Everything about his tone suggested he was bitter about that. Because I doubted guys like this used a broker and were resentful not to have their hands in every part of the process. And were likely thinking they were validated in that mindset now that this job had gone so sideways.
There was no use insisting that this simply never happened. Were there sometimes hiccups on jobs? People who tried to fuck over the other party? Sure. But I’d never lost a shipment before.
Telling them that, though, wouldn’t change anything. And it was better to keep things moving than stand around arguing about the validity of using someone like me on tricky jobs.
“So, who am I working with then?”
“Me,” Caymen said automatically.
“You haven’t slept in a day,” Huck said, shaking his head.
“I don’t care.”
The two men shared a look, but Huck shook his head and sighed. “Fine. Caymen. And York,” he said, nodding over toward a man who reminded me a bit of a lumberjack. Which was kind of funny in this part of the country. “And Velle,” he added, nodding toward a man who looked like he belonged fronting a rock band, not working at a biker club.
“What about me?” Dixon asked.
“You’re gonna get some sleep and do shifts with Coast and Kylo to give these guys breaks. That good with you?”
I’d feel better if I met Coast and Kylo. But so long as they didn’t step on my toes, I didn’t really care.
“Can they follow instructions? Or are they going to come in, dicks swinging, and give me a problem because I’m a woman?”
“Yeah, that’s not gonna be a problem,” Huck assured me. “They will take your lead unless you’re doing something stupid that might get you and them killed.”
“Alright. Good.”
“But they’re not going in blind. So you’re gonna need to be doing some talking.”
“I’ll do some talking if you do some coffee making,” I said, nodding toward the old drip coffee machine on the counter.
“Not you,” York said when Huck went to do it himself. “It’ll taste like battery acid,” he added. “I got it.”
“So, that’s going, what—”
He was cut off by the back door swinging open. And in walked a larger-built guy with a big smile and a large brown bag in one hand and a few grocery bags in the other.
“Can you believe that bakery was open already?” he asked as he moved inside. “I got us fresh-baked English muff—oh, hey, pretty lady,” he said when he spotted me.
“Eddie, this is Noa. Noa, Eddie.”
“You said something about the bakery?” Dixon asked, clearly still in that phase of life where he was a bottomless pit that always needed filling.
“Yeah, gonna make us some breakfast sandwiches. Figure it’s gonna be a long day. You like bacon or sausage?”
I was famished.
“Either.”
“Cheese?”
“Is that really a question?”
“I like her,” he decided.
I was pretty sure it would be impossible not to like someone like him.
“I like you back. And only partially because you know how to cook.”
