puts his glasses on to stop squinting. “Since the pandemic, it’s the new way of working. We learned we aren’t bound by geographical locations, and business on the whole can be conducted from any corner of the world.” It’s the same argument we’ve been having for months as he struggles to adapt to a rapidly changing world.
He grunts as he grabs a stack of papers. “It perpetuates the ability to grow apart. Weakens connections and relationships.”
“Keeping up with the trends helps us to stay ahead of our competitors, and being stubborn about having face-to-face meetings will leave us woefully behind the curve.”
He lets loose a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t lecture me on my business.”
I hold my hands up. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Prez.”
“If we’d kept things as is, we’d still be doing drug runs for the mafia and taking gun shipments for every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a spare buck.”
That’s true. In the demise of the previous president, who was assassinated by a rival gang, William stepped up and has spent the last decade cleaning out the Desert Reapers. It was tough going for the first few years. We lost some good members, and William’s daughter was almost collateral damage as we untangled ourselves from the seedy criminal underbelly.
Now we have some very lucrative investments, made and run by myself, a hopping mechanics business onsite, and a bakery and cafe headed by William’s old lady, Cheryl. Everyone in our community contributed. We were pushing against the old ways, making sure all members of the club felt valued and satisfied with their roles. That’s how we built a network of loyal members. Times were changing, and those stuck in the past would get left behind. Not to say all antiquated traditions have been eradicated; men were still the only ones with obvious seats of power. Women weren’t allowed at church, but the club listened to their voices, considered their ideas, and took into account their wishes, hopes, and fears. Children attended the best schools in the area and received the best tutors around if they were struggling.
“How’re our investments looking?” he asks.
Pride flows through me, thankful to have William’s trust with the club’s finances. “The low-risk portfolio is slow at the minute, under bank interest rates, but we had a payoff in the high-risk investment. I withdrew at the right time and offset the loss from last month.”
“So, overall?”
I try to keep things simple. He trusts me with the lion’s share of the club’s money. He accepts we have to ride the waves, butoverall, I continue to grow our money, and that is the bottom line.
“We are up by seven percent.” That might not seem like a great deal, but seven percent is about five hundred thousand dollars, and that’s only from our investment portfolio. We’re a wealthy organization.
“Excellent,” he says as he scans the documents I sent him earlier. Cheryl must have printed them. “All looking good businesswise.”
Here we go. I raise a brow and fold my arms as I lean back on the comfy lounger. He’s about to move from business to private territory,again. I think I’ll grab something at the Italian joint around the corner. They make mouth-watering lasagna. My stomach rumbles its agreement. Even bikers take holidays. All work and no play makes people cranky. Cranky people make mistakes. And enemies. It’s good business sense to take a break.
His gaze narrows. “Did you think about what we discussed?”
I shake my head in both answer and amusement at his persistence.
“I’m not marrying Rose.” In William’s mind, pairing his wild child of a daughter with his steadfast VP was a match made in heaven. He could tie me to the club forever and have someone he trusts tame his only child. But Rose is like a sister to me, and she’s not my type. Apparently, I’m hung up on mysterious brunettes with the uncanny ability to disappear like their namesake. One brunette, to be precise.
“She needs a little guidance,” he grumbles.
I shake my head as my lips tug up at the sides. “I will be the first to put whomever she chooses through the paces, but I’m not who she wants or needs.”
“That child doesn’t know what she wants.”
True. But she is twenty-three—hardly a child.
“Is there someone on the scene?”
“No.” Unfortunately…
“A man can’t reach his true potential without the support of a good partner.”
